Uber

UBER

I rolled down the window, smiled, and said, “Hi there. Uber. What’s your name?”

“Justin O’Hare.”

“Great, Mr. O’Hare, and where are you going today?” He recited the proper address. “Excellent!” I said. I watched as he looked at me, checked the licence plate, nodded, and got into the back seat. We were both who we were supposed to be.

Justin O’Hare was my first fare of the day. He used the app regularly and had a strong user rating—four-point-nine-five. I’d looked him up before I took the gig. The only thing that consistently came up negative was that he was sometimes a couple of minutes late.

If being late was the worst Uber-crime that Justin O’Hare had committed, then I was fine with him as my passenger.

“The ride should take about twenty-five minutes,” I said. “As long as traffic isn’t ridiculous.”

“Great,” was his answer. I’d read that he wasn’t much of a talker, so I left him to his own thoughts and drove.

I’ve been driving for Uber for about two years. While not the best paying job in the world, it allowed me to drive and explore the city, two things I love. This was an irregular Friday through Sunday gig for me, and tonight was Friday night—usually a busy night. I was scheduled to drive from six p.m. until two a.m.—the weirdness shift.

I pulled up to the address Mr. O’Hara’s had given. Once at the curb, he opened the door, and slid out. “Thanks,” was all he said, then he was gone, melting into the crowds of people walking on the sidewalk.

A pretty easy start to my shift. Now if the rest of the night were just as easy …

I must have jinxed myself, because the next customer was Emily Waters. I looked her up—a nightmare passenger. I sighed. Nothing like a nightmare to make me appreciate my day job.

Her pickup two blocks away. I headed right over, arriving two minutes early. I pulled up to the curb in front of the address, turned off the car, and waited. And waited. And waited. Ten minutes in, I had dispatch call her. She wasn’t an Uber Black booking, so, technically, I’d waited twice as long as the contract called for.

At the fourteen minute mark, she came marching out of her house, looking disdainfully at me. I started the car, and rolled down my window.

“Uber,” I said, “What’s your name?”

She stopped dead in her tracks, squinting in anger at me.

“You bloody-well know my name! You called the dispatch police on me!”

“So you’re ….” I let it hang. I’m never supposed to say the customer’s name. They have to confirm to me who they are.

“Emily Bloody Waters.” She stomped over to the car and threw open the back door, passenger side. She flounced into the seat, and crossed her arms, giving me stink-eye in the rear-view mirror.

I took a breath. “What’s the address that I’m taking you to, Ms.Waters?

“You know the address!” she hissed.

Another deep breath. “I do. I just have to confirm that we’re both on the same page.

She recited the address, annoyance radiating off of her. She slapped the back of the seat. “Get moving! I haven’t got all night!”

“You have to put your seatbelt on before I can start the trip.”

“That’s ridiculous!” she snapped. “If I want to risk my life, that’s it’s my constitutional right.”

I took a deep breath in. “Uber Community Guidelines state that all passengers in the vehicle must wear seatbelts.” I made eye contact with her through the rearview mirror. “Plus, it’s against the law to ride in a vehicle unbelted.”

“I don’t care! I am not wearing a seatbelt. I have never worn a seatbelt in an Uber.”

I wanted to call bullshit, but I’m not supposed to argue with the passengers. Instead I said, “If you refuse to wear a seatbelt, then I’m going to have to refuse to drive you, and I’m going to have to ask you to leave my vehicle.”

“You bitch!” she yelled, and hit me. She actually hit me! Right across the side of my head. With her purse.

I picked up my phone and called dispatch. “I have Emily Waters in my vehicle, and she just assaulted me. I’m at the pickup location. Please call the police.”

“The police!” she screeched. “Don’t you dare! Do you know who I am?”

I did know who she was—Emily-Bloody-Waters, assaulter of Uber drivers. I didn’t engage, I just got out of the car to wait for the police.

When Emily-Bloody-Waters got out of the car, I was afraid she was going to hit me again. Instead she started to walk away.

“Hey,” I said, “the police are going to want to talk to you.”

She yelled back. “Your word against mine. Who are they going to believe? Me, an upstanding member of society? Or you, an Uber driver who doesn’t even have a real job?”

