People ask: are you still driving for Uber? Easy answer: nope.
Long answer: maybe I’ll drive during Coachella.
Why? You just can’t make money driving any more. It’s just not worth it.
Except maybe during Coachella. Then it’s fun for a few hours.
Conclusion: Be nice to your next Uber/Lyft driver. It’s hard to make more than a few bucks an hour.
My rider was a middle-aged woman with bright red hair. She was headed to her shift at Starbucks. I commented that she was my first non-Coachella rider. She laughed.
“I worked for the guys who started Coachella, back in the early days. We had a rented storage unit with one phone on a very long cord. We would sit outside, smoke pot and try to figure out what indie bands to book. But we usually couldn’t remember the names of the bands cuz we were too stoned.”
Ah, the good old days.
She told me she was really looking forward to the next weekend. I assumed she was talking about Stagecoach, the country western version of Coachella.
“No, I’m talking about the White Party. All those beautiful, shirtless men going thru my drive thru. It’s heaven for me. I go out at night and dance with the guys, then they remember me when they get their caffeine fix. They are all so nice to me! These Coachella kids are a bunch of brats.”
I guess she knows her weekends and her crowds.
The three guys in my car were scary. That’s the only word I can use to describe them. Scary dudes. I had picked them up at one of the many Coachella house parties where the crowd was dispersing. The music coming from the party was angry. My mother would not approve of how the women dressed. My father would not approve of how the men behaved.
The guys were talking about frustrations with their women, except they didn’t use that term. They didn’t call them girlfriends either. It was all b**ches, and c**ts and skank whores. Is it okay that I spelled out the last term? Their conversation made the Access Hollywood tape sound like Sesame Street.
The #metoo movement has work to do.
I ignored them for a long time while we were stuck in Coachella traffic. One of the guys announced that he was so hungry he could kill someone.
“Reach in the back, I’ve got a cooler with water and a ziplock with protein bars. Help yourself, and pass some to me please”
They jumped on that bag. These aren’t your junk protein bars. I carry the good stuff with me. Between the three of them they ate $20 worth of the good stuff.
After about 10 minutes of going nowhere in traffic, I could feel the energy in the car calm down. I said something about it and the guys all agreed that they felt much better, thank you.
Yes, one of them said thank you.
I should have told them to add something to the tip to pay for the food. I didn’t.
I assumed they would want to pay for the food with a tip. They didn’t.
But it’s okay. I was doing community service work. They were facing a 30 minute walk in the sun, then a 45 minute line at security before they could find food inside Coachella. Someone would have died in that line.
I prevented a homicide.
It was a very young couple, maybe early 20’s in my car. They were giddy with excitement about their first Coachella. She ran back into the house for her face mask, so I chatted him up.
Excited? You bet. Your mind will be blown. Be careful of the heat. Be sure to drink a lot of water. Find the tent with AC to keep yourself cool.
I gave him more advice than he really wanted, he listened politely.
Then I gave him the most sage advice I would give to any Coachella newbie: take note of where the bathrooms are. It can get ugly if you try to use the potties by the food court. Make sure you know where the good ones are. Trust me, you will want to know.
He was not impressed with my advice.
I was not impressed with his lack of appreciation.
The two discussed the schedule in the back seat. What shows to catch, what time to be at what stage.
“Oh no! Kygo is performing right now. I wanted to see him.”
If Tommy Bahama were to sponsor a stage at Coachella, they would have Kygo perform. He’s a modern Jimmy Buffet with a beat and beautiful lyrics. I love his music.
I’m the Best Uber Driver Ever, so I found the SiriusXM Coachella channel. Pretty soon, Kygo was performing in the back of my Subaru. They even mixed in some of the crowd noises. We were stuck in traffic, but she was excited about the Coachella ferris wheel in the distance. She sang along to Kygo.
“Like a kid and her teddy bear
Like a leaf blowing in the air
Could you carry me?
Could you carry me?”
She scooted in her seat to lean against him. They both sang the song together.
“So I need to know
Could you carry me
Back into your heart again?
Could you carry me
Right into your distant hands?
