Author Bio
      

MARCO KAYE

THE DRIVER

At the Northwest Arkansas airport, I waited for my Uber in the pickup lane. I was there for Walmart’s sales conference, the big one where we’re expected to hit our numbers or else. I worked for Church & Dwight, a packaged goods company based out of central Jersey. Our brands included everything from vitamins to prophylactics. Covid had bungled the show for a few years, and seeing as we have three boys, the little one still in diapers, I was itching to escape our home. I’d set my wife Sara up with every caretaker we knew. All the while, I had the troubling feeling that I needed someone watching over me.
       The plane had been full of fellow conference attendees—our competition. Most of them drank and pecked away on pitch decks. A whiskey here, a vodka there. My nervous system ached for alcohol.
       Day seventy, I kept reminding myself. About two months. My first meeting was in March, after one of the worst work periods of my life. After admitting I was an alcoholic, I cried. The grizzled man next to me tapped my arm. “Know what s-o-b-e-r stands for?” he whispered. “Son of a bitch, everything’s real.” In the rooms, I felt an intense loyalty to strangers. I had called some of the contacts on my list, but I didn’t yet have a sponsor.
       I was working the first step: admitting powerlessness over alcohol, that my life had become unmanageable.
        I checked Uber again. The car icons moved like toys. The app flickered as the driver canceled and the system found another. I was eager to get to my hotel and delve into a self-help book on Stoicism. A second driver, much farther away, took the other one’s place. It would be nearly an hour before I got settled.
       Sara was mad and confused that I had been attending meetings. The best time for me happened right in the infamous witching hour, when she needed my help the most. A fair point. I explained that I had to put on my oxygen mask first, so to speak. The pandemic was hard for people with children, and we had it bad. Right in the middle of it, we lost my mother-in-law. Patti was a selfless, loving presence for her grandsons. Fearful of doctors, she blindsided everyone, husband included, with breast cancer that she let grow terminal. I had started drinking more in the aftermath. Sara, too. It was hard to admit, but my wife was an enabler.
       So was work. During these business trips, drinking was a given. Putting in face time with my bosses at the hotel bar, wooing clients over expense-account dinners. The next four days were going to be an addict’s gauntlet.
       My driver pulled up in a white sedan. He shoved some milk crates to the back of the trunk and loaded in my suitcase. As the lights of fast-food places and strip malls blazed past, the driver asked what brought me here. I told him about the conference.
       “Walmart?” he asked.
        “Yup,” I replied. “Take it I’m not your first rep.”
       “Pardon?”
       “Sales rep. This week is our Super Bowl.”
       “That’s right.” The driver drummed his steering wheel. “I’ve had a few passengers from Procter as well. Busy times. How long are you staying?”
       “Four days. We leave Saturday.”
       “Sales is tough,” the driver mused. “My older brother was a great salesman. My younger brother, not so much. He had a farm in Gabtali. My family is from Bangladesh, you see. Once, he bought a blind donkey from a cattle trader. Didn’t know he was blind. Big mistake. Then our older brother sold it to another farmer. He didn’t lie, though. He said the donkey could predict the rain. Its hoof would stomp twice. Ha! My mother always said, that Sayyid, he could sell you a blind donkey.”
       “Funny.”
       My departing flight had sat on the tarmac for two hours, and I wasn’t in the mood to chat. I cracked the window, the cool air fanning my face. I pictured a drink, colorful and shimmery, the ice popping and releasing all the tension I harbored.
       “How long have you been in sales, my friend?” the driver asked.
       “Twenty years,” I replied. “I can’t believe it. It freaks me out to say that.”
       “Why?” he said. “You must be good at what you do.”
       “Guess so.”
       We passed an abandoned gas station. The pumps were wrapped in garbage bags that shivered in the wind.
       “My partners and I are selling our gas station,” the driver said. “I’m reinvesting in a restaurant in Eureka Springs. B’Dish, it’s called. We’ve already got one here. But there are more tourists in Eureka, more open to Bangladeshi cuisine. It’s light and tasty. No chicken tikka, I’ll tell you that. Totally in a different realm. Yes, that’s my next move.”
       “Nice.”
       The driver was a heavyset man, with two clumps of hair on his upper lip. He sat low in the car seat. The lights of the Arkansas highway streaked across his eyes.
       “Tell me about sales,” he said.
       “What about?”
       “Is it like Mad Men? All the drinking, the womanizing. Doesn’t seem that bad,” he chuckled.
       “It’s nothing like that—not anymore. It’s very boring now.”
       “Well, those Procter guys? The party has already started for them. Last night they stunk my car to high heaven. I thought the cops might get a whiff and pull me over. Why does everyone drink at this conference?”
       “Out of boredom.” I chuckled at the paradox. Alcohol helped grease the wheels of the client relationship. Plus, the high-pressure of this week drove sales managers to excess. Some of my coworkers would emerge from the bathroom rubbing their noses, sniffing. Coke helped with the constant talk. I used to abuse that drug, too, but it had been years.
       “Poisoning themselves from boredom.” The driver clucked his tongue. “Sad.”
       “Yeah, well, me, I’m sober now.”
       “Very good, friend. Better for your health.”
       I was telling my Uber driver more than I had told my parents. Alcoholism ran up and down my father’s side; my grandfather had died of cirrhosis. My father had avoided addiction. I was ashamed to tell the old man, whereas this cab had become a confession booth.
       As we got closer to the hotel, the driver said he was one of five siblings. I mentioned our three boys. Much as I needed the time away, I missed my family during these business trips. Fear would find me in the mornings, grabbing hold of my heart as I sipped coffee on some hard, waxy couch. An ache would set in. Then at night, the consuming need to numb the pain.
       “Do you hit your children?” the driver asked.
       In the rearview mirror, his eyes searched for mine.
       “No,” I stammered. “What kind of a question is that?”
       Moments later, a mix of traveler’s fatigue and the driver’s prying question jarred something loose inside of me. The bright, tender faces of my sons swirled in a haze of remorse and sorrow. It was like I was back in my first AA meeting, only now I could admit the deeper truth.
       “Actually, I have,” I said. “More than once. But I regret it.”
       One incident flashed in my mind. Deeply hungover before school drop-off, with the children wrestling each other, knocking over a potted plant, the dirt spilling everywhere, I lifted Mason by his shirt, such a small child, as light as a pillow, and I shook him so hard that his shoes flung off his feet. Sara threatened to call the police. I shoved her, howling something about this is what it feels like to live here, a place where the very walls thrummed with grief and anger.
       “If I had kids, I would beat them,” the driver said matter-of-factly. “My father hit me, and that’s what made me listen. If kids aren’t disciplined, they walk all over you.”
       Mason’s lashing out was becoming more pronounced. Every morning, he would thrash in blankets, yelling that he didn’t have the right sweatpants. I didn’t know if I hated parenting so much, or if all our support systems had fallen away after Patti’s death. Hopefully, in recovery, I could understand my bottomless rage. How alcohol delivered a sense of peace that seemed impossible to find elsewhere.
       “I don’t think violence is the answer,” I said. “Kids make life difficult, though. That’s for sure.”
       “They take advantage.”
       “You’re right. Maybe we’ve all gone too soft.”
       “I became a hard worker because I did not want to disrespect my father,” the driver said. “Parents let their kids run the house. That’s why you see more ADHD. It’s not because of their brains. It’s because parents don’t know how to discipline.”
        “True.”
       He pulled into the hotel parking lot and opened the trunk. Our entire conversation melted into the crisp night air.
       “Thank you, my friend,” the driver said from his opened window. “I’m around for your trip back on Saturday. Or if you need another ride at any other time, you have my information.”

As soon as I got into the room, I flushed the minibar key down the toilet.
       Amanda Kampner, my boss, had texted the team to meet down at the hotel bar. As I changed and unpacked, the driver’s words troubled me. I thought about cycles of abuse. My father, a construction worker, had to rise early. When he came home, he’d fall asleep right after dinner. He never hit me. He wasn’t around.
       The hotel bar’s flatscreens played a Razorbacks game. Amanda raised her glass, toasting my arrival. Behind her back, we called her Demanda. It’s one of the reasons, along with her political savvy, why she rose through the ranks. After fifteen years of knowing each other, I admired her drive.
       I ordered a seltzer.
       “Still Dry January, is it?” Demanda swiveled on her stool, studying me. “You look exhausted. Are you okay?”
       “Never been better.”
       She shook her glass. “Sure you don’t need one?”
       “Positive.”
       “Suit yourself.” Demanda turned to the five of us. “All right, team. Let’s do one thing this week, and one thing well. Sell some fucking supplements. We need Q4 orders on lock.”
