Blind Spot

The Uber driver looked over his shoulder.

“What do you do for work?”

I didn’t hesitate. “I’m a doctor,” I said. Who cares if I’m lying? When there aren’t stakes in a conversation, in a person, there’s a freedom in letting go of yourself.

Like kleptomaniac Marie in Breaking Bad, I had become someone who needed to escape from whatever it was I was suffering from.

The Uber driver pulled out a book. “Take a look.”

On the back cover was a picture of himself. Obviously, this man wasn’t lying about himself.

The back cover explained his experiences of falling three million dollars into debt, and his slow climb out. How he did it. How others can, too.

“I’m going to be on Netflix.”

Somehow, my pretend, prestigious, fake profession seemed less impressive now.

Having made up my lie, I had been blind to the fact that perhaps lying isn’t so fun afterall, when there are people willing and ready to not exploit the innocence of others, and stand up for what is truly important.

I had been blind to the possibility that perhaps this Uber driver was someone who respected himself, didn’t need to escape, though he had clearly been suffocating.