Could you carry me
Right back to where we started from?
Could you carry me?
On and on and on, on, on”
I saw him lean over to kiss her forehead. That was my cue to study the traffic in the side mirror. Give them a moment. It was very tender, the music so lovely. The lights in the distance, excitement in the back seat. In that moment, the best of Coachella was happing in the back of my humble Subaru.
We pulled into the Uber lot. It was chaos. She became nervous about the ride home. Will they be okay?
“You will be fine. It might take some time. Just be sure to wear your Patience Cap.”
She liked that advice.
One of the most common requests I receive the first week of Coachella goes something like this:
“I have a VIP pass, so you can drop us off at the VIP gate. Okay?”
It’s never a question, more of a statement. The tone of voice is a mixture of forced confidence and insecurity from knowing that this will not happen. They think that their Jedi mind trick will convince me to escort them to the forbidden gate.
That’s when I get to pull out my favorite Coachella reply: Nope
Something about shutting down the privileged. I feel a sense of satisfaction as a member of the proletariat. Hastag resist.
If they respond with a look of shock, I leave it at that. If they look hurt or confused I elaborate.
“There are three levels of guards at the VIP entrance. If I don’t have the proper car pass and a wrist band, they will yell at me. If I get yelled at, I will cry. I hate crying in front of strangers.”
That usually smooths things over.
Two young guys discussed their strategy for the first day of Coachella:
“When we get to the H&M tent, let’s pretend we don’t see anyone so we don’t have to talk to them. They are great sponsors and all, but all I want is to find Mario, get my drugs and take off.”
The lady on the phone was angry with me. She couldn’t find my car at the casino valet. The sea of 5 cars was too much for her to find my burgundy Subaru. I caught her attention thru the open passenger window. She decided to argue with me about my car. Mine was a Saturn, she insisted. It took some persuasion, but eventually she realized that she was confused, got in the back and began to sulk.
“Take me to the Pilot!” She demanded.
I looked at the Uber Driver app, it showed her destination about 10 miles away at the Pilot truck stop. I confirmed this with her, it’s a bit of a ways away. Yep, take her to the pilot.
It seemed strange that she kept her window open as I drove on the freeway at 79.5 miles per hour. I would never hit 80 with a passenger. Never would I do such a thing. She could keep her window open if she wanted.
A few minutes later she wailed at me.
“Where are you taking me! It shouldn’t be this far away!”
I pointed to the Uber Driver app, it would be another 5 miles.
“But the Pilot is just around the corner! Where are we going?” She began to cry.
I slowed the car down and pulled into the right lane on the freeway, doing my best to speak calmly to the lady in my car. We spoke back and forth, eventually we both understood that she put in the wrong destination. I would have to exit the freeway and go back.
Her crying turned into wailing. Loud wailing like a child.
“I’m sorry. You better roll down the windows. Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Then I smelled it. Finally, after 4 years driving with Uber I had my first vomit in the back seat. My mind was racing. Would she vomit more? Would it be projectile vomit? Many years ago my niece projected her vomit to the back of my head as I drove. Her lunch stuck to my hair. I don’t have any hair now. Will this lady’s projectile hit me in the head?
I began to sweat. The sort of sweat that happens just before vomiting. The smell was terrible. Alcohol and tummy juices and who-knows-what she ate. Oh, the smell. I opened the sun roof and practiced diverting my attention. I read every billboard on the ride back, analyzing the photo and text. Anything to keep my mind off the smell and possibility of wearing the smell on my head.
She said the truck stop was only a block from the casino. That was the Flying J, not the Pilot. She continued to weep, “I tried to walk, but I was attacked. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”
For a moment I took pity on her. For only a moment, then another wave of stench floated by my face. I wanted to lecture her. She was drunk. Alcohol is a dirty drug. I wanted to tell her to stop with the dirty drug. I kept silent, driving as quickly as I could.
When I dropped her off at the Flying J truck stop, I turned to look. Her overly large breasts had served as plates for her vomit. It had all landed on her shirt. It didn’t look like any was on my seat, but I couldn’t investigate. I just wanted to go home. All windows rolled down, I continued diverting my attention away from the smell. Turns out my car was clean. Stinky, but clean.
