Five Stars for Raj

My head is directing me around, but it’s not having much success. Maybe I’ve had one too many pints. Or five. The world tilts like a carnival ride, and I clutch the lamppost like it’s the only thing keeping me from sliding into the gutter.

That’s when I hear it—a tiny, desperate cheep-cheep-cheep.

I blink down at the pavement. There, between my scuffed shoes, is a baby bird. Fluffy, speckled, and utterly bewildered. It looks up at me with black bead eyes, its wings flapping uselessly.

“Mate,” I slur, “you’re way too young to be out this late.”

The bird cheeps again, as if in agreement.

Now, a sober man might gently place the bird in a nearby bush or call a wildlife hotline. But I, in my magnificent drunken wisdom, decide this tiny creature needs an Uber.

I fumble with my phone, thumbs slipping over the screen. “Uhhh… yeah. Need a ride. For, uh… for a very small passenger.”

The driver who accepts is named Raj. His profile picture shows a smiling man with a neatly trimmed beard. When he pulls up, he takes one look at me swaying on the curb, then at the bird cupped in my hands, and sighs.

“You are drunk,” he states.

“Correct,” I say, nodding solemnly. “But this guy—” I hold up the bird, which lets out a squeak, “—is not. He needs to get to the wildlife rescue.”

Raj stares. The bird stares. I stare back, grinning like an idiot.

Finally, Raj mutters something in what I think is Punjabi, then reaches into his glove compartment and pulls out a small shoebox lined with napkins. “Put it in here. Gently.”

I do as instructed, cooing at the bird like it’s my own child. “You’re gonna be fiiiiine, dude. Five stars for Raj, okay?”

Raj shakes his head but punches the wildlife center’s address into his GPS. As he drives off, I wave, then immediately trip over the curb.

The next morning, I wake up with a pounding headache and a single notification on my phone:

Raj (Uber Driver) left you a rating: ★★★☆☆

“Passenger was unusual. But the bird is safe.”