       We discussed how we’d go about that. Demanda downed her Negroni, chewing on the ice like meat. The supplements were called One Zone, which eased users into a flow state, where work supposedly felt effortless. They contained theanine, a natural chemical produced during meditation, found in green tea. Or so we claimed.
       I was selling a blind donkey. I was an expert by now.
      
Back in my hotel room, I fantasized about slipping off into the night, shedding my suit, my identity. Relocating in the Ozarks. I searched for bars on Yelp and paced around the parking lot. I eventually calmed down with some bedtime tea.
       Day seventy-one, the first day of the conference, our performance was solid. My words landed, eyes didn’t go static. On some level, I was meant for this job. Maybe it wasn’t my work that had driven me to drink. Or my family. Somehow, I was the one to blame. 
       Afterward, we repaired to a hoity-toity Fayetteville restaurant for a client dinner. Everyone was drinking craft cocktails and wine. I held my own, and people were respectful. Colleagues peeled away until it was just Demanda and me.
       “Second location?” she asked. “One teensy nightcap. Oh goddamnit, I forgot. You’re not drinking now, just like an annoying Gen-Zer. Who are you? All healthy and shit.”
       Demanda called an Uber. When the familiar white sedan pulled up, I stopped and stepped back. “Thank you for calling again!” the driver said. I felt a strange anxiety, as if I’d been caught red-handed, only I didn’t know the crime.
       When I explained that my boss had requested the ride, the driver said it was a small town. These things have been known to happen.
       “You two know each other?” Demanda asked.
       “We most certainly do,” the driver said. “We had a—what do you call it—heart-to-heart when your colleague landed last night.”
       “Fascinating,” Demanda said.
       I nodded to the driver and shot Demanda a little shrug. He sized us up in the rearview mirror.
       “How’s sales?” the driver asked.
       “Incredible,” Demanda said. “All thanks to this guy. He’s been crushing it.”
       “He could sell a blind donkey, right?” the driver said with a wink.
       “Or ice to an Eskimo. Although I think we’re not supposed to say that anymore.” Demanda scooted up in her seat. “Get this one back to the hotel, but first take me to your favorite watering hole. I need a nightcap.”
       The driver tugged on his moustache, exploring the map inside of his head. As he drove back to the hotel, Demanda scrolled through her emails.
       “Good to see you again,” the driver said to me. “You have a beautiful family. I saw photos on your Instagram.”
       “Oh?” I said.
       “I requested to connect on LinkedIn as well. Please accept when you have time. Our restaurant is looking for a good marketing consultant.” He looked at Demanda. “Would you allow your employee to take a consulting job, on the side?”
       “In this case,” Demanda grinned, “I would.”
       “C’mon,” I said.
       “What?” the driver said. “We need someone with your expertise.”
       “I find it strange that you scrubbed my social media after our ride. Do you do that with all your passengers?”
       Even though my profile was public, I felt violated.
       The driver shrugged. “You mentioned your family, and I was curious. I like to get to know my customers. Especially when they lead interesting lives.”
       “Nothing wrong with a little tradecraft,” Demanda said. She put her phone down, relishing this exchange. “We do the exact same thing in our line of work.”
       The driver asked Demanda if she had kids.
       Demanda shook her head. “Didn’t want them. I love being the cool aunt to two lovely nieces. Kids are great, but you know what’s better? Returning them to their owners.”
       “Makes sense,” he said. “During last night’s ride, our heart to heart was all about discipline. Hitting when necessary. It’s an effective tool, we agreed. I know it’s a sensitive topic.”
       At the last part, the driver must have seen me flare with anger. Demanda looked down, brushed her dress, shifted in her seat.
       I cleared my throat. “I never said that.”
       “You did.”
       “No.” I wanted to tell the driver to pull over, we’d find another ride. But I did not want to cause a scene.
       “You hit your kids more than once. Those were your words.”
       “Well,” Demanda said. “Some of us have their hands full. Did I say kids are great? I meant grating.” She rubbed my arm. “This guy has been through a lot, so. We get it.”
       “You know what? Take me back to the hotel first,” I said. “I’m sorry about this, Amanda. I don’t know why this person would say something like that.”
       My jaw hurt from grinding it.
       The driver kept shaking his head, his eyes blinking rapidly from our exchange. He was distracted enough to miss a No Turn on Red sign. Demanda rested her forehead on the window and sighed.
       When we arrived at the hotel, I tried opening the car door, but it was locked. “I wasn’t wrong to mention what you said,” the driver snarled. “I listened. That’s the whole problem with the world, no one listens. If you don’t trust your own words, that’s on you.”
