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.

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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.

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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!

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.”

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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.”

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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!!!”

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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.

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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.

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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.)

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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!  

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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!

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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. 

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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.

Hey Baby, What’s Wrong?

There are few things that irritate me as much as waiting outside someone’s house during rush hour because they’re not ready.  I’m kidding, there are plenty of things that irritate me that much.  Everything irritates me.

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So I’m picking up a woman in mid-city (just the thought of mid-city makes me mad!).  I’m about to cancel because I’ve messaged her to no response and it’s been almost five minutes.  She finally comes out and slams first the door to her house and then the door to my car.

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I don’t say anything, but sometimes I don’t really need to.  You know that feeling when you just know someone’s angry?  That’s largely the same feeling I try to exude when I drive for Uber.

Her destination is a bank on the West side of LA, which isn’t a terribly long drive.  I assume she’s going to work.  I fire up Waze and we get on our way.  That’s when she begins giving me directions.  “It says to take the 10 but don’t take the 10.”  My favorite type of California right here.
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It was a short trip, and as much as I felt like arguing, I didn’t do it.  Just then she asks for a charger.  Bitch, you just came from your HOUSE.  Don’t they have chargers in mid-city? Again, it was a short trip so I lent her mine.  But then she makes a phone call, but since my charger is the one that came with my phone, it doesn’t extended very well to the back seat.  So she starts out by just leaning forward almost in my ear having a conversation, and then leans back and switches to speakerphone.  So no matter what, I’m gonna know the details of this call whether I like it or not.  And it sounds like it’s a fight with her boyfriend.

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He was barely saying anything, because he was clearly gaslighting her about something.  From what I gathered, he’s insinuating that she’s having an affair with her boss.  He can tell this because the passenger’s seat of her car was moved when he went to use it.  She explains why this is ridiculous:

“Babe, I work 18 fucking hours a day.  And you get to stay home and sit on your ass while our kid sleeps.  It’s 8am and I won’t get home until after 2am.  The fact that you think I have the fucking energy to consider cheating on you is insane.  Do you know what I fucking gave up to be with you?  And after you cheated on me anyway?  I would not do this.  We have a child together, and another one on the way.  You know I would never do this.”

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She starts explaining how her boss moves her car for her every day so she doesn’t have to pay for parking.  And that her boyfriend (husband?  fiancee?  future murderer?) knows this.  The reason the passenger seat was moved was because he took someone else to their car because they were done with their day, as opposed to this poor woman who would have a whole second job ahead of her once the shift is over.

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The idiot guy just talked in circles and repeated his insinuations and insisted she didn’t care about his feelings, but wouldn’t listen to her.  She begged him to trust her, to listen to her, to have faith in their relationship and her dedication to him as a part of their family.  She says when he gets like this, it makes her feel like he’s cheating again.  Please keep in mind that I am silent and just driving, as I’m not a part of this.

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She hangs up the phone because they’re not getting anywhere, and asks for my advice.  She explains the situation that I already understood, because she doesn’t realize I’m an excellent eavesdropper.  “What would you do in this situation?”

I told her my honest advice.  That right now, it doesn’t make sense to engage about it, because emotions are running high and people have a difficult time listening to reason when that happens.  But also, her suspicion of him seems spot on.  I told her that while I know nothing about their dynamic, it seems like he’s trying to blame her for something that didn’t happen, to deflect blame or guilt on his behalf.  18 hours a day at home with a child that can’t speak to tell you what he’s seen?  Seems like the perfect opportunity for a scumbag to cheat.

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I told her I’d wait a few days until things were more calm, and set a list of goals for the conversation before starting it.  Ensure that his feelings are valid and get to the root of why he doesn’t trust her.  He clearly doesn’t trust her, and he is very possibly cheating, and she deserves better than that.

“You’re totally right,” she says.  I was engaged to a really rich guy when I met him.  He doesn’t have a pot to piss in.  But I fell in love, and I was set for life with my ex.  He took me to the fanciest places, we’d fly all the time.  I gave it all up for him.  You’re totally right.  I do deserve better.”  She grabs the phone to call him back again.  “Carlos, I’m leaving you.  Have your shit packed by the time I’m home tonight.  Don’t try to leave with my son because the cops will be escorting me home tonight.  I gotta go, I’m at work now.”

