Category: Ridesharing Confessional

I pull up outside the motel and there is a couple waiting by the sliding reception doors. She is white, middle-aged, blue-collar. He is black with a frizzy, gray beard and sad eyes. As I pull to a stop, they say good-bye to each other and then he walks around to get in the back seat on the passenger side.

Picking people up at motels is always interesting. Sometimes, they are long-haul truckers who need a lift to their next ride. Sometimes, they are employees of the motel. Sometimes, they are transgender sex workers. You never know who you’re going to run into.

He sat down quietly and I started driving away. I asked a few introductory questions, as I always do, trying to figure out if he wanted to talk or not. Conversation is part of the service, or at least that’s how I see it, so if someone wants to talk, I’m there for it. How’s it going? Nice day, isn’t it? What are you up to today?

He was talkative. They had just bought a house and were getting ready to move in but were staying at the motel in the meantime. He worked at a beer store in the city. He’d never done that kind of work before, but somehow he made a good impression on the owners, so the guy trained him. He went on and on about the different types of beer, clearly an expert. I asked him if he had a recommendation, although I don’t often drink. This sent him on an entirely new rabbit trail, and it was fun, because he loved talking about what he knew–most people do.

I asked him if he grew up in the area, and he said he went to a high school in Harrisburg. I recognized the name.

“They have a good football team, don’t they?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said.

“Did you play?” I asked him. And he grinned, a big, wide grin full of pearly-white teeth.

“Oh, yeah,” he said again. “Wide receiver and safety. I wasn’t the biggest guy out there, but I was fast.” And he laughed, and I realized he was younger than I first thought, maybe even my age, or close to it. For a moment I could see him, a spindly high school kid, darting around under the Friday night lights, knocking someone down or catching a ball and running like a jack rabbit. How these years get away from us.

I really liked him. In that moment, driving into the city on a warm, February day, I wanted to hang out with this guy. We pulled over, and he was profuse in his thanks. I told him I’d try to come by and see him some time. He climbed out of the car, and there was a co-worker of his standing on the sidewalk, smoking. The banged fists together, and I could see them chatting as I drove away.

* * * * *

As of Sunday night, you can still get the Kindle version of my novel The Day the Angels Fell for only $4.47, so buy yourself a digital copy and tell your friends! Thanks so much. I couldn’t make a living as a writer without your support.

I like driving for Uber and Lyft on Friday evenings. I know some drivers don’t, because you occasionally have to taxi the heavily intoxicated with their slurred words and nonsensical conversations and belligerence. I once had to help a young man find the door handle in my car. I once had to wake someone up so that they’d get out. I once watched as a man tripped over every single Christmas-themed yard ornament between me and his front door. I once, sadly enough, had to help three girls hoist their passed-out friend up the front steps. And of course, there are the obnoxiously-intoxicated frat-house boys who think they are gods.

But normally I don’t mind driving during that time of a Friday night, not all that much. Occasionally, the gushing, drunken older women who want to be my absolute best friend in the whole weary world get on my nerves. That’s a little awkward. For the most part, Friday nights are fun because there are people everywhere and the city is alive and most of the people I drive are relaxed, not going to work, hanging out with their friends, and happy about life.

I did pick up a guy the other night who just received bad news about one of his parents, and I had to drive him to a hospital that was 40 minutes away. This was just after I had decided it would be my last fare of the night, because my eyelids were getting heavy and I was ready to go home, but he needed a ride and the fare was decent, so off we went.

I asked him a few questions and he clearly wanted to talk, so the miles passed quickly as he told me about his job, his wife, why they chose to live where they live. And I nodded and listened and navigated the route.

I heard the pop of a beverage can in the back seat. “Don’t worry,” he said, “it’s only water. I didn’t want you to think it was a beer.”

I shrugged. I don’t sweat that kind of stuff. People are going to do what they’re going to do. Just don’t puke in my car. That is literally the only thing I care about. Well, that, and don’t make out back there. I might not be able to see you, but I can hear everything.

“What about you?” he asked. “What do you do? What does your wife do?” And it was surprising, because most people just want to talk about themselves, which I’m completely happy with because, to be honest, I don’t have an aching need to tell every single passenger my life story.

“Sorry,” he said, walking back his questions. “Not to be nosy. It’s just a long ride, you know?”

So I told him. I told him about why we moved back home to PA, what my wife has been up to (finishing her middle-grade novel and now looking for representation), how we decided to send our kids to public school after 10 years of homeschooling. And it was nice. He was nice. It was a good conversation.

Then we got to the town and we arrived at the hospital, and he moved to get out.

“If you don’t see a tip tonight,” he said, “don’t worry. I’ll get around to it. But this whole thing,” and he motioned towards the hospital, “it’s got me preoccupied.” I told him not to worry about it. I didn’t ask about his parent. I figured he’d tell me if he wanted to.

I took one more fare in that faraway town, a young girl getting off work late at night. I circled the building a few times before we could find each other. I dropped her off at a store to pick up some medication, then I drove the 40 minutes home.

The guy was good to his word, by the way. He left me a generous $5 tip.

If you’d like, you can follow my Facebook page, Rideshare Confessional.

I pick up a guy on the south side of the city. It’s snowing. He gets in the car and smells like pot.

“Hey, thanks, man. How are you?” he asks, and his voice is gravel, a dead impersonation of BB King. I wonder if he sings the blues. He certainly speaks them.

“I’m good, I’m good,” I say, confirming his destination, and we pull onto Queen Street, head north. He’s a chatty guy for the first minute, then gets a phone call and quiets down after that.

The snow is blustery. The day is cold and windy. We were supposed to get a foot of snow but all we have are wet roads.

“How about that snow, man?” he asks, laughing. “I woke up this morning and couldn’t believe it. Nothing but cold water.”

“That’s about the best way of saying it.”

He laughs again, gritty and deep.

“Did you grow up around here?” I ask him.

“Me? No. I’ve only been here for about five years. I grew up in New York City, trained as a tradesman.”

“So how’d you end up here?”

He grimaces. “I was working for this contractor, and all of his tools got stolen. He couldn’t afford to replace them all, so he only kept on the old-timers. I had to find something else. Had some friends here in Lancaster and they were on my case all the time about moving here. They found me some work, so I came.”

We drive for a moment, north on Queen Street. It’s cold, and the sun is in and out. People walk as fast as they can from here to there, eager to cross the street, eager to get where they’re going.

“Now I’ve got a girlfriend here, and a kid.”

“Congrats,” I say.

He smiles. “Funny story. I was sure we were having a boy. Positive. And that’s all I wanted, a boy. So, we were in the doctor’s office and he asks if we want to know the baby’s sex. ‘Let’s find out,’ my girlfriend said. Well, the doctor knew I wanted a boy—I had been telling him all about the entire appointment, how I knew it was a boy. He looked at us and said, ‘It’s a boy!’ Then he laughed. ‘Just kidding,’ he said. ‘You’re having a girl.’ I almost punched him in the face. I told him if he was younger, I would have knocked him down. Then, I sat there and cried like a baby.”

“You did!” I exclaimed, laughing. He was laughing, too.

“I did. Man, I bawled. But the thing was, I just couldn’t imagine raising a girl. I thought my heart would break. I thought, if she falls off her bike, I’ll pick that bike up and break it in half. If someone treats her bad, I’ll kill ‘em. I just didn’t think I could take it.”

The snow comes again, flurries, sweeping up over the front end of the car like stars in space.

“Now, she probably has you wrapped around her little finger.”

“She does. That she does.”