The Uber Driver

The old man sat alone on the green slatted bench just outside Roosevelt Park, the rustle of summer leaves whispering overhead like the last murmurs of forgotten conversations. A pigeon eyed him curiously from a trash bin while a toddler shrieked gleefully in the distance, chasing bubbles blown by a weary mother with earbuds in.

He checked his phone again. 6:42 PM. The app said the driver’s name was “Heron.” Five stars. A silver Toyota Camry. He looked up as a breeze teased the hem of his cardigan, the one Margaret had bought him for Christmas years ago. She said it brought out the blue in his eyes.

He adjusted his cap, a flat tweed number with a stubborn little brim, and glanced around. A teenage couple was holding hands across the path. The ice cream cart guy was packing up for the evening. A few joggers pounded the trail. Life, as ever, was moving forward.

A Camry rolled to a gentle stop at the curb, its headlights blinking once like a polite nod.

“Heron?” the old man asked as the window rolled down.

“That's me. You Mr. Corrigan?” the driver replied, grinning behind aviator shades. His hair was dark, curly, and there was something ageless in the lines of his face—if one could call them lines. More like folds of sunlight, hints of mischief. His smile was too easy.

“Yep, that's me.” The old man stood, slow but steady, and opened the back door.

“No no, front seat,” the driver said cheerfully. “I don’t bite. Much.”

Corrigan raised an eyebrow but opened the front door with a dry chuckle. “I hope not. I'm a little stringy for cannibalism.”

The door closed with a soft thunk and the Camry eased into motion.

“Where we headed tonight?” the driver asked.

Corrigan blinked. “You know, I’m…not exactly sure. The app just said ‘Let Heron take you.’ One of those experimental rides or something?”

The driver grinned. “You’d be surprised how many people sign up for mystery destinations.”

“I suppose I would.”

They passed an old bakery on the corner—Corrigan remembered bringing his daughter there when she was five. She’d always asked for a chocolate croissant and never finished it, sticky fingers and crumbs on her pink coat.

“Nice night,” the driver said, tapping the steering wheel to a beat only he could hear.

“Too nice for indoors,” Corrigan replied.

The driver glanced at him. “You don’t strike me as someone who likes to stay indoors much anyway.”

“Not if I can help it. Though the knees would disagree.”

“How long you been in the city?”

“Oh, my whole life. Born just two blocks that way. Can’t say I ever got too far. I worked downtown for thirty-six years. Office job. Paperwork. Contracts. Got a gold watch and everything.”

“You wear it?”

“No. It’s in a box somewhere. My son has it, I think. Or pawned it. Hard to tell.”

The driver didn’t reply right away, just nodded like a man who knew not to prod too deep unless invited.

“You know,” Corrigan went on, “I used to walk this park every morning before work. Same path. Coffee in hand. Ran into the same squirrel at least a dozen times. I started calling him Franklin.”

“Did Franklin ever answer back?”

“Only once. I suspect caffeine hallucinations.”

They both chuckled, and the Camry slipped through a yellow light, tires humming soft and steady over the asphalt.

“So, what do you do, Heron?” Corrigan asked.

The driver tilted his head. “This, mostly. Pick people up. Drop them off. Listen. Chat. I like hearing stories.”

“You ever get tired of it?”

“Never. Each one’s a little different. Even the quiet ones. They all leave something behind. Like footprints.”

“That's poetic,” Corrigan murmured. “You write?”

“I used to. Now I just drive.”

A pause settled between them, gentle but not uncomfortable.

“You have kids?” the driver asked.

Corrigan smiled faintly. “A daughter. Molly. Lives out in Portland now. Teacher. She used to read all the time—those Greek myths, actually. Thought they were romantic. I told her not to fall for men with swords.”

“Good advice.”

“She never listened.”

“I’m guessing she takes after her mother.”

Corrigan’s smile faded. “Yes. Margaret was… bright. You know what I mean? Some people shine and you don’t realize how much until they’re gone.”

The driver glanced sideways. “She passed?”

Corrigan nodded once. “Ten years now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. It’s funny… I still catch myself reaching for her side of the bed.”

They drove on in silence for a while after that. The streets grew less familiar. Fewer shops. Less neon. More trees casting long shadows across the sidewalk.

“Is this the way to downtown?” Corrigan asked.

“Not quite. But trust me.”

“I’m too old to distrust charming young men in sunglasses,” Corrigan said dryly. “My generation invented that mistake.”

The driver laughed. “You’re sharp.”

“I get by.”

They entered a tunnel. It was a newer one, one Corrigan didn’t recognize. The lights were spaced further apart, casting golden glows that faded into deeper darks between them. The hum of the city gave way to a silence that was somehow louder.

Corrigan cleared his throat. “So. This destination of yours. How far?”

“Not much farther,” the driver said. “You comfortable?”

“Surprisingly.”

“Most people are, once they let go of the map.”

The tunnel twisted gently, the incline subtle but unmistakable. They were going deeper.

“Where does this tunnel go?” Corrigan asked.

The driver’s voice was soft now. “Down.”

A pause.

“Down?”

“Mmhmm.”

Corrigan looked at him, really looked. The sunglasses had vanished. The driver’s eyes were gold—no, not gold. Like sunlight on honey. Shifting, endless. His smile was the same, but somehow older now.

Corrigan reached for the door handle. It was there, but…

“You won’t need it,” the driver said. “It only opens one way.”

“I don’t understand,” Corrigan murmured.

“You will.”

Another bend. The lights above were no longer electric, but something else entirely—glow like starlight, flickering and cold.

“I was just… waiting for my ride.”

“You were. And now you’re in it.”

“I don’t—” Corrigan faltered. “Am I dreaming?”

“No,” Heron said gently. “Though dreams aren’t always far off from this.”

Corrigan’s mouth was dry. “Then what is this?”

The car slowed.

Outside the window, shadows moved like fog. There was a door ahead—an old iron gate flanked by stone pillars. On the other side: a river without wind, unmoving. A boat.

Corrigan’s voice shook. “I was just at the park. I fed pigeons. I remember the smell of lilacs.”

“You did.”

“I was going to see someone.”

“You already have.”

Heron turned toward him, his smile tender now, stripped of humor. “Mr. Corrigan… you passed away in your sleep. Peacefully. On that bench.”

Corrigan’s mouth parted slightly. His hand hovered in the air.

“I—I didn’t feel it.”

“No one ever does. Not at first.”

The silence roared in his ears. “And you?”

“I go by many names,” the driver said. “But today, you called me Heron.”

Corrigan’s eyes flicked to the golden eyes, the ageless grin, the gentle voice. Understanding settled like dew.

“Hermes,” he whispered.

The god nodded.

The gate opened soundlessly.

“I was just waiting for my ride,” Corrigan said again, softly. Almost to himself.

Hermes placed a hand on his shoulder. “And it came.”

Outside, a figure in a hood waited beside the still black river, pole in hand.

“Will I see them again?” Corrigan asked.

Hermes smiled. “Everyone does. In time. Down here, the river remembers. The stars above it echo names long forgotten. You won’t be alone.”

“I thought there’d be more…” He searched for the word. “Trumpets. Judgment.”

Hermes laughed gently. “Wrong myth.”

They stepped out of the car together. The tunnel had widened into something impossible, a cavern with no end, lit by dim lanterns that never flickered.

Corrigan took a deep breath. It smelled like dust and salt, like memory.

He looked back once at the Camry, still idling. Still warm. Still familiar.

“You know,” he said, “you’re not like I imagined.”

Hermes arched a brow. “What’d you expect?”

“Wings. And maybe a toga.”

“I can get the toga if it helps.”

Corrigan chuckled. “No. I like the sunglasses better.”

Hermes smiled. “I’ll walk you to the boat.”

Together they moved toward the water.

The hooded figure bowed slightly and helped Corrigan in.

Hermes remained on the bank, watching.

As the boat began to drift silently across the water, Corrigan looked back once, hand raised.

Hermes lifted his in return.

Then he turned and walked back to his Camry, pulled open the driver’s door, and slid in.

The lights on the dashboard blinked once.

And the tunnel waited for its next fare.

End.