Bucket List

Can you remember a time before cell phones?  All conversations you had were in the privacy of your own home, which posed a problem for some people after they made the switch.  For a while, you could be walking down the street and overhear someone’s private conversation about an STD or a cheating husband or their roommate’s incontinence.


Eventually, people realized where to draw the line.  The next learning curve seems to be happening with the way people talk to an Uber or Lyft driver.  With taxi drivers, you often would never exchange a word with them unless you needed a recommendation in the city or wanted to know how long it would take to get to the airport the next day at 7pm.  Nowadays, when people use a rideshare service for the first time, they feel compelled to talk to the driver, sometimes with great self awareness and other times without it.


But where does one draw the line between small talk and getting too personal?  Is it about sex?  Or money?  Is it religion?  All of these can cross a line, but these days, the biggest one seems to be politics.  Shocker!


The week of the election, you know – THAT election, proved to be a difficult one for me.  I’m a Democrat, and I live in LA so it’s pretty easy to know my audience, and pretty easy for my customers to know theirs.  But it didn’t stop a lot of people that week from trying to get me to listen to their views on how we should give the new President a chance.


So after a week of having some terrible people in and out of the car, I had had enough.  It was hard enough for me to simply go through life at that point, knowing the impending removal of the rights of myself and my friends.  But I reached a boiling point, where I was picking someone up at the airport and it was going to be my last ride of the day, no matter how far from home it would take me.


So a woman gets in the car, and I’m downright miserable.  She’s alone, and needs help with her luggage, and I’m immediately thinking, of course she does!  Ugh!  I get out and help her, and she sweetly says, “Thanks.  Oh, I love your shoes!” and I angrily think, Yeah, me too, lady!  That’s why I bought them!  Ugh!  But within a few minutes, her kindness makes me realize I’m being a baby.  I need to open up and accept the positivity she’s putting out there.

So we start talking, and she says she’s never been to California before.  I immediately inquire as to what brought her here.  Work?  Vacation?  Family?  She tells me hesitantly that she’s done with work for a while and needs a vacation.  Don’t we all, honey.  It’s been a week.


She tells me she’s from Arizona originally but has been traveling a lot for work for the past year, year and a half.  It’s kept her mainly in New York but she’s really been all over the place.

“What kind of work do you do?”

She pauses, with her eyes closed.  I wasn’t sure if she was in extreme pain, or was tired of explaining her job to people, or both, but she was bracing herself for something.

“I was a… campaign manager for Hillary Clinton.”






I’m immediately both speechless and ugly crying.  I tried to get words out about how I wasn’t supposed to cry today and she said, “Listen, I’m there with you but I just don’t have any more tears to cry.  I’m hitting the reset button and then turning this into power and change.  In the meantime, I wanna see my family, I wanna see the ocean, and god damn it, I want to see a celebrity!”

I told her she’s got quite a lot of that accomplished already.  “You’re staying with family.  Check.  I don’t know if you know where they live, but they’ve done quite well for themselves.  Two blocks in from Ocean Avenue.  So, I think we can check the ocean off of your list too.  Celebrities are hard to spot in Santa Monica, though.  You usually have to go up to Malibu, but they’re hidden either in private beaches or in giant sunglasses and hats.  Take a day and head inland to Beverly Hills, you’ll see somebody.”


We reach her destination and I get out to help her with luggage because, as you may remember, I am a nice person.  She gives me a huge hug and tells me we’re going to get through this together.  I’ll be honest, I needed that hug more than ever.

Just then I notice something in front of my car.  Someone is crossing the street to go into their car.  I recognize the woman immediately but play it coy.  I put my finger over my mouth so my customer would know to be quiet, and I motioned toward the woman in front of us, and she just couldn’t keep a secret.  She starts screaming, “JULIANNE MOORE!!! OMG!!!!  IT’S JULIANNE MOORE!!!”


If it’s 1% of payback for all the hard work and heartbreak she’s gone through, she checked everything off of her vacation bucket list in the first hour after landing in LA.  I’m sure she’s turned that pain into power by now.  (For the record, I’m not there yet.)

