The Private Driver

A sharp breeze woke him. As he regained consciousness, the synthic murmur of the city seeped through the open apartment window. With a quiet sigh, he shut the book, reluctantly pushed the warm blanket aside, and reached for his reading glasses, which had slipped deep into a crevice of the worn reading chair.

He rose to close the window, only briefly glancing outside at the world beyond. The sky hazed with the faint glow of digital billboards, pulsed with silent advertisements tailored to passing pedestrians, walking alone, each absorbed in their augmented reality. And not one of them looked up at him as he slid the curtain shut.

He made his way to the kitchen. The old refrigerator hummed, a real mechanical hum. He ached as he squatted to grab a can of dog food from the case on the floor. He tilted his head back to read the label, only to realize he had left his glasses on the table.

He patted the dog’s head as it ate. Then he put on his driving cap and coat and grabbed his keys off the shelf. The cold metal jingled in his palm. As he walked to the elevator, he sidestepped a group of kids wearing sleek, oversized goggles, their fingers twitching as they played a game in a reality he couldn't see. They too ignored him.

The ride down was slow. He liked the feeling of movement, the faint pull of gravity that reminded him he was real. In the basement, his car sat alone in the vast, empty garage. No charging ports. No auto-assist bays. Just oil stains on cracked pavement.

The car door creaked and groaned as he slammed it shut, the sound echoing through the emptiness. He adjusted his cap in the mirror, turning the key to start the engine. The old beast stuttered at first but soon rumbled to life. He exhaled, tapped the throttle to hear the combustion and watch steam rise from the exhaust. Before heading out, he checked the tablet screen one last time to confirm his permit.

[2-hour Human Drive: Approved]

He navigated the few sanctioned streets, gliding beneath the watchful gaze of cameras mounted on sleek, self-correcting traffic lights. A single autonomous taxi drifted past, its polished, driverless frame reflecting the glow of a streetlamp. He refued to acknowledge the neon banner: The Future is Here: Safer, Smarter, Driver-Free.

Pulling up to a weathered but proud house, he saw her waiting on the porch, dressed appropriately as a grown woman should, purse in hand. She leaned on her cane, descending the steps as he hurried around to open the door.

Good to see you, Mrs. Jones.

Good to see you too.

They drove in silence, the city’s artificial glow casting shifting shapes through the windshield. It was a comfortable silence, one that didn’t need to be filled. At the clinic, she waved him off when he offered to help her inside.

I’ll be fine, dear. Just give this old lady a little time.

He reminded her they had about an hour and a half until the roads closed and that he’d park right here to wait for her. And for what felt like the thousandth time, she reminded him that this appointment had never been longer than an hour, then thanked him and headed in alone.

He remained outside, leaned against his car, and lit a cigarette, one of the few vices that remain. The thin curl of smoke disappeared into the morning air as an endless stream of autonomous vehicles glided by, silent as whispers. Inside each, passengers smiled and talked, sipping coffee or working on their tablets. Every rider locked in their own bubble, ignoring the world passing by.

To them, this technology was a marvel of convenience and progress, a promise of anonymous, door-to-door transportation. A future without human drivers, without service workers and tipping culture. To him, it was a reminder of everything he had lost.

Mrs. Jones reappeared, moving slower than before but wearing that same gentle smile.

The doctor says I’ve got a few more years left in me.

With a grin and a nod of his cap, he opened the car door for her. As they neared her house, she reached into her purse and pulled out a folded dollar bill.

Go on, take it. I know I’m your only client.

He hesitated, then took the dollar with a nod.

Back in his apartment, his dog barely lifted his head from the bed before letting it plop back down. He placed his keys on the shelf and tossed the dollar in a drawer filled with the useless crumpled bills.

He turned on the record player. The familiar trumpet of Miles Davis filled the room, warm and imperfect, notes bending like an old friend’s voice. Sinking into his reading chair, he put on his glasses, opened a book, and began to read:

He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream, and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish…