It’s 7:30 pm and I’m reclining on my golden, fluffy couch reading a book. It’s getting good, a mystery page-turner. I get an alert on my phone; it’s Ophelia’s Soapbox Theater reminding me of the Jerry Garcia band (Jerry’s Middle Finger) playing tonight at 9. I pause, consider, but continue reading. I rip through another chapter, pause again—do I want to go? I mean, it is Saturday night, after all. I keep reading. Thirty minutes later, I glance at the clock. Hmmm. If I want to go, I should really start getting myself together, as I look down at my two-day-old joggers and tousle my messy bun that has acquired a mind of its own.
An energy, unbeknownst to me, moves me off the couch and into the bathroom. While beautifying myself, I consider the drive and parking, etc., and make an immediate decision to call an Uber. After all, I moved to Golden to have such luxuries. Ten minutes later I’m chatting with Mitch, owner of the black Honda Civic—my chariot for this evening. “To Ophelia’s!” I declare with my arm pointing toward Denver. He chuckles.
I learned that Mitch is 51 years old and has a 1-year-old at home. He and his wife of eight years have been trying to have a kid and went through two rounds of IVF.
“A miracle baby!” he exclaims. “Little guy is just about ready to walk—keeps pulling himself up and just stands there.” I remember these exact moments with both of my children so well. It’s like I’m catapulted into the living room on Brook Forest Road where my son toddles to me. A moment of such delight!
Mitch asks if I saw the Aurora Borealis recently. I did. He proceeds to tell me in his New Yorker-esque tone, “Everyone is looking at the sky, but they’re not asking WHY we’re able to see it. They don’t know it started because of three intense solar storms that happened simultaneously creating electrical static in the air. That’s what allowed us to see it.” Or something along those lines. I decide to be captivated and Google facts at a later date.
He continues chit-chatting. Tells me about the midwife who worked with him and his wife through delivery. She grew up in Alaska and her family was poor. When her sister was born, her parents used a dresser drawer as her crib for the first few months.
“I mean, you don’t need much,” I bounce back.
“No, you really don’t, but we acquire so much and feel like we always need more.”
“Yeah, I’ve been on a purge lately,” I lie. It’s a goal and all, but I don’t actually do it.
“Good for you,” he replies.
Within five minutes, I also learn about Mitch’s start-up company that’s taking longer to get off the ground than he expected, so he’s been Ubering while baby boy sleeps. He works about 45–60 hours a week. Last year he made $102,000.
“Now that’s impressive,” I comment. We exchange a few more pleasantries about parenting and his current lack of sleep. Before I know it, I’m at the door of Ophelia’s.
The music floats through the air the second I step out into the night. I purchase my ticket, order a drink, and dance my way to the very front of the stage. It’s easy to do when you’re one person who grooves as well as I do. Wink. I spend the next two hours dancing, smiling, and allowing the music to wash over me. Jerry’s Middle Finger takes me on a journey of musical delights. I always look around me when I’m in the throes of live music. There’s something magical in the glowing happy faces that sway. Always a beautiful visual that stays with me long after the music ends.
The band closes with a mesmerizing version of “Dear Prudence,” the perfect ending to an unexpected evening. I order an Uber, and within 10 minutes, Izzy with a white Volvo welcomes me into his ride. It’s quiet at first. I think about how if I were an Uber driver, I’d wonder if my rider wants to talk or enjoy the silence. I’d probably leave it in their court. As does Izzy. But the silence without music is deafening, so I ask him to play something from his personal playlist. He’s caught off-guard, yet pleasantly surprised to share. Who knew 36-year-old Hispanic Izzy is a lover of good old classic rock? Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir” thunders through the car as we zip past Lakeside Amusement Park.
“Is that place even open anymore?” asks Izzy.
“I have a good feeling it still operates,” I assume. Yet I haven’t been there since my children were toddlers and remember being concerned I might get shanked in the bathroom.
“My buddy used to work there about 10 years ago,” Izzy begins. “He was moving some stuff into the owner’s office and opened a drawer to a random dresser and it was full of cash! He didn’t take any, but each drawer was completely full!”
“Fascinating!” I reply. “That kind of makes sense as old as it is and all. Can you turn this up?” And there we are, Izzy and I, rocking out to Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” for the next 10 minutes. Like a perfectly timed cosmic wink, the song ends just as we approach my home.
“Have a good night, Sandy! I really enjoyed our jam session.”
“Thanks, Izzy! Keep on rocking and thanks for the great ride.”
Just like that—no driving, no parking—door-to-door Sandy delivery. Amazing, really. This mountain girl is definitely enjoying the perks of lowlander life.
I hear my pups before their wiggles and waggles greet me. Each receives a biscuit for “being such good doggies.” When, really, all they do is sleep. I wish someone offered me treats for sleeping so well. As I slide under the covers, my body humming with leftover bass lines, it strikes me that these tiny detours—the last-minute yeses, the random Ubers, the unexpected humans—are the real perks of saying why not instead of maybe next time. The world keeps handing me characters, melodies and cosmic winks, and all I have to do is show up.
Pull Quote:
“I think about how if I were an Uber driver, I’d wonder if my rider wants to talk or enjoy the silence.”