“I’ve got cameras inside and outside the car.”

“Illegal!” she yelled back.

“Nope, you signed the waiver.”

She turned around and scowled at me, then continued to walk away.

By the time the police arrived, and I already had my statement written, and the video clips in question attached. The officer read my report and thanked me. I was on the way in about half an hour. The police went to the address Emily Bloody Waters was headed to wait for her, and arrest her when she arrived.

I’d never been hit by a passenger before. Sure, I’d been spit on, vomited on, sung to, proposed to, had my car kicked, had my car keyed, had a guy try to rob me, and once had a drunk guy refuse to get out of the car. But I’d never been hit. If I was being honest, it had been a bit disconcerting. I was also a bit pissed at myself— I should have seen it coming. Who gets cold-cocked by a fifty-year old matron? Apparently me. Sigh.

I was a bit early for my next fare, which gave me a chance to get the car ready. This was a standing ride that the customers booked through the scheduled rides feature. I loved this fare, by far my favourite of all my fares, ever. Every Friday night I drove Alistair from one parent’s house to the other’s house.

You see, Alistair’s “parents”, Jim and Genevieve, had divorced and couldn’t stand each other. They had a no-contact divorce, communicating through lawyers. That’s why they used Uber. Alistair was a one hundred and sixty-three pound Great Dane. The terms of the divorce stated that they had shared custody fifty-fifty, one week on, one week off, exchanges every Friday night. And I was their go-between.

Alistair always rode shotgun in my car. I had a special seat cover that I had just for him, and the special dog seatbelt harness. I finished getting the car ready just as Alistair arrived. He ran right to me, put his paws on my shoulders, and gave me a big kiss. I laughed, opened up the front door, and he hopped in.

“He really likes you,” said Jim.

I smiled. “And I really like him! I wish all my passengers were Alistair!” I leaned in and clipped him to the seatbelt. No whining about seatbelts from Alistair (I’m talking to you, Emily-Bloody Waters).

Jim gave me a fifty dollar tip—every single time. When I dropped Alistair off at Genevieve’s house, she always gave me one hundred dollars. I had explained to both of them (separately, of course) that the tips were excessive, and that I liked Alistair and would drive him without the tips. Both poo-pooed that. What I had gleaned is that (a) they were super wealthy, (b) rewarded good service, and (c) Genevieve always gave me twice as much as Jim because the divorce settlement stipulated that Jim always paid for the ride, tip included. Genevieve confided in me that giving me the larger tip gave her a bit of joy knowing that Jim had to pay.

Driving Alistair almost made me forget Emily-Bloody-Waters. But not quite. I idly wondered if the police had caught her yet—a dowager on the lamb. I pictured her in handcuffs trying to run away in her sensible pumps. I smiled.

My next two calls were pretty run-of-the-mill. Three party girls heading to the newest club, and two couples catching a movie. I love when things go so well that I can’t remember the names of my customers.

Then it was lunch. I pulled up to a deserted parking lot by the water, and got out of the car to get my lunch from the trunk. Just then, a police car came tearing into the parking lot, siren wailing, lights flashing. It skidded to a stop right in front of me.

“THIS IS THE POLICE. TURN AROUND AND RAISE YOUR HANDS ABOVE YOUR HEAD!” roared over the PA system.

“Make me, copper!” I yelled back.

The front door of the police car opened, and the officer exited the vehicle.. I walked right up to him and gave him a big kiss. It was my husband Quinn.

I got our lunch out and we sat at picnic table facing the lake.

“Soooo,” he started. “I understand you had a bit of an incident. Why didn’t you just arrest her?”

In my day job, I was a police officer. I worked straight days, ten hour shifts, Monday through Thursday. “I figured that it would seem a bit suspect if I arrested the woman who hit me, while not on duty. So, I left it to patrol.”

He nodded. “Probably wise. She sounds like a professional standards complaint waiting to happen if she knew you were a cop.”

I agreed and passed him his lunch. Tonight’s feast was chicken sandwiches and tomato soup (in a thermos), a cookie, and an apple. While we ate we each talked about our day.

“And how is Alistair doing?” Quinn asked. I showed him my two cash tips. He whistled. “If you keep driving on Friday nights, we’re going to be able to pay off our mortgage!”