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She completely misinterpreted my advice!  I wanted the family to stay together but I wanted her d-bag man to clean up his act!  Did I just break up a family?  At any rate, I feel like I could’ve said anything at all, and she would’ve pieced together a way to leave her man.  It seemed like that was her plan all along, which I totally respect.  You can only take so much.

“Thanks for the advice, I’ll be sure to give you five stars.”

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You’ve done some great work here today.  This is a breakthrough.  I’ll see you the same time next week?

RIDESHARE TIP #90210: Your driver is not your therapist, but please know you’re a strong intelligent woman.

An UberPOOL Love Story

One of the things that annoys me most about driving for a rideshare company is their pool features.  If you’re not in a major metro area, it may not be available to you, so I’ll briefly explain:  for a little less money, you can share your Uber or Lyft potentially with other people who are headed generally in the same direction.  It takes longer, but if you’re all about the bottom line and don’t mind fraternizing with the freakshow general public, this is your deal.  For Uber it’s called UberPOOL, for Lyft it’s call LyftLine.  Most of the time, people don’t want to talk to each other, so it’s twice the social awkwardness for half the price.

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But every now and then, you get someone who wants to talk.  I once had a great conversation with a guy and a girl and they ended up exchanging numbers.  That was maybe the only time it was a good trip.

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One of the things that makes it awkward, is that people often don’t realize that there is already someone in the car, so they don’t know where to sit.  Sane people tend to sit in the rear passenger side seat, which is perfect.  But sometimes they’ll sit up with me, which I hate.  I can not stress it enough:  your driver wants you to sit in the back seat, no matter how cool of a passenger you are.  Trust me on this.  Without realizing, you may start to forget that you’re not in your friend’s car.

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Sometimes people open the door without looking and see that someone’s in that seat, then walk all the way around the car.  It’s weird, uncomfortable and awkward.

One morning I’m in a Northwest suburb in the valley and a girl orders an UberPOOL, and naturally, I’m immediately in a bad mood.  I make a lot less money on these trips, and I’m already in a zone that has probably never surged, ever.  How much fucking cheaper do you need the ride to be?

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So I ask her if she meant to do a Pool trip, because sometimes they do it accidentally.  She says it’s fine.  And I can’t help but think, “Is it?  You cheap prick?”

They add another passenger and when I go to pick him up, he of course tries to enter the wrong side, and the girl is still in that seat, buckled in.  He opens the door and shouts “WHAT THE FUCK MAN???” and slams the door shut.  Oh, hell no.

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So he comes around to the rear driver’s side and gets in.  “This never happened to me before,” he says angrily.  And I’m like, dude?  Get real.  You’re probably paying $2.00 for this ride and I’m making far less than that.  You ordered a Pool, get over it.  Sometimes you get lucky and have it to yourself, but the price is lower because sometimes you do have to share it.

The car is now completely silent as the two, in classic UberPOOL style, completely try to ignore each other.  That’s when the guy speaks up.

“Sooooo, um……. How have you been?”

O.

M.

G.

These two have a past.

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She responds in a sullen, depressed tone, “I’ve… I’ve been good.  How about you?”  You can almost hear the acoustic rom-com magical moment music playing as you read this, can’t you?  I’m thinking something from Sheryl Crow.

They start to talk a little, and they’re only together in the car for a few minutes.  Long enough for him to invite her to a party that weekend, which she tentatively agrees to.

I have to drop off the guy first, so we get to his address and he tells her it was good seeing her, and that he’s looking forward to this weekend, and she says the same.  He exits, and she rolls up her window and just about explodes, almost crying.

“That guy is such a fucking asshole!”  I agree, lady.  But what is YOUR reasoning?

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“That was my ex boyfriend.  He dumped me after he hooked up with my best friend.  Then to get out of it, he told everyone in my sorority that we broke up because I was pregnant to his best friend.  He’s such a lying dickhead!  He fucking ruined my life!”

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RIDESHARE TIP #21418:  If you’re looking to dodge an ex, don’t use UberPOOL a block away from him in your teeny tiny suburb.

Scream, Queens!

Driving around in a city like Los Angeles, you see celebrities fairly regularly.  I came here from a small town, so for a while it was quite shocking to me.

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My very first week living in LA, I saw someone in Beverly Hills walking down the street, and bigger than life – I knew him!  What are the odds?!  I thought to myself, “Wow!  What a small world!  I drove 2,000 miles to get here and in the first week I see an old friend!”  I slowed down and couldn’t place where I knew him from.  Was it high school?  Were we friends in college?  Did we work together at some point?  Oh, no.  It wasn’t an actual friend.  It was Aaron Paul from Breaking Bad.

