He asks whether it’d be worth hiring a hacker. He asks how politicians do it. He asks if it’s possible to get the revenge website indexed further down Google’s search results. Respectively, I tell him: It’d be like hiring a burglar. Politicians have quite a bit of money. He’ll need to make the news a few times, then create a website, Linkedin, Facebook, and Twitter.

We pull over to pick up a woman from a laundromat. She walks to the car lugging a rack with four large bags full of clothes. My driver states politely that he can’t take all of her belongings because there might be passenger requests along the way. The woman gestures towards her largest bag and suggests in disjointed English (clearly not her first language) that it’s the only one she needs. My driver acquiesces, placing the sack in the trunk. As his back is turned, the woman quickly tries to throw her remaining three bags in the seat next to me. My driver, upset by her sneaky behavior, returns her bag, closes his trunk, and cancels her ride.

As we continue towards my destination, my driver sympathizes with the woman, he can understand the appeal of trying to shave a few dollars off of an Uber fare by requesting a pool instead of an X. Her tactics probably pay off on most days.

The Ex was originally published in The Uber Confessionals on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

With that said, I wanted to pose a few questions for my readers to chew on while they go through my stories or use a ride-“sharing” app:

1. How often do you think Uber drivers use the passenger side of the app?
2. How do you feel about Uber drivers making less than minimum wage after subtracting gas and car depreciation?
3. Are all parts of society benefitting from increased convenience?
4. How does ride-sharing impact your local, public transportation?
5. How do you feel about opportunity in the U.S.?

I may have one or two more stories up my sleeve, but I won’t be writing anymore Uber confessionals past that. I am, however, taking submissions if you have an interesting story as either a driver or passenger.

Thank you for giving this a read; your attention is the most valuable commodity in Silicon Valley and I’m grateful you chose to spend some of it here.

_George

Letter from the Editor was originally published in The Uber Confessionals on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The note informs me that my driver is an actor making a short film about a suicidal Uber driver who discovers new meaning in life after hearing her passengers’ stories. Any donations would be greatly appreciated. I ask my driver about her acting career and how she got started. She’s a theatre kid from Ukraine who moved to New York City four years ago to be an au pair. She looked after spoiled brats whose mother couldn’t be bothered with raising her own children despite spending all day at home. She quit after six months, married a man from Brooklyn, and traveled across the country to pursue film acting in Los Angeles. She divorced shortly after. She has been driving Uber for 10 months now, longer than she expected, as she waits for her acting career to take off. Her current project, the one noted in front of me, is an attempt at making a name on her own, after being propositioned by sleazy producers for sexual roles and/or favors.

She asks if I want kids, the first driver to do so. I tell her that it depends on who my partner is and the political climate at the time. I’m afraid my last comment may be entering conspiracy territory, but my driver looks me in the eyes through her rearview mirror and says,

“No, I understand.”

I straighten up a bit and reciprocate the question. She doesn’t want to have kids in Los Angeles because there are a lot of drugs in LA and she doesn’t want to explain what cocaine is to her children.

She hints that her family is pretty well-off back in Ukraine, but may have moved recently due to the ongoing war with Russia. They haven’t visited yet because her starving artist/actor lifestyle isn’t the most hospitable environment for older parents to stay in. She used to get homesick back in New York, but now the feeling only arises when her current boyfriend throws American culture in her face. She clarifies that “American culture,” means “sexual openness.” My driver believes promiscuity is indicative of commitment issues before proclaiming:

“I’d honestly prefer a virgin.”

My driver’s best friend lives near where I’m headed, and she’ll probably call it night and visit them after my ride. She hasn’t found it difficult making friends in Los Angeles. She’s never had a problem with that here, or anywhere else. “I just wish I could say the same about finding a good man.”

Intrigued, I ask “Don’t you have a boyfriend?” She draws out her answer, “Well . . . he’s not . . . he’s cheated on me. A lot.” She’s kind of given up on seeing him, but he’s fairly attractive, and that means enough to her that she’ll tolerate the baggage that comes with their connection. She laughs and says she’s done with American men. Her sights are set on finding a nice Ukrainian gentleman.

“He’s got to be attractive though, I just like attractive guys.”

I watch the sun set over Echo Park Lake before pulling out my laptop to jot down the details of our conversation before my ride comes to an end.

The Actor was originally published in The Uber Confessionals on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

He knows a lot of Los Angeles history, more specifically: the old railways and Red Car trolley systems that used to crisscross the city. He volunteers in his free time at a train and trolley museum 70 miles east and relays transportation trivia relevant to some of the streets we pass. I ask if he’d like to work in public transit one day; he replies “God, no.”

His current occupation requires him to audit women’s factories globally to ensure they’re up to safety standards and aren’t utilizing child labor. He loves his job, which has taken him to over 30 countries. He drives Uber for a bit of extra income, allowing him to vacation three times a year with his five-year-old son, Martin.

The name Martin has been in his family for over 100 years. One notable Martin was his great-great-grandfather, who was unintentionally made a martyr in Guadalajara. Martin took his cows out to graze during a time of civil war and was accused by government forces of being a rebel. Even though he wasn’t, great-great-grandfather Martin still faced death by a firing squad later that day. He became a symbol of the resistance in the days that followed.

My driver’s grandmother used to travel back and forth between Guadalajara and Los Angeles in the 1940’s. His parents arrived here in the 70’s. “Times were different,” he says. “It’s not that easy anymore.” I can’t help but agree. As we arrive in front of my home, I thank him for the conversation before closing the car door behind me.

The Historian was originally published in The Uber Confessionals on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

My driver seems close to six feet tall, but it’s hard to tell while he’s seated. He’s bald, black, and built; more stocky than chiseled. We pass a cluster of outdoor seating in front of an upscale restaurant. Dates were taking place at every table. My driver scoffed at the money being spent on this high pressure holiday. “Whip out those credit cards boys! Prove you love her by stacking up some debt!” We both cracked up a bit. I was single and appreciated the cynicism. My driver had bought a gift today though. Diamond earrings, for his mother. She also drove for Uber.

We started talking about all the ways dating was expensive, from the gifts, to the meals, to the hotels, to the condoms. He proceeded to tell me a story from his younger days. HIs aunt worked at a sexual health clinic and gave him a bag full of brand-less contraceptives. Unimpressed, he tossed the sack of condoms into the trunk of his car, thinking he would never use them. A few weeks later, he did. The first two had torn mid-coitus, and the third got lost inside of his partner, resulting in an unplanned trip to the emergency room. He said that was the last time he would ever fuck with no-name condoms.

I asked what he did besides drive. He was a bodyguard. He seemed reluctant to talk about the kind of people he protected. He quickly directed the conversation towards his past, three years ago, when he worked as a bouncer at a strip club. He joked about how much pussy he’d seen . . . how all pussies are pink in the middle even if they look different on the outside. He decided to change careers when he found himself falling for all of the women around him. He wanted to have a relationship that wouldn’t make him madly jealous.

His app pinged, indicating that another rider would be joining us. Conversations tend to fade when someone new enters the car. The new rider was nowhere near the pickup location they’d requested, and we spent the remainder of the ride playing Marco Polo until we finally found a gentleman 2 blocks from where he was supposed to be.

The Bouncer was originally published in The Uber Confessionals on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

AAAALOHA!

My dad, having lived on Maui for much of his young adult life, exchanges some island greetings and shaka hand signs. We merge onto the the freeway.

Our driver is Hawaiian, with shoulder-length curly black hair tied in a bun crowning his large build. He easily weighs over 300 pounds and nearly fills his quadrant of the car. He tells us he’s looking for “the one” now that he’s approaching his late thirties. It’s gotten to the point that several of his family members are playing matchmaker, but every match suggested thus far hasn’t fit the bill. The last time he had a crush was at his Uncle’s wedding the previous year. A woman caught his eye. She was beautiful, but she was also a distant first cousin. Such are the hidden perils of having a large family. Our driver gleefully howled at life’s cruelty as we laughed along with him.

Prior to driving for Uber, he had been an air-conditioning technician, installing massive HVAC systems for large buildings and skyscrapers. He made good money and received half of his earnings under the table for tax purposes. Then came the accident. One day, while guiding a crane lowering an A/C unit the size of a motorhome onto the top of a building, the cables suspending the appliance snapped. The colossal unit fell nearly two stories before making contact with the building’s roof, causing its two maintenance doors to blow off their hinges. Both large plates of metal frisbee’d towards him and sliced open both his legs. He was left incapacitated and underwent two years of intense physical therapy. To make matters worse, his worker’s compensation was meager, a fraction of half the amount he was used to being paid, since only half of his pay had been officially on file with the government.

When he left physical therapy, it wasn’t because he had recovered. “I left because something else was starting to get worse,” he said while pointing at his head. My dad and I were quiet, trying to feel out how our driver felt about his own arc…and how to respond appropriately. He smiled, then laughed. “Hey, you know what? I’m still alive. I still got my brother. I still got my nephews. I can’t complain.”