Mark the calendar: My record of no vomit for 4 years has been broken, but I didn’t have a mess to clean. Thanking the lord for that.
The next morning I received an email from Uber. My driver account was suspended. They did not give a reason. The vomit covered drunk lady must have had the final say.
The scene outside the Merv Griffin Estate was chaos. Crowds of people trying to get in. The road was blocked with limos and black SUVs. Two young girls were happy to find me. They had almost zero reception on their phones. Take note: T-Mobile is not your friend during Coachella.
The young Aussie lass gave me an address. Their VIP Performer Passes were at another sponsored party. Their friend holding their passes was passed out from who-knows-what-drugs and wouldn’t respond. But the address was no good in the Uber Driver app. Being the ever-helpful guy that I am, I tried Google Maps. Bingo! Just around the corner.
The young American girl in the front seat wasn’t having any of it. She removed my phone charger from her phone, complained that it wasn’t working, tossed it to my lap then began her tirade:
“This is bull-f*ckin-sh*t! I’m going to kill Brandon. Why won’t he answer his phone! I can’t get any reception. My phone is bull-f*cking-sh*t. I can’t take this anymore!”
I’m so glad I had my patience cap on. I might have taken it personally and kicked their privileged asses to the curb. I remained quiet as we drove on to the possible destination. Turned out it was a back wall for the Madison Club. Definitely not the location of a fashion clothing line Coachella party.
I finally understood that they were looking for the Hudson party. I had just been there and knew it was not far. Gesturing to the farmland to the east I told them it was just over there, somewhere. Not really sure where. Maybe we can find it. But we were stuck in Coachella traffic, not moving at all. The melt-down in the front seat was getting worse.
“I want to cry. But I can’t cry. I don’t know how to cry. I’m dead inside. I’m dead inside. I just want to die. I should be backstage at Coachella, but I’m stuck in an Uber and don’t know where to go. My fu**king phone is bulls**t!”
Poor thing. She was clearly in need of some food. I asked the less-frazzled Aussie lass in the backseat if she could reach some water and Kind bars out of my cooler. I was hungry, and hey, maybe you each could use some food too?
Front seat girl was not hungry. She just need to cry. But she couldn’t cry.
“Are you sure? I have dark chocolate and cherries Kind bars? They’re yummy. Why don’t you try one?”
She started to nibble on one. By the time she was eating the last morsel, she started to smile. She even laughed at describing how hard she was going to hit Brandon. She was going to hit him right in the face.
She turned to me and said, “I’m being a total bitch, aren’t I?”
“It’s okay, you are having a rough patch. You can be a bitch. Be THE bitch if you want. Embrace it.” She liked my humor and giggled a little bit. Oh, the transformative powers of chocolate and a little bit of empathy. We did a fist-bump in the front seat.
I loaned Aussie lass my phone so she could make a call. She found a new address where their other friends were staying. At least they could be at a home and figure out what to do. Front seat girl was in the mood to talk, and asked me personal questions. Why do people ask such personal questions of their Uber drivers? Before long I was showing them photos of David and I at Coachella last year. “Awwww, he’s so cute!”
Everyone always likes David best.
The new address led to the back gate of yet another gated community. This time front-seat girl didn’t curse or meltdown. We sat in the car pondering what to do. I noticed the gate was a bit high. Perhaps one of them could crawl underneath then open the pedestrian gate? That Aussie lass was amazing. She slid underneath, then posed for this photo.
They both told me it was like I was their dad, fixing their problems and taking care of them without them asking for help. I got to play Dad and be the best-uber-driver-ever.
I’m driving for Uber again, trying to raise money for next year’s Burning Man. This is reminding me of the many awkward aspects of Uber.
It’s awkward to be sitting in my car with three other people carrying on a conversation. They do not talk to me, they do not include me. I’m not part of the conversation.
In normal life that would be rude. Or it would be equally rude for me to simply ignore people in such close proximity.
But we do that. We all ignore each other. It feels awkward. Such is life in the Uber world.