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Maybe in my mind we were friends, but not in real life.  So one morning I was flying down South Santa Monica Boulevard in Beverly Hills, near all the super-fancy shops of Rodeo Drive).  I was keeping up with the somehow smooth, fast flow of traffic.  If you’ve ever been around this area, you probably will find this part of the story to be the least believable.

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But it’s true!  Anyway, I’m marveling at the rare and wonderful treat of moving quickly in Beverly Hills, and there’s an older woman on the sidewalk coming up from where the shops are.  She’s got short gray hair and is trying to make a call on her phone, but it’s clear that she’s not getting great reception.  She’s doing that thing where she’s holding it to her ear, then pulling away to look at it, and realizing she can’t see that well because she’s old and needs to have it further from her face to see clearly, then putting it up against her ear again.

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We’ve all been there, right?  Where’s the Verizon guy when you need him?   I continue flying down the street when this woman, completely lost in her struggle of trying to complete a telephone call, walks RIGHT OUT INTO TRAFFIC.

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I slam on my brakes and slam on my horn as loudly as I can, and she immediately realizes what she’s done, backing up onto the sidewalk, nonverbally apologizing.  That’s when I recognize her face.  Jamie Lee Curtis, is that you?!

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I’m a huge fan, but really, you need to take better care of yourself!  I realize how badly that could’ve gone, and go about my day with thankfulness that I did not kill international film star Jamie Lee Curtis.

Several months later, I’m on the West Side in Santa Monica very early in the morning and have to pick up someone closer to Malibu.  If you aren’t aware of the social geography of LA, Malibu is more posh than posh.  Private beaches galore.  I rarely have pickups in Malibu because a lot of those people have their own drivers and couldn’t be seen living like one of the plebeians who uses something so cheap and common as an Uber!  Aka the opposite of me.

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I adore making sweeping generalizations, so I’ll tell you that this place is largely a bunch of 1% d-bags.  Filthy rich people who only care about themselves.  This was illustrated perfectly as I tried to enter Malibu on surface level streets.  They are tight in some spots, near the hills of the Pacific Palisades, and at one point a two way street was down to a single lane because a moving truck was sitting there unloading.  I was heading in, but it was rush hour, so everyone else was heading out towards the city.  And every single person went right past without any regard for me at all.

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I got angry, I swore, I saw red, but the bottom line was that I needed someone to do the right thing.  Just one single person in this sea of pricks to look out of their Tesla roadster through their Gucci sunglasses and see that there is a human being in need of some help.  Just a simple act of, not even kindness, but civility more than anything.  That’s when my savior appears.

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Some really fancy car, but I honestly couldn’t tell you what kind, as my mind was foggy from every Mercedes, Maserati, Ferrari, Bentley and Porsche that passed me over those several minutes.  The woman driving slows down and stops traffic, leaving room for me to go around the truck, rolls down her window and waves me in.  I give profuse thank-you waves, and literally say it out loud, even though she can’t hear me.  And as I pass her up close, I recognize her face.  OMFG IS THAT JAMIE LEE CURTIS??!

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It was nice to know that after our last encounter, she didn’t hold any bad blood against me.  Considering it was her fault anyway, I felt like maybe this could be interpreted as her making up for her little misstep near Rodeo Drive.  On days like this, LA drivers could all stand to be a little more like Jamie Lee Curtis.  LA pedestrians on the other hand, not so much.

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RIDESHARE TIP #177:  IF YOU ARE JAMIE LEE CURTIS, WATCH WHERE YOU’RE GOING.  BECAUSE LA TRAFFIC CAN’T AFFORD TO LOSE YOU.

UberPoor

One morning I drove an Uberpool trip from Venice to Beverly Hills.   Let me start with a few judgmental statements:

  1. I have never had a positive interaction with a customer going to or from Beverly Hills.
  2. UberPOOL customers largely are absolute garbage.

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I may be biased because of how Uber financially rapes their drivers with pool trips (speaking to Los Angeles, specifically.  I don’t know the rates for all cities).  In LA, if you take a Pool trip, you get a  completely made up “upfront price” that in no way reflects what the driver is making.  He or she is paid $0.57 a mile and $0.08 a minute from the start to the end of your trip, no matter how many people are in the car.  They recently upgraded that, so that for each additional pickup during a pool trip, the driver gets $0.95.  95 whole cents, you guys.  Have you ever noticed that if you do a pool, your driver is kind of angry as fuck?

