Chapter 2: Smoke Signals

At first, the drunk was almost peaceful, in the way passed-out drunks can be.

He just sat there, mouth hanging open, breathing in heavy, wet bursts. With the air conditioning blasting, the car soon reeked—a funk of sweat, spilled booze, and something sour that made Paul’s stomach twist.

He told himself: This is it. One more ride, then freedom. Just get this guy to Silver Creek, and tomorrow morning you can bomb the car with Febreze and let it air out in the driveway.

Paul had logged enough miles to see it all—young couples giggling in the backseat, strangers sharing family secrets, even a college kid who once tried to give himself a pedicure mid-ride. A rideshare car is like a confessional on wheels; you get a front-row seat to the weirdness of humanity. With each shift, his tolerance grew another layer thick.

After a couple blocks, the drunk let out a belch so deep it rattled the cup holders. For a split second, Paul braced for the worst, already picturing the biohazard cleanup charge on his app.

He sucked in a steadying breath. If this guy hurled, at least the app would let him claim a cleaning fee. But deep down, Paul had that sixth sense all longtime drivers develop—you just know when a fare’s going to go sideways, and this one felt like a ticking time bomb.

The guy sat in a fog, booze seeping from every pore, until finally his hands started rooting around in his pockets. Paul shot him a sidelong glance, curiosity edged with dread. Was he about to pull out a flask? Maybe try to pass out in the backseat?

Instead, the man fished out a crumpled pack of Marlboros. His fingers shook as he popped the top and fished one out.

Paul exhaled, feeling the tension ease just a bit. No one smokes in rideshares anymore—not since the apps made it clear you’d get banned if you tried. He figured the guy would ask for a quick pit stop, and Paul could just say no. Simple as that.

But the man never asked. Instead, with the stubborn recklessness of a true drunk, he flicked his lighter and sparked up right there, sending a plume of smoke wafting straight into Paul’s face.

Paul glanced up at the rearview mirror, already picturing a one-star review, or worse—remembering the time a chain-smoker got him flagged by the app for a lingering smell. The gig economy was unforgiving, and Paul knew every ride counted.

He said, as evenly as he could, “Hey man, no smoking in here. Company’ll kick me off the app.”

“Huh?” The guy barely registered it, eyes glazed over.

“I said, you can’t smoke in my car.”

Paul tried to keep it light, maybe even crack a little humor: “We’ve got the AC on, and this is public transport. The smell of smoke sticks around like a bad ex—it’s tough to get rid of.”

To keep things from getting ugly, Paul offered a workaround:

“If you really need a smoke, I can pull over for you. You can hop out, light up, I’ll wait. No problem.”

But the drunk just stared, like Paul was speaking a foreign language. It was like his brain had a filter that only heard the word “no.”

The message finally landed, and the guy’s face twisted in anger. He started making a scene, voice rising with that righteous fury drunks get when the world won’t bend to their will.

He leaned over, breath hot and sour, disbelief written all over his face. You’d think Paul had just told him Idaho was banning potatoes.

“What? I just want a smoke, and you won’t let me? Do you even know what you’re saying?”

The glare the man gave Paul was the kind you’d expect if you’d told him up was down. Paul figured the guy was just too far gone, so he tried again:

“Sorry, but I’ve got to keep this car clean for my next riders. It’s not fair to them if it smells like smoke.”

But the idea of “other people” seemed to bounce off the drunk’s skull. He wasn’t hearing any of it.

His patience gone, the man jabbed a finger in Paul’s direction and leaned so close their noses nearly touched. His words came out slow and heavy, each one a challenge:

“I’ll ask you one last time—can I smoke or not?”

It was a line drawn in the sand. Paul knew it, but he wouldn’t back down. He kept his hands on the wheel, voice steady:

“No matter how many times you ask, the answer is still no. Like I said, if you want to smoke, I’ll pull over and wait for you outside.”

You can’t argue logic with someone this hammered. Paul’s plan was basic—just get the guy out, let him puff away, get him home, then sanitize the seatbelt buckle and call it a night.

The rideshare grind means swallowing your pride. The unspoken rule is “the customer’s always right,” but every driver knows one bad review can tank your rating, or worse, get you booted off the app. Avoiding drama is just good business.

But this guy wasn’t having it. He snorted, shot Paul a couple of dirty looks, and if they hadn’t been in a moving car, things might have gone south real fast.

Paul kept his focus glued to the road, hands gripping the wheel tight. There was no way he’d let anyone light up in his car, no matter how pushy the passenger.

Suddenly, the drunk switched gears. He cocked his chin at Paul, and in a slurred but suddenly pointed voice, asked:

“Do you have a permit?”

Paul blinked, caught off-guard. Permit? What was this guy talking about?

He tried to play it cool: “What permit?”

Up until now, the whole conversation had been about smoking—where did permits come into play? Paul chalked it up to the guy being blitzed out of his mind.

So, he shrugged, “No.”

The drunk’s eyes widened, a triumphant grin spreading across his face. “So you don’t have one, huh?”

Paul kept his eyes on the road, jaw set. “Right, I don’t.”

The man’s face twisted in mockery, with a smugness that said, ‘I’ve got you now.’

“You, an illegal driver, do you know who I am?”

Paul glanced over, unimpressed. “No.”

It wasn’t like people walked around with name tags. Paul had no clue who this guy thought he was.

But for the drunk, that answer was a fresh insult. He whipped out his phone, thumb mashing the screen, and made a show of threatening Paul. The call went through almost instantly.

“Hey, Dave, are you on duty at the usual spot? I just got into an illegal car—can you believe it? The driver’s got some nerve, actually refusing to let me smoke.”

Paul guessed Dave was some buddy at the city’s transportation department—or maybe just another drunk friend. Either way, the threat was clear.

He shot Paul a look of pure challenge. “Man, help me deal with him later.”

After hanging up, he gave Paul a long, cold glare. “Tonight, I’ll show you who I am.”

Paul was baffled. This was Boise, not the Wild West—what could this guy possibly do? But then, just as Paul’s mind started to wander, the man changed his drop-off to the North End Transportation Department.

Paul thought, Great, the one place in Boise where everyone acts like they’re the sheriff. His knuckles whitened on the wheel as the GPS rerouted. Whatever was waiting at the North End Transportation Department, he had a feeling tonight’s fare was about to cost him more than a five-star rating.