RIDESHARE TIP #45: Be nice.  And keep your eyes peeled for celebs at alllllllllll times.


You Seem Fun.

Monday holidays in LA are always a reminder of why I don’t work driving at night.  My main problem is that I don’t deal well with drunk people when I’m sober.  No poker face whatsoever.


So I stick to my morning routine to avoid the drunk bar crowd.  I wake up early and I get lots of airport runs and people in a hurry to go to class or to work or wherever people go during the day.  (Let’s not kid ourselves:  it’s LA.  They’re all going to brunch.)


So on President’s Day, which is on a Monday, I wake up early, completely forgetting that to some freelancers, today is more like Sunday morning.  And their Sunday mornings typically tend to be a very late Saturday night.  I immediately see that there is no surge pricing and realize that my day is going to be a lot slower and longer than a typical Monday morning.

My first call is a guy named Steven.  I show up at his address and he comes mozying down the hill slower than a turtle on Nyqil.


He gets in, and between the smell and the incoherent, delayed nature of his speech pattern, I can tell he hasn’t gone to sleep.  Also, it’s 6am and he asked how my night was going.  This guy has been partying all night long and is using UberPOOL to get to the next stop on this bender.

He tells me in microbursts (between very pregnant pauses) how his night has gone until now.  Opens up about his ex-girlfriend, who’s going to be at the address where he’s going.  (His initial mention insinuated that there was a party happening there, but then he admits that he’s going there to see her alone.  Gross.)  A few minutes later, he thanks me for the ride, even though we’ve got a solid 12-15  minutes ahead of us.  At least he’s trying to be polite.  I’ll take it.


He then starts giving me directions that are completely incoherent.  “Turn left on 6th,” even though 6th Street is parallel to us, so that is literally never going to be possible.  I follow a few directions here and there until he asks what street we are even on.

“We’re on Fountain,” I tell him.

“Shit, I literally don’t even fucking know where we are.”

Then stop fucking giving directions to the guy who is sober, has the address, and is running two GPS’s, trying to get you out of his fucking car.  I politely request that he let me do my fucking job.


That’s when he backpedals (of course with another pregnant pause).  “Hey man.  Thank you for this.  You don’t gotta take me all the way there.  I know you probably got shit to do.”  Wait, can I really kick this drunk idiot out of my car?  I’ve been literally counting the seconds until the ride ends!  


I’m a little put off, and I ask if he wants a different address or something, and he says, “No, I just really appreciate this.  You’re too nice.  What’s your name again?”  I tell him my first name and he asks for my last.  Then he repeats my full name back to me and tells me that he loves me.  Not awkward at all!


I ask his name, because we’ve still got 6 or so minutes and I’m like “Do I say I love him back?”  In a split second, I let it roll around in my head and settled on “It’s nice to meet you, Steven.”  Which felt a little like a burn, whether or not I meant it to be.

He’s quiet for a minute or two and then talks about the punk band he’s in, tells me he’s surprised that the shitty music I’m playing sounds good (#tactful) and after a second of realization, asks if I know Elena (?).  I do not.  He’s a little puzzled.  “Did I meet you last night?  Or are you friends with Chris?”  

Oh God, he doesn’t fucking know that I’m an Uber driver. 


I tell him, “I don’t know you.  You ordered an Uber, and I’m your driver.”

“Oh.  That makes way more sense.  But I think you’re really nice anyway.”

I dropped him off and wished him good luck with whatever the hell he was doing with his ex.  Just hoping they use a condom, because if she’s dumb enough to have sex with that idiot, I can’t imagine how few functional brain cells their offspring would have.  I realize fully that this could’ve gone much worse, however I would’ve much rather taken a sober person to the airport.

RIDESHARE TIP #1745: While ordering a car seems safer than driving when you’re wasted, you’re still at risk from making your driver wreck the car on purpose.  For best results, keep the conversation to a minimum.