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Annnnnywayyyyy, so I pick up the Beverly Hills d-bag and I’m praying that we get another customer joining the trip before I hop on the freeway, because after that it becomes increasingly more annoying.  I have to stay in the slow lane during pool trips, because Uber can add another passenger at any time and I often have to exit at the drop of a hat.

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I sat waiting for a solid 3 minutes at a light to turn onto the 405, and my customer, Johnny Confidence, is huffing and puffing in the back seat.  I’m praying that someone will join before I get on that freeway.  The light turns green, I make the irreversible turn, and as soon as I’m almost fully merged onto the 405, I get my next passenger joining the pool.  Her location?  At that intersection where I just sat for 3 or 4 minutes.  So this will now take another 10 minutes to get to the next exit to go back (it’s rush hour in the morning, mind you.)

I’m at the next off ramp trying to turn right but I’ve got a red light.  Good news is that there is virtually nobody on the road.  I turn right and immediately hear a siren and see the red and blue lights in my rear view.  A motorcycle cop is waving me to pull over.

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Did I have a tail light out?  Did I speed at some point?  Does he just hate gay people?  I’ve never been pulled over before so I  have literally no idea what I’m in for, and I am about to throw up in the car.

I pull over in traffic and he waves me on to go into a parking lot.  I oblige, and he keeps waving me to go further and further forward.  I’m starting to think he’s going to gay bash me once he gets me into a remote area.  He motions for me to stop the car and he takes his grand old time making his way over, and thats’ when I see the sign “NO TURN ON RED, 6AM-9AM.”  It was 8:58.

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I’m sweating bullets, I know these guys don’t like minorities.  But the news has shown that the shootings tend to happen to brown and black people.  Was I safe?  Police always made me nervous anyway.

He asks me if I know why he pulled me over, and I say, “Well, yeah.  I know now that I see that sign.”  He asked if I was around here and I wanted to say something proverbial and thought-provoking and sarcastic like “The road is my home” but I’m sure he wouldn’t appreciate my sense of humor (I’m an acquired taste).

So I told him I’ve never been pulled over and I don’t know which is a registration and which is an insurance document.  I hand him the loan details of my car and the receipt for my last oil change, because I’m really that stupid under pressure.

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He appreciates that I’mt trying to do the right thing, and ultimately after several minutes of deliberation, lets me go with his “final” verbal warning of the day.  THANK GOD.  I drive away with the biggest sigh of relief and maybe just a drop or two of pee in my pants, and I remember I have a customer in the car.

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“So sorry about that, we’re on our way now.”  I look at the Uber app and see THAT GIRL HAS STILL NOT CANCELLED FROM THAT OLD INTERSECTION.  I go to pick her up, and it’s now been nearly 20 minutes.  She gets in, a small Asian college student, and is upset, but not overly upset.

“You took so long!” she says to me.

“Yeah, I’m sorry.  It sent me the request as soon as I pulled away from you onto the freeway.”

“Yeah but you stop for really long time.”

“About that…”

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The best part of her trip is that she was literally only going a few blocks away.  She was in the car for less than two minutes.

Rideshare Tip #999: Use UberPOOL if you want to save 50 cents and get to your destination within three to four hours!

That Escalated Quickly

So in a city as busy and traffic-plagued as Los Angeles, people don’t always think ahead of time about how easy or difficult a time their driver might have picking them up on a busy street.  They’re not always ready and waiting, and we’re not always able to stop.  This problem is made worse when they have luggage.  People get a little testy in LA traffic when you stop in the middle of the street and put your hazards on and wait.

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As has been established in previous posts, I am a kind person.  I will help with luggage if I can safely get out of the car to do so.  But also as has been established, it is not a requirement of my job; just a suggestion of my pseudo-midwestern upbringing.

So this morning I get a request on Franklin Avenue in Hollywood, right by Cahuenga, which is a very busy street that runs right off of the 101 Freeway.  I look at my map and see that I’ll be picking up my customer just after Cahuenga, but I see that the address is actually blocked off.  There’s a huge sinkhole on that street, and it’s been blocked off for more than a week.  Let’s see if ladyfriend has the good sense to contact me or be at a convenient spot.  If history has taught me anything, she’s an idiot and will not be partaking in either of those.