We pull into a neighborhood where the signs read “NO ACCESS TO PARK FROM STREET” and drive past them. After exchanging another, albeit calmer aloha/shaka salutation, my dad and I say our goodbyes and begin our ascent towards the Hollywood sign.

The Optimist was originally published in The Uber Confessionals on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

After asking one or two questions about the Tesla, I realize there’s going to be an emotional tax levied during this trip. By some twist of consumerist alchemy, my driver’s identity is somehow conjoined with his car’s, and he begins relentlessly relaying information about the vehicle to me despite my continued silence.

My driver recites the litany of reactions he’s received about his Tesla, how he’s financing his Tesla, how the door handles are the Model S’ achilles heel, and that he’s had to replace them eleven times. He insists on giving me a full demo of the dashboard interface, showing me how the screen syncs up with the car’s turn signals so the display flashes when you signal in real life (holy shit). The Tesla was his world, and, as long as there was traffic on the 405, I was living in it.

Our “conversation” reminds me of millennials that smoke cigarettes together and only talk about quitting. There’s no need to explain yourself, you’re allowed to enjoy your cigarette. There’s no need to tell me about your zero-emission, battery-powered gift from God to enjoy driving it. The last thing I want to talk about in a Tesla is the Tesla. How naïve I had been before.

Maybe this whole ordeal is my fault for asking in the first place. Maybe I’m being bitter, criticizing a boy and his toy. At least I arrived at the theater in a nice ride with a slightly smaller carbon footprint.

The Tesla was originally published in The Uber Confessionals on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

We talk about the roles gender, communication, and listening play in a relationship before bringing up an interaction he overheard from a gay couple he picked up the previous night. The “wife” of the couple (as he put it) had said something that insulted the “husband”. The husband replied with a snide comment. The wife was offended that his husband would intentionally lash out over an honest mistake, saying it wasn’t his intention to insult him. The wife wished his husband would have given him the benefit of the doubt instead of biting back. My driver wonders if he would have accepted the same feedback if it was coming from a woman, something only he can answer himself.

He’s 40 years old now, still good looking, and was happy to be having a dialogue on culture with me. He says he was much more careless around my age, having been diagnosed with colon cancer at 18 and given six months to live. I asked him how he beat his disease since his age and appearance both defied his diagnosis. He attributed his health to his daily “gorilla salad”, a combination of romaine lettuce, carrots, and cucumbers. I ask him about his thoughts on kale. He tells me it’s overhyped and hard for humans to digest.

I’m still deciding if I’ll take his word for it.

The Vegetarian was originally published in The Uber Confessionals on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Sonia plans to quit her job selling mortar & pestles to drive 16 hours a day, three days out of the week for Uber. She wants to use her earnings to take her grandmother out of a rest home and get a small dog to ride passenger with her. I meet a lot of drivers clinging to Uber for consistent income, unaware their jobs are ripe for automation. I feel morally obligated to let Sonia know Uber has begun testing self-driving cars to replace its drivers. She appreciates the heads up; her expression changes. I can tell from the rearview mirror she’s chewing on the new information, that she will be for a while. We both think she’s got a good two years before the self-driving cars come for her livelihood.

Sonia holds city-wide membership to 24 Hour Fitness. She visits gyms around LA to take showers and refresh herself between consecutive shifts. She learned this trick from her brother. She also keeps a pillow and a jacket in the trunk for naps during downtime or when she’s charging her phone, usually in a Starbucks parking lot.

Sonia tells me about her husband. They had a summer romance 29 years ago and then parted ways, but he never stopped loving her. They reconnected and married a little over a year ago. Sonia told me her husband made a joke last night about her hair being boyish. She had cut it recently and liked the way she looked, but was feeling very vulnerable lately. While her friends had been traveling, shopping, and buying their first homes, Sonia suffered some serious leg injuries and was out of work for three years. Now, literally back on her feet, her primary objective is to remain positive, put her nose to the grindstone, and hope for the best.

We pull up to my home and wish each other well.

The Hustler was originally published in The Uber Confessionals on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

20 hung from the rearview mirror, 20 were shoved beneath the driver and passenger seats. 20 more were crammed in the armrest between the backseats. 20 more were laid out in the space beneath the back window. I’d wager there were probably 20 more in the trunk.

The driver admitted he didn’t know what Black Ice smelled like anymore (does anyone?). He enjoyed knowing his car smelled fresh. Maybe this was his overkill solution for someone puking here last night.

Emerging from a menthol cloud, I exited his vehicle.

The Air Freshener was originally published in The Uber Confessionals on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.