Now I’m afraid I might develop a habit of doing this a normal life. I can see myself standing in the middle of a conversation, completely tuning everybody out as I look around.
If any of my friends see me doing this in a social situation, please do me a favor. Ask me, “where are you driving to right now?”
It’s been ages since I drove for Uber. So it’s time to get some practice before Coachella comes back around. I like to choose a very tedious task to do at home while I wait for a ride request. In this case, I chose credit card expense reports. Truly one of my least favorite things.
In the middle of November’s Citibank card, I heard salvation with the Uber alarm. Gonna have to do this crap some other night.
Arriving at the apartment, I called Samantha the rider. A grumpy sounding guy answered, and said he would be right down. Time for me to browse Facebook for cute kitten videos.
All I could see what the outline of a tall man wearing a hoodie and carrying a case for something long. A tennis racquet? Maybe fishing poles? A shotgun? I still couldn’t see the man’s face as he got in the car, the hoodie was pulled way over his face. Nobody else was coming. This man was Samantha.
I ask: Are you Samantha’s ride?
Grumpy Sounding Guy: I guess so, yah
Last time a man got in my car when I was expecting a woman, the guy pointed his gun at me and other strange stuff. Read the gripping tale here:
Scary Uber Story
That’s not going to happen again. No way it’s going to happen.
The ride is 30 minutes away to the Casino in Cabazon. Score! We head off in silence, except when he grumbled for me to turn the music up. That was when a rap song came on.
About 10 minutes into the ride Grumpy Pants asks: How does it work that Samantha’s name is on the ride?
Me: That’s the name that came up, this must be on Samantha’s account. I hope you were the right person for my ride….”
Grumpy Rider: Samantha is my fucking ex-girlfriend. My friend arranged for the drive.
Me: Well, Samantha’s account will be paying for the ride
Grumpy Pants: That’s fucked up.
Twenty more minutes later we arrive at the Casino.
Me: I hope you can work things out with Samantha
Grumpy Rider: I’m going to kill that fucking bitch, then take her car
Me: Oh, okay. Well…. good luck
I turn around to see Mister Grumpy Rider pause as exiting. He turned to look at me and I can see him for the first time. He looks like a caricature of a gangster rapper scary dude from the south side. He’s laughing at me.
Grumpy Dude: Good luck? I’m gonna kill that fucking bitch. I don’t need no luck.
I turn off the Uber app. No more driving for tonight.
I’m reviving stories from 2015 during the spectacle that is Coachella 2016. Just for old times sake.
The two weekends of the Coachella Music and Arts Festival are the most fun for this reason. One ride request after another all day long, and late into the night if Red Bull does it’s job. The personalities I see, and watch and listen to! People, don’t you realize your Uber driver is listening to you? I list a few of the most outstanding personality types I saw this year. This year I include photos.
In the interest of protecting the guilty, photos and stories do not necessarily match. But they might. And yes, I asked permission to take and publish the photos. Chill out.
The Fun People
Coachella brings out the happy-giddy kid in just about everyone. A car full of young girls, flower garlands in their hair, texting and laughing non-stop in my car? Nothing could be more enjoyable. I feel like the favorite uncle taking the kids to a show. The only downside is that they can’t agree on what music to listen to, and it’s always a bit too loud. But I smile with them as they sing. You can’t go wrong with this group.
The Grumpy People
Perhaps a more correct term would be the hung-over people. This group is common on the second night of the festival. They didn’t take advice to hydrate, hydrate, hydrate. They stayed up too late. They aren’t 21 anymore, and they refuse to admit it. They suffer. They complain. They are mostly quiet in the car. Not my favorite group. They make me nervous. I’m afraid they will get sick in my new car.
The Entourage
Ride requests from The Parker Hotel during Coachella are usually for people in “the industry”. One group was led by a British manager for a performing act (he wouldn’t tell me which one so I’m guessing it was someone major). His three LA friends were along for the ride.
The manager had an artist vip car pass and wrist band. He put the band on me so I could sneak him and his entourage close to the back stage. He didn’t ask me if I would do this for him, he told me to put the wrist band on. Yes sir.