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Traffic is almost at a standstill, and that’s when I see her.  Squinting at her phone and then at me.  Standing in the middle of the goddamn street.  With two huge suitcases.  This gargantuan Australian woman, she looks like that cartoon with from the old 60s cartoons, Broom Hilda.  The lady who sips on sludge.  And she’s waving me down.

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Even though my car is slowing down to a stop (again, because of traffic), I can’t stop everything and go through the production of getting her and her belongings into the car. I’m frantically motioning for her to walk to the nearest curb, about 60 feet away.  I could pull over there.  Hell, I could even get out of the car to help with her luggage!  She opens the car door and gets in and says “That’s my luggage,” insinuating that I needed to get out of the car and get it.  I told her I could get a ticket for stopping in the middle of traffic and getting out (Not sure if that’s true, but it seems legit?  A risk I don’t feel like taking for a number of reasons.).  “Jesus Christ, you’re not gonna help with my fucking luggage?”  She slams the door and takes care of it.  Meanwhile people behind me are losing their minds, swearing and honking and giving death stares.

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She finally gets in (In the front seat, mind you.  THAT IS WEIRD, GUYS!  DON’T DO IT!!), and I apologize but explain how dangerous and possibly illegal that was, and that under normal circumstances, I would’ve helped.  She tuts for a minute or two but eventually decides that is was a misunderstanding and that we’ll move forward in a positive-ish way.

That’s when she starts humming.  Loudly.  And then singing some song I don’t know.

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Thankfully, she’s just going downtown.  This is maybe a 15 minute ride.  I can handle 15 minutes of this, I think.  I think.

We have polite small talk about Los Angeles and Australia and the weather and I point out local landmarks that she asks about.  It was the annotated tour of the 101 and the 110 South.

As we approach her block, I see it’s directing me to the alley.  I ask if that’s correct, because about 1% of the time, it is.  She shrugged her broad shoulders and said, “I don’t know.  You’re the one who lives here.”

That’s right.  And when you live in a city, you know the ins and outs of literally every single building in the entire fucking county.

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I figured it’s probably the front of the building, so I drive down the actual block.  I’m not sure which side of the street it’s on, so I’m looking back and forth to see if I can spot a number telling me which side is odds and which side is evens.  I find one, and learn that she needs to be on the opposite side of this very very skinny street.  I could go around the block, but in DTLA, that could mean another 15 minutes.  She tells me to do a U-turn, despite a sign right in front of me prohibiting it, a police car several cars in front of me, probably ready to enforce it, and the fact that it is a tight little street.

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I tell her I can’t do that, and she starts bitching and moaning to me about how I’m an idiot and how I just need to do it.  The thought of another minute in the car with this woman is enough to make me risk it.  I pull a way-too-fast, super unsafe U-turn and it becomes apparent that she’s going to the Ace Hotel on Broadway.  It’s a single lane at this point, and I’m waiting for a taxi to leave so that I can pull into his spot but he’s really taking his time.

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I’ve got my turn signal on, and people are beeping at me to just keep moving.  That’s when she just gets out of the car, right in the middle of traffic.  Again.

She stands up, with the car door open, and says “Ya gonna fucking help with my luggage this time?”  And I half laughed because it really felt like she was being funny.  She wasn’t serious, right?

“I can’t get out of the car here, I’m really sorry.  I was trying to pull into the hotel curbside!”

“You really are a fucking prick,” she says as she slams the car door.

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She opens up the hatchback and just as she gets the last of her stuff, I hear between honks from angry drivers behind me, she has some parting words for me, with a big fake smile on her goony cartoon-witch face.

“Goodbye, faggot!”

Ummmm…. Excuse me?

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“Goodbye, faggot!  I hope you die of AIDS!”  She smiles, slams the hatchback shut and waves as she wheels her luggage away.

I contacted Uber about it, and they insisted that this is a very serious incident, they’re “sorry that it happened” and that someone from their team would be reaching out to talk to me about it.  I wanted her to be deactivated from the platform, but the best they could offer is that they would “do their best to see that she is not matched with me again.”

Big shoutout to Uber for caring about their drivers.  The number of people who reached out to me personally from their team?  ZERO.

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RIDESHARE LESSON #26:  SOME SERVICES UNAVAILABLE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE GODDAMN STREET.