       “Do you want to get out here, Amanda? You sure you want this lunatic driving you?”
       “Calm down,” my boss said. “We’ll be fine.”

On Friday, day seventy-three, after the conference had ended, Demanda gathered us for a final night out. We had exceeded our sales quota, and the higher-ups at headquarters were enthusiastic. My anger at the driver had softened to a form of acceptance. When I thought about what had happened, I realized that, while it was strange for him to bring up our conversation again, those were my words. I had struck my children more times than I cared to admit. The resentment I held toward our boys was self-hatred. This bitter disgust at myself—not my job, not my mother-in-law’s sudden passing—was what drove me to drink. Regret for the choices that led to fathering three children, working this deadening corporate hustle.
       In the cab to dinner, Demanda was tense and quiet.
       “We’re going to B’Dish,” she said after I asked what was wrong. “For several reasons. One, you need to apologize. Our Uber driver did not deserve to be called a lunatic. He has a name, by the way. Aritra. You demeaned him. I know these past few years have been hard on you. Well, Aritra is a person, and he’s sensitive. He was mirroring your energy. After dropping you off, we talked more about his family’s restaurant, and his story of coming here from Bangladesh is wonderful. He sold me, honestly. We should hire Aritra as an associate, no joke.”
       The façade of B’Dish was stately and modern, a khaki stucco rectangle with long windows and a red circle painted around the entrance, resembling the Bangladesh flag. The restaurant was real, and I felt like a fool to have doubted Aritra’s words.
       As we pulled up, Demanda leaned closer. “It’s highly rated on Tripadvisor.”
       Aritra looked relaxed and dapper. Instead of his casual driving clothes, he wore a button-up shirt and pressed slacks. He hugged Demanda. The dishes, served buffet-style, smelled earthy and savory, with mounds of bright yellow saffron rice and rich curries.
       “Sorry for taking things out on you, Aritra,” I said.
       “Maybe I went too far,” Aritra said. “Well, I am about to become a father in a few months—so kids have been on my mind. We’re going to have a boy. Yours look so full of life and energy. They’re beautiful. I’ve been thinking a lot about how to shape a child into a man deserving of such a title. That’s all.”
       “Same.”
       Aritra rocked back on his heels, surveying our group at the restaurant’s longest table.
       “I’m glad Amanda decided to bring the whole team. B’Dish is my family’s pride and joy, as you can see. Now we don’t part on bad terms.”
       Over the evening, the staff made sure we had everything. The food was light and vibrant, delicately spiced. When I went to the bathroom, I noticed a Procter & Gamble lanyard in the trash. I wasn’t the only sales rep that Aritra had brought in for an expense-account dinner. His cab was his way of advertising, especially during this conference. I wanted to tell him he was a better salesperson than his brother, but the moment passed.
       Everyone repaired to a bar in an adjacent strip mall. When I said I should go back to the hotel, Demanda called me a party pooper. I walked into the bar, intending to get a club soda. I ordered a double whiskey, and everyone cheered. We had done so well. I deserved this. After I downed two more beers, that familiar, buttery haze settled in. A thick bliss.
       Demanda was waiting for someone else to get out of the bathroom. She put a vial of powder in my palm.
       “What’s this?” I asked.
       “Oxy,” she said. “I fucked up my back at the end of Q3 and this does the trick. Don’t ask me why the pills hurt my stomach, but a few bumps feel splendid.”
       “Zen,” I said. “Like One Zone.”
       “Precisely.”
       Within moments, the oxy cradled me in a hammock on a tropical island. As if a cherub kissed my forehead. I hadn’t been this relaxed in forever. I ordered another double whiskey and my recovery efforts tipped into the poisoned well of my soul. Mentally, I was already bargaining. I’d just drink on the weekends. Or during celebrations, like this.
       As the night wore on, I saw Aritra through the bar’s window and greeted him outside. He had seen me go in, he said, and asked if I was okay. I downplayed the fact that I was drunk and high, even though my head felt as if it could roll off my shoulders. Then Aritra started to reprimand me in this parental way, telling me over and over that I shouldn’t be drinking. Some coworkers, out for a cigarette break, looked at us as he droned on. I shook Aritra’s hand, persuading him I would be careful. I remember not wanting to let go of his warm hand, afraid I would collapse. Aritra studied me with concern. I forget what he said next, only that our conversation was over. I returned to the bar and snorted some coke in the bathroom with one of the finance bros just to stitch myself back together.