The friends that were with him, how do I describe them? They impressed me in the worst possible way. So bad that I felt compelled to make a Facebook post commenting about the rudeness of some (many?) Los Angeles residents. I regret that post, it’s wrong to paint an entire region of millions of people with one bad characteristic. But these three entourage members from LA were absolutely horrible. Demanding. Dismissive. Privileged. Rude. I didn’t converse with them much to avoid possible confrontation. I was probably hungry.
I found some schadenfreude joy when I reached our destination. The manager could not remove the artist wrist band pass from my overly large hands. He was visibly nervous as he struggled, but he eventually succeeded. I had broken several rules and given great service to these people. I don’t expect a tip, but I do expect a simple “thank you.” Not from this group.
Later the next day, I reflected on why I disliked this group so much. I felt bad for my harsh judgement. Then I recalled a comment from one of the most exceptionally rude women. It shed some light on the situation for me.
“Remember when you were a kid and your parents were taking you to Disneyland for the first time? You were so excited, but you didn’t know what you were excited about. You knew something amazing was waiting for you, but it was a complete unknown. I’m feeling like that kid right now. I don’t know what I’m going to see, but I know it’s going to be freaking awesome!”
These folks weren’t being rude to me. They were in that hyper excited kid mode. Their minds were racing. The only thing that mattered at that moment was getting to the festival asap. I can relate to that feeling. The drive to Disneyland is absolute torture for me, even as an adult.
I need to cut people more slack.
The Jocks
A group of three massively muscular young guys jumped into my car. They were in their mid-20’s, but with the excessive steroid use it was hard to be sure.
They each carried a half gallon jug of water. I thought that odd. Then the guy in the front seat made an announcement that helped it make sense:
“Okay, we all just popped our ecstasy. We should be rolling by the time we get there so let’s hit the road now!”
Uber drivers have become the new bartenders. People tell us the most intimate details. I took his comment as an opening to my favorite Coachella joke:
“The Altoids in the blue tin are mollies. They cost $20 each and will be billed to your Uber account.”
It was impossible to convince these jug-heads that I was joking. They were reaching for their wallets. Seriously guys, I’m not that kind of Uber driver.
My joke opened the door for extended personal revelations. They started to detail their previous night’s activity. The guy in front was exceptionally proud of his sexual exploits. He delivered details about the girl he picked up, what he did, how she responded, how many times they repeated. Graphic details of body parts, body fluids, and pubic hair in unexpected locations. I didn’t need to hear it all, but he was convinced that I was enthralled.
I considered revealing to him that I bat for the other team as a way to shut him up. But I was afraid this would only encourage more graphic discussion, so I kept quiet.
When we arrived at the Uber Coachella lot, I maintained the theme of the drive. I asked them all to look me in the eyes for a dilated pupil check. They took me seriously and each stared at me. I told them they were all good. The police won’t be spotting them. They thought I was serious.
Oh, to be a dumb jock.
The Famous
The Uber driver app said my rider’s name was Dre. I called out “Uber for Dre” to the two men walking my way. I pronounced the name “dree.” One of the men corrected me, “It’s Doctor Dre” and he pronounced it “dray.” The name sounded familiar to me, but I didn’t think much of it. I smiled as I held the door open for them.
It was a long ride from Palm Springs to a rented home at PGA West. The man going by Dr Dre asked for my auxiliary audio cable so he could practice his set.
“Are you preforming at Coachella?” I asked him.
“No, a friend is having a private party. It’s a last minute thing that I’m going to perform tomorrow night. My photographer is with me”
The photographer-dude waved, but I didn’t want to get into the discussion of “hey, I’m a photographer as well!” These two guys seemed tired. Later I realized they were just stoned.
The Dr. Dre dude played his set, asking his photographer friend what he thought at each song. I’m glad he didn’t ask me. I’ve never listened to rap music before. I could hear it all too well thanks to my awesome car stereo. It’s nasty stuff. Foul language, misogynistic lyrics, just plain nasty! But after a while I found myself wanting to giggle. The lyrics were so clever in their nastiness. I felt bad giggling. It was like laughing at a dirty joke in Sunday School.
It took quite a while to find the rented home. The guys were confused. Conversation with a stoned person is difficult, even more so if they are trying to give directions. I think their fare grew by about $20 from all the wrong turns.
I dropped them off a few minutes before midnight. It was the magic moment when the Apple Watch was going on sale. I had promised my partner David that he would get an Apple Watch for his birthday. So, I sat in my car waiting to place my order at the stroke of midnight. Perfect time to google this Dr. Dre dude.
The photos looked like him, at least I think so. It was dark so couldn’t really see his face and if I say more I will sound racist. Then I read about him. Holy smokes! That’s the guy who sold Beats to Apple for 3 billion! What the heck is he doing taking an UberX to Coachella? He did say it was a last minute trip, but wouldn’t he have an entire entourage of people managing his personal details?
I began to doubt myself. Did he say “My name is Dr Dre, or my name is like Dr Dre?” I’m not sure. But my alarm clock said it was time to order the Apple Watch and that’s all that mattered.
That, and airing the pot stench out of my car.
The Truly Famous
I’m not much for reality TV shows, that’s more of my partner David’s thing. When he heard that I would have a pre-arranged Uber ride for Collins Key, he almost fainted. Collins was in America’s Got Talent as a magician. I try to play cool when rubbing elbows with celebrities. Besides, who could compare with Dr Dre, even if it was an imposter?
The ride with Collins and his younger brother Devan was completely ordinary. Except for one thing: listening to one side of Collins’ phone call with his father. (Sorry Collins, I didn’t intend to eavesdrop. It’s an occupational hazard as an Uber driver).
“Yes, we saw AC/DC last night…. no, we stayed away from the crowd…… the crowd got crazy a few times…. don’t worry, we stayed clear of that…”
It sounded like a father, probably my age, had a vision of a concert by AC/DC as being less than appropriate for his sons. When AC/DC was first big, they were the subject of many warnings by my church youth pastor. Satan influenced this group, and we needed to avoid them. Now, I think of them as aging rockers. I think they are ridiculous. But I could imagine their fans continuing in their hedonistic ways. I could also understand this father’s concern.
“Don’t worry Dad, we are being careful…..”
Long silence.
“I know, we are being careful….”
More long silence.
“Yes, Devan is staying with me. We are being careful…”
How many times did he say “we are being careful”?
Coachella is not Woodstock. The event is held in a beautiful venue attended by upper-class people from all over the world. A father my age could easily imagine the rock concerts from our era. Those concerts were not family friendly. I don’t know if Coachella is considered family friendly, but it’s certainly not Burning Man. And even that event is more family friendly than the rock concerts of my youth.
Why does this ride stand out to me? Why was it my favorite ride of the two weekends? Because I found it comforting. I could imagine the concern of a father for his two sons. These two young guys were exploring the world of a massive music festival all on their own. As in much of life, there are dangers lurking in corners, and their father needed to warn them.
Is there anything more wonderful than the concern of a father for his sons? I think not. I wanted to grab the phone and tell Collins’ father “good for you dad, you’re doing a great job!”
I didn’t. But I did drive with a nice big smile and a happy heart.
When I first started driving for Uber, I did my best to assume the role they described in the minimal Uber Driver training. Looking back I now realize that their training was based on what they now call Uber Black, a high-end driver service.
They wanted us to wear a suit, maybe even white gloves. Always open the door for the rider. Car should be fresh smelling but not too strong, well stocked with mints, candy, water and in the summer a wet towel for the rider to freshen up. I didn’t do the suit or gloves, but I did my best to project a professional image.
Those days are long gone.
UberX is not that kind of service. It’s really not much different from a regular cab. The one big difference is the car is someone’s personal vehicle. A certain pride of ownership comes into play. Besides my vehicle, my projected personae has changed slightly. I still wish to be professional, but I don’t go out of my way to be helpful.
Friendly, but reserved. That’s how I would describe myself. I don’t talk if they don’t talk. I don’t offer anything, but if they happen to notice the phone charger and gum, they can have at it. People seem to prefer this slightly detached, yet available for questions attitude. It also helps me concentrate on safe driving.
Once in a while, I feel a need to project a different sort of personality. I play a part that I think the riders want me to play. A little role-play never hurt anyone.
One Sunday evening I was requested by three men leaving the Oscar’s afternoon Tea Dance in downtown Palm Springs. It’s the place to go if you are a middle-aged gay man and want to be social, perhaps even dance to some classic disco music. It’s a happy place. These men were happy when they got into my car.
Since they were carrying on a conversation, I remained silent other than to assure them I know where Toucan’s Tiki Lounge is located. That is where one would see a campy drag show on Sunday nights. These men were in the mood for more fun. I listened in while projecting my most detached attitude.
What would this demographic talk about? Their friend’s clothes, their vacations and their real estate investments. One man was quite adamant that Palm Springs is not his ideal place.
“There just isn’t enough for someone my age to enjoy here. I want a big city with culture,” complained the man seated behind me.
“Wait until you are closer to our age. How old are you? Thirty Five? In about ten years you will be here with your partner looking for an investment property,” replied his friend. He was almost pleading with him to consider the benefits of my quiet vacation town.
The first man said, “we are looking at properties in Barcelona and Ibiza.” That settled it. I gave the man behind me his Uber name, Mister Pretentious. It was well earned.
The conversation took a sharp turn back to the other important point of discussion. “Did you see those shoes Mark was wearing? What was she thinking?” They spent some time dishing the style choices of their friends. I drove in silence.
Right in mid-sentence Mister Pretentious tapped me on the shoulder and asked, “excuse me, driver. Are you gay?”
A simple answer could have served the purpose. But I felt the need to play a part. After all, they were on their way to a drag show, some of the performers are from Ru Paul’s Drag Race.
“I am a proud homo-sexical!” I replied as I snapped my fingers in the air three times for accent. They laughed.
“Good, because I feel better with you listening in to our conversation now.” How did he know I was listening? I blushed a little as they continued talking.
We pulled into the parking lot at Toucan’s. I could hear music and laughter from the first drag show. Using my best dramatic voice I said, “Time to go now. You can get out. I’m done with you. Be gone with you.” I even waved them off with the back of my hand. The front seat passenger got my humor and laughed as he exited my car.
Mister Pretentious got out of the back, then tapped on my side window. He asked, “did you just dismiss me with a wave of your hand?”
My reply was very simple, “next fare, next fare, next fare” snapping my fingers for emphasis. His friend laughed. Mister Pretentious approved of my humor with the perfect reply as a reward, “best Uber driver ever! I’ll give you six stars!”
“Eight and a half stars is more appropriate for me, honey.” My farewell reply might have over-stepped professional boundaries, but my audience approved with applause. I drove away and logged out of the Uber Driver app.
No more driving for me tonight. It’s hard work to remain in character.
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Palm Springs has been my home town my entire life. This means that I’m accustomed to a certain demographic: retired folk. When I was younger, the town was a bit older than it is now. We used to refer to the typical retired local as “q-tips”. That’s what you could see peering over the steering wheel of a classic Cadillac in the 1960s. Be warned if you are riding your bike and a Q-Tip is headed your way. They will run you over!
The average age in town has dropped slightly. Enough so that after always being the young one, I’m right at the average age of 55. I’m not sure I like being average, but I am living among my people.
When I drive for Uber I’m usually driving people in the mid forties to late fifties who are visiting our town for a quiet weekend. Vegas, we are not. But there still is a small amount of night life to be found here. That’s when I have fun Ubering.
The average age of an Uber rider may dip into the late-thirties during the season. But the people are rarely in serious party mode. Palm Springs simply is not that town.
The two weekends of Splash House stand out in contrast with their house music pool parties. They have done a good job marketing to the college age crowd. These are people who are normally non-existent in our town. It’s a different experience to Uber for this crowd. Young, scantily clad, excited, pretty. Who are these strange and beautiful creatures? What planet do the come from?
Each afternoon the Splash House pool parties end with enough time for folks enjoy a disco nap before the large and quite impressive after-party. I say impressive because I was invited by a (much younger) friend to go with him the first night of Splash House. Twenty bucks was not too much to check this thing out. And since my friend showed up 2 hours late (2 friggin hours late!) I had plenty of time to observe.
It was definitely not my scene.
The following day was pretty solid Ubering for Splash House. I felt like I could understand my riders. It’s simple: they want to have fun. And for the most part, I would call them good riders. Polite and happy. Occasionally they would show their age, and they certainly recognized mine. I’m of the same age (and have the look) of their dad.
Now, the idea of being a dad is strange to me. Maybe because I’m surrounded by other men my age, I don’t think of myself as being “a man of a certain age.” But my mostly salt and less pepper hair with beard tell a different story. Once in a while a car full of tipsy, young latino men will say, “hello daddy” when I pick them up. Correction, when I arrive to give them a ride. That’s not much better. When they realize that their Uber driver fits their image of a daddy, they react in a flirtatious manner. I find it amusing, but I don’t own the identity of being “a daddy.”
Splash House told me otherwise.
Best example was the mass exodus from the Saguaro Hotel after the headliner DJ had performed. What a zoo. Everyone was requesting an Uber, nobody knew which car was theirs. The scene was annoying. Several times I cancelled a rider after waiting too long. Finally a group started piling into my car. They didn’t ask if I was their car, they just jumped in. I find that rude.
I turned around to see two people sitting in the passenger seat and five people squeezed into the back seat. Using new math, I counted eight people in a car that legally seats five. Nobody said anything, they just just piled in as if it was the most natural thing. I also find that rude.
Me: who is going to pay for my ticket if the cops pull me over?
I said this with a smile, thinking it was a fun way to say that three people needed to get their own Uber. They did not appreciate my humor. Everyone looked away. I remember that look. It was the look I would give my own dad when I was scolded. Oh, the power I had on this group! Everyone was pretending that I was not addressing them. I thought I was smiling but I probably had my relaxed bitch face on. They couldn’t see that I was playing with them.
One of the double-decker guys in the back seat gave a remorseful, “I’ll pay for it”. He avoided my eye contact.
I reached my hand out to him, but instead of asking him to shake on it I offered my pinky finger.
“Pinky swear?” I asked him.
Have gave the most annoyed sigh possible, then reluctantly linked his pinky with mine and replied, “pinky swear.”
I nearly burst out laughing. These kids, and they really are kids, were treating me like their father. Okay, I did laugh. But they didn’t laugh along. It was a mostly silent ride. The kids had been shamed.
Note to anyone at Uber HQ reading this: my story is from a parallel universe. Of course in this universe I kicked them out, demanding that they order another Uber. Of course I did.
Later that night was spent driving the kids from their cheap motels to the after-party at the Air Museum. The early evening of driving was what I expected, nothing noteworthy.
But then the calls started coming in for the rides home, way earlier than expected. Staring around 10pm it was non-stop requests to get the heck out of that place. Quite often it was an elegantly dressed woman in her mid to late thirties. They were all disgusted by the scene. “Packs of bros, prowling for their next conquest. Disgusting.” It was a unanimous vote from the more sophisticated women.
One exceptionally beautiful woman stands in my memory. Besides being disgusted, she was sad. It was not the evening she was hoping for. Now all she wanted was to go to her hotel room, get in her car and drive home to San Diego. She wanted to wake up in her own bed.
This is when I willingly donned my Daddy cap. There was no way I wanted her to hit the road at 12:30am, then drive 3 hours to get home. I started to reason with her that it was not safe, it’s a dangerous drive late at night, she would be better off getting good rest then leaving in the morning. I was genuinely worried for her.
“But I miss my dog. This party made me feel lonely. I need to hug my dog.”
I thought about this for a second, then gave her my reply.
“I think there is an all-night Starbucks, or maybe we can get you a large Red Bull.” That was the most appropriate response. I could fix her up with some heaping dose of caffeine so she could find comfort from her best friend at home. I could relate.
This dad approved and I gave her my blessing to go home.
“Drive safe tonight, and give your pup a hug for me.” That’s the sort of thing a dad would say.
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