joanne

All I want to say about Joanne is this:

1.         When I accept the ride request, I know only that it was from someone named “Earn,” which sounds promising, and that—according to the text I receive a moment later—it’s going to be “a long ride,” but please don’t cancel because Earn will tip me “really, really well.”

2.         When I get to the pickup address, “Earn” turns out to be Joanne and the destination is Brockton, Massachusetts, about two hours away. But I don’t care. I’m cheerful. Because I’m going be tipped “really, really, well.”

3.         Joanne’s father invented the moped but never got credit for it; 

4.         Joanne’s cousin invented the remote control for the WII gaming system but never got credit for it; and 

5.         Hitler invented closed caption TV, and though Joanne would never condone what he did, she wonders why he never got credit for that.

6.         Leaning forward between the front seats for most of the ride, Joanne shares these and many other tales of mystery, conspiracy, and injustice dredged from the backwaters of the internet, family lore, and her memory.

7.         Brockton, where I drop Joanne, appears to be a town made entirely of gray and brown. Fat gray snowflakes fall from fat gray clouds onto gaunt brown houses with gaunt brown yards. Even the bright colors of the Dunkin’ where I stop to pee seem muted. The air itself smells like frozen earth. 

8.         Neither Joanne nor “Earn” ever tip me. 

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