The passengers are a white family of four, with two kids who are likely under 10, and parents that are likely in their 30s. They've flown Frontier from Florida and stagger off to the pick up point, filling up my hatchback trunk and then the car. We're off for a 15-minute drive to Pennington, a burb with speed traps and really irritating local cops, but into every rideshare driver's life, some Pennington must fall. Let's see if I can chat with the family.
Turns out yes. Dad golfs, so that takes up a couple of minutes. I then pivot him off that by asking them if they are coming back from Orlando (no, but they've been), then tell them about Knoebels because they like amusement parks. Fifteen minutes go by swimmingly, with both kids feeling comfortable enough to chat, and they are adorable. I drive away returning a little boy's wave, and make my way back to preferred areas.
And wait... and wait... for the telltale sound of whether I got a tip. Because this ride wasn't great without one. Because the place I dropped them off at clearly indicates they are doing fine and can spare one. Because they are healthy, happy, have just come back from a vacation... and reader? I haven't had one in something like eight years. My own children are no longer adorable young cherubs, the debts and obligations that I have pretty much force me into this car way too often, and the glow is gone. I'm simmering. Here's the soundtrack for that.
Five minutes pass. Goddamned Pennington. Goddamned airport pickups. Goddamned burb people. FML. No surge prices, I hurt, I'm going to be doing this goddamned job for way too long. What's the point? Even when the hustle goes well, it's exploitation. I'm stupid for doing this. I deserve it. All on cycle.
Ping.
Five dollar tip on a nine dollar fare.
The soundtrack changes. It always does.
And will soon change back.
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