I hope your fall is as beautiful as mine. đđâ¤ď¸
45 - 0
I hope you have an amazing day! â¤ď¸
67 - 2
Sometimes theyâre so drunk I just wait out the timer and collect the fee.
20 - 8
How many miles did I get from my Michelin Cross Climate 2 tires in my Tesla Y?
đ˛48,911 miles
đ˛68,911 miles
đ˛88,911 miles
19 - 21
She said he hit her.
âIâll drive you to the hospital!â Thatâs what I wanted to say. Thatâs what I should have done too.
But she didnât ask, and I didnât say it. I couldnât. The words caught somewhere between my heart and my head and mind your own business polite society.
Her answer wasnât escape or treatment. She only wanted an Uber to get her hair done. Not survival, at least not in the way I was thinking. What she wanted was a brief moment of routine, of beauty, of feeling like herself again.
Iâm not sure why she told me. People say things to their Uber driver all the time, like sinners in a confession booth, yearning for relief. But things like this? These things are rarely spoken. Ever.
Maybe it was the car, the atmosphere, the sunshine on a warm sunny day, the playlist dialed in just right, a song landing on the exact note that made the ride feel safe. I think about those things. But probably, it was simpler: she saw that I saw the bruises.
We talked. It was heartbreaking. I thought about my own daughter. If it were her, would I have the courage to speak up, to take action? Of course I would. I think. Right? Yes. Of course.
Maybe the Uber and the hair salon were just her way of reclaiming the tiniest sliver of normal. To feel, even for an hour, like she was steering her own life.
If she ever reads thisâŚ
You are like a beautiful bird pressed against a fence.
The sky is right there.
Freedom is real, just inches away.
Fly!
20 - 15
âDo you fuck around?â
I had no clue what he meant. But it got my attention. Scenes from The Wire and every other cop show flickered through my head. Did he think I was a nark?
The ride had been tense from the start.
Just after 9 p.m., I pulled up to a rundown duplex on Syracuseâs Southside to pick up Sherry. Broken streetlights. Snow-choked sidewalks. Garbage spilling into the road. Hazards on. High beams from the opposite lane blinding me.
Then the back door flung open.
A guy jumped in, sliding all the way across the seat, planting himself directly behind me. Hood low. Paper mask hiding his face. Something metal rattled in his handsâa tin can.
And just like that, the cards were on the table. Not my deal, not my game. He held the stack, and I was stuck playing the hand.
Stupid me. I said I was here for Sherry. Rookie mistake. I showed my hand. I gave away the one piece of information that protects a driver. If he was here to kill me, his answer wouldâve been the same.
âSheâs my girl. Letâs go.â
So I drove. Tried small talk. He bit, friendly, even. Dropped out of school. Slinging drugs now. Proud of it.
Then he leaned forward. His voice cut cold. Our eyes locked in the mirror.
âYou fuck around?â
I froze.
âDo. You. Fuck. A-round?â
Each word slammed into my seat back like a raise I couldnât cover. My pulse hammered. Red traffic light glow. No way out.
âNo.â
I mustâve sounded convincing, because the switch flipped again. He leaned back, looked out the passenger window, and the chatter returned: drugs, Netflix, cars, money. The stakes lowered for him, but I was still pot-committed, trapped in the game.
Except he wasnât just a kid. He was right behind me. Hidden. Tin rattling. Whispering into his phone. Facetiming the whole time. Maybe Sherry?
Ten minutes felt like ten hours.
Finally, the apartment, the destination. Sketchy, gated. He made me drive to the back. A girl in pink sweats appeared. Sherry.
He stepped out, then leaned back in. Eyes locked. Voice sharp as glass.
âYou sure you donât fuck around?â
âIâm sure.â Nothing but a nine-high against his full house.
Satisfied he slammed the door shut.
I floored it out, app off, headlights tearing through the dark. Hands shaking on the wheel.
And only safely back on the highway did it hit me.
He hadnât thought I was a cop.
He just wanted a customer.
16 - 17
I learned an unforgettable lesson about tipping 27 years ago on our honeymoon.
Every morning, my wife would tidy up the hotel room, leave a handwritten note, and tip housekeeping. It wasnât much money, but it was intentional, thoughtful. And she still does this today.
Now, years later, as an Uber driver listening to housekeepers and hotel guests, Iâm reminded of that lesson.
Why Tip: Because a buck wonât change your financial future but can mean the world to the person receiving it.
ââ
I hope youâre a generous tipper and live an amazing life! â¤ď¸
43 - 6
The ride through the countryside was everything they had asked for.
Freshmen on their first trip away from home, they wanted Upstate New York in the fall. The sunlight was setting the hills on fire and the leaves glowing like their own pumpkin spice latteâŚwith two extra pumps, of course. They told me to roll the windows down, turn the music up, give them something they could feel.
So I did. I pushed the Tesla down the backroads. Cool air rushed in, competing with the radio. I pointed out waterfalls and Amish buggies. Gourds and flags and porches. Fields ready for harvest.
But I think I was the only one who felt the vibe.
A couple of glances in the mirror told me all I needed to know: their eyes stayed glued to glowing screens, lifting only when the signal failed, like students who hadnât studied but still raised their hands with the safest answer. They were âpaying attention,â just needing a little break, you know, from school and things.
The world theyâd asked to see was all around them, blazing, alive.
And still, it went unseen.
To be fair, Iâm also guilty. My phone is always within arms reach. My world is ever more online, like Iâm swallowing a blue pill every day, keeping me stuck in the Matrix. Chasing the meme online, missing the moment right in front of us.
There are two worlds: real and digital.
If we only looked up, made eye contact, said hello, and swallowed the red pill.
37 - 9
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5 March 2022