We both laughed. I only drive when Quinn is working weekends. Although the tips were good tonight, it was going to take an awful lot of Friday nights to clear that debt.

Before we knew it, lunch was over, and it was back on the road for both of us. We said goodbye, and each of us went our separate ways.

This was the part of the night where things got interesting. From eleven o’clock on, the clientele was different. Before eleven people were mostly heading out, usually to a bar or party, maybe even a movie. Sure there was some pre-drinking, but my customers were mostly sober-ish. But after eleven o’clock a large percentage of my rides had already consumed vast quantities of alcohol before I arrived, making the rides a little more … interesting.

And it was as if I was summoning those-who-could-not-handle-their-alcohol—my next fare was Janet King and friend, summoned to the Lula Lounge for a pick up. When I pulled up, Janet King’s unnamed friend was definitely propping her up while still a little wobbly herself. I jumped out, and helped get Janet King into the back seat, passenger side, and buckled her in. Passenger side, because, you know, if I need to stop, she can’t be puking into live traffic. The friend got into the back seat behind me. And we were off.

The ride should take about twenty minutes, in light traffic. We were making good time. From the back I heard Janet King emphatically complaining about “Dylan”, while her friend tried to calm her down. Don’t get me wrong—neither woman should have been driving, but the friend was way closer to the legal limit than Janet King. For the most part, though, they were good customers, albeit slurry, loud customers.

Then I heard it.

“Puloba,”said Janet.

Shit! I signalled my right-hand lane change.

“Puloba!” She shouted louder.

“What?” her friend said, confused

I pulled over to the curb and stopped as fast as I could. Thankfully Janet King still had enough wherewithal to open the door, lean herself out of the door before vomiting into the gutter. Eww.

The friend looked at me. “Puloba?”

I looked at her through the rear view mirror. “It means ‘pull over, I’m gonna be sick’.”

She nodded, understanding flooding her face. No harm, no foul this time. And no two hundred dollar car cleaning charge for Janet King. We’d all dodged a projectile-vomit bullet.

My next fare was three guys who’d been at a rave. They were pretty amped. And, in my professional opinion, alcohol was not their intoxicant of choice.

They needed to go uptown, a thirty minute ride. I was pretty sure that I was going to regret this ride, but a fare is a fare. Two guys were in the back, and the account-holder, Jake Nico, sat in the front with me. After about ten minutes I was thinking that maybe it was going to be okay. Sure they were talking nonsense to each other, and found their own company hilarious, spending most of the time snorting in laughter, but no problem. I had no idea what they found so funny, but so far they were pretty much harmless.

Then Jake turns to me, serious as hell, and says, “Are we being followed?”

Surprised, I looked in the side view mirrors and the rear view mirror. “Nope,” I said. “Just normal traffic.”

Then the guys in the back seat started yelling.

“Man, are we being followed?” asked Friend One.

“Holy shit, we gotta get outta here!” said Friend Two. “Drive faster!” he yelled. I did not.

Jake Nico turned to his friends. “What if it’s the cops!”

“Man, we could go to jail!” wailed Jake Nico.

“I’m too pretty to go jail,” moaned Friend Two.

Friend One was actually crying. “Me too!”

Jake Nico turned to me. “You gotta stop this car, right now!”

“Seriously?” I asked.

“Yes!” he yelled, “Right Now!”

So I pulled over. The three men bailed without a word, running down an alley between the buildings. In fact, they’d bailed so fast they left the doors hanging open. I sighed and got out to shut the car doors, wondering if they even knew where they were going. I radioed dispatch, and told them the story. Macy, the dispatcher laughed. “At least they didn’t puke”

I had one more fare before my shift ended. And thankfully my day ended petty much like it started—uneventful. Jen Taylor was a bartender and was on her way home. We talked a bit about the weirdness that happened on Friday nights, and marvelled at how people tend to treat service providers like the hired help (I’m talking about you, Emily-Bloody-Waters). I dropped her off, and clocked out. Another Friday night was over.

A short while later I pulled up to the curb, and waited. Then, right on time, out walked Quinn. When he spotted me he smiled his best smiled.

I smiled back. I rolled down the window, smiled, and said, “Hi there. Uber. What’s your name?”