I woke on the floor of my hotel room. Vomit spattered the tile and toilet. My heart was pounding and my right arm tingled. I couldn’t catch my breath. I stumbled to the hotel window. Lights of nearby chain restaurants had gone dark, and the night was eerily still. I paced around, wondering if I was going to have a heart attack. I fumbled with my phone, flicking past texts from Sara to see five missed calls from Aritra.
       He answered right away, sounding like he had stayed awake. “Good. You’re alive.”
       “I don’t feel well.”
       “Why did you do this to yourself?” he asked. “Do your people not care about you?”
       “I don’t care about myself. That’s the problem.”
       “Well, I’m nearby. I’ll be over soon.”
       I crashed on the bed, wired now, still high. I remembered snorting more of the cobbled-together speedball, chasing it with several boilermakers. I felt sick from shame. Something acidic ravaged my organs. Each time I blinked was a moment, a journey. I couldn’t think of anything besides survival, hoping to see my family tomorrow, quitting all the shit I was putting into my body, turning my life around.
       Somehow, I managed to get up and open the door when Aritra knocked. I told him we should go to the hospital. Aritra held my shoulders. He looked at one eye, then the other. He put his hand on my wrist and measured my pulse, timing out my heartbeat with his watch.
       “You’re okay. You just need to sober up. I know a place that will heal you. I’ve been meaning to go there for some time.”
       We drove for what seemed like an hour, past rolling hills and forlorn buildings. I dozed, peeking at the dark ribbon of road cutting through the trees. The adrenaline from waking up in the hotel had faded, and intense pain flooded my body. I reeked of sour things.
       When the sedan’s engine died, the headlights shone on a lake with a short waterfall at one end that ran under a bridge. Steam rose off the water, shifting, spectral.
       “Your soul is ill,” Aritra said. “I sensed that when we met.”
       “I am,” I replied. “I mean, it is. I just want to escape from this pain. It’s like a devil talking to me. It’s relentless. I hate myself. That’s the only thing I’m sure of in life.”
       The resting engine went tick, tick, tick.
       Aritra cut the lights and we got out. The night was soft, with air that slipped across our bodies like silk. Aritra guided me to a rock, but I misjudged it and slammed the back of my head into the cliff wall.
       “Are you hurt?” Aritra asked. “That didn’t look good.”
       “I’m fine,” I said. “Totally fine. No need to touch me, my friend. That’s what you called me, when you first picked me up. My friend. See, I also listen. I bet you call all your passengers my friend. You invite them to lavish meals. Or take them here.” I gestured to the springs, alive with streaks of silver. “Wherever this place is.”
       “No, just you.”
       “Why me?”
       “Because you need my help.”
       The stars smeared, forcing my head down. My heart worked against the weight of the drugs and alcohol. A slow, shaky beat. I closed my eyes and breathed in the night, remembering when Will, our eldest, won his baseball championship. A brilliant harvest moon rose golden, as if for him. I wanted more moments like those, when being a father felt noble and correct.
       When I opened my eyes, Aritra was in the springs. His wet moustache and smile gave him the peaceful, carefree look of an otter.
       “Come on in,” he said. “The water is splendid.”
       I peeled out of my jacket, unbuttoned my shirt. My belt fell with a loud clink. I walked unsteadily into the water, the rocks slippery with silt. I held my breath, closed my eyes and jumped, seeing dots, arrays, patterns. The afterpain of hitting my head made me aware of the contours of my scalp and skull. The dots had faces, rictus grins. I touched where I had hit my head and felt a warm flower, but the water made it so that I couldn’t see any blood.
       When I dipped below the surface, the ink-dark liquid sealed up around me.
       I was on my back—a dead man’s float—ogling the dome of stars. Aritra had his arms underneath me. I saw, yes, a tunnel of light. Strobing light. I wanted to sleep. I was beyond any semblance of my normal life.
       We climbed out of the springs and stood, listening to the rush of water. Then Aritra smacked me across the face. His palm landed awkwardly, clubbing my ear. 
       “Feel that?” he asked. “That is what it feels like to be hit by your father.” He smacked me again, his hand finding better purchase across my cheek. “This is the discipline you need.”
       I cried, gagging on my own spit. Brilliant white designs flashed, throbbed. I tasted pennies. Pain, the great teacher, woke me up. Each time Aritra smacked me, I understood why.