No sir, I'm with you

The pick up comes from a wedding mill, one of those special occasion places that always overserve and attract suspiciously well-dressed white people who are sloppy drunks. I've got a couple for 20 minutes, going south to an area that's also usually populated by troublesome people, and after being far too impressed by my level of preparation, they want to talk. Well, that'll happen, especially when you pick up people who are privileged and intoxicated, so have at it.

They ask me if this is my full-time gig, and since the answer is no and the current office hustle is tangentially involved in politics, away we go into that realm. The wife (they identified, not a guess) is elbowing the husband into not talking, but he's too far gone for that, and they like me too much to not mess with them. I also do not share his politics, which, it is soon learned, veer into apocalyptic conspiracy theories about the southern border. 

You see, there's millions (MILLIONS!) of able-bodied men, just invading us, and my presumed political side is just enlisting them all into a Secret Militia to take the country. (Nifty if true! I so wish my side was as cunning and capable as conspiracists believe.) Rather than take on this insanity head-on, I distract my man by asking if he knows anything about Japan, aka a country with strict immigration, declining birth rates because that's what always happens when people make money (look it up! all the way back to 18th century Jewish communities!), and surburbs filled with really old people, watching their country gray into irrelevance. 

This provokes several seconds of blissful silence, followed by a defeated, "You're crazy,", but I know by his tone that I've got him thinking through the alcohol. The conversation becomes marginally more interesting and definitely more cordial for the last five minutes, before he plays the inevitable faith card and asks if I believe in The Lord.

At this point, it's time to have some fun... so I note having read the text, and ask him if he's familiar with the historical changes that the faith has undergone. My favorite being that the medieval concept of Heaven being a place where the exalted *hear* the lamentations of the punished, because it can't *be* Heaven without that. (Seriously. Look it up. Tertullian and St. Aquinas.)

Befuddled silence from the back seat. Then, finally, "So you're not in Hell right now?"

I wait a beat and reply, "No, sir, I'm with you."

Proud moment of mindfuckery, that.

They leave a few minutes later, but not before he fixes me with a steely look and says, "Know this; every knee will bend. Every knee."

I nod, drive off and wait for the tip. Most fun I've had in weeks.

I'll Take "Things Heard From Trenton Passengers" For $200

 What is...

"Her feet look like fish floppers."

"I had to get out of the house before I punched your daughter in the face."

Never make eye contact, fellow drivers...

When $3 Means More Than $3

The pick up is from a Wawa, which is a convenience store chain that's near and dear to my heart, since they have relatively healthy food options, all hour access, and bathrooms that are often Not Terrible. 

My fare enters wearing the merch, as she's an assistant manager. She's leaving without clocking in, as they are overstaffed and rather than work the graveyard shift, she gets to go home and sleep on a Sunday night. She's a little guilty about leaving, but orders are orders. She's also chatty about all of this.

I learn that her junior associates aren't thrilled with her for leaving, as Sunday at this location is a "Truck Night", i.e., when an 18-wheeler comes by and the staff has to restock in addition to handling any customers. But it's not as if there should be a rush of people there, and starting her week with sleep on a day when she's got to get her kids to school in the morning... and the youngest is on the autism spectrum.

My children are grown and didn't present that level of challenge, but I'm able to provide a useful strategy or two, and call out a specific point that I wish I knew back in the day... that beating yourself up to be a better parent teaches your kid that, well, that kind of thing is behavior to model. She's thoughtful in her response, and confesses to worrying about her eldest, who isn't on the spectrum, but seems to be picking up her residual anxiety about care for the youngest. 

She's grateful for the perspective and the kindness, and confesses that she doesn't usually talk to her drivers. Ten minutes later, the app tells me about her $3 tip on a $7 fare. 

I'm touched. This happened the better part of a week ago. I'm still touched.

I Got You, Coach

My fare enters the call and chats, and I've got him for a 25-minute ride from Trenton to Princeton. It turns out that he's an experienced basketball referee, with lots of work at the college and women's professional level. I have past sportswriting experience and I've never interviewed a ref before, and the conversation comes easily because it's not as if it's on the record. I ask my guy if he hears the crowd (more when there are fewer people, which makes sense), and if he's able to tune out problematic coaches. He sizes me up and then says something amazing.

Calling the game is an exercise in neutrality, but if my man has a past history or knowledge that the coaches in question are prone to a lot of berating... he'd make a point of eating the most smelly thing he could before the game. Everything bagel, anchovies, beef jerky, etc. Then, if the coach wanted to get in his face... he'd be sure to breathe on them. As heavily as possible, with as long of an explanation as possible.

This information was passed down to him by an older ref, so it's not as if it's a unique move. I suspect that wise refs have been doing this for decades. But if you are watching a game and see a coach get disgusted after a conversation with a ref, it might not be entirely the explanation.

Hacking New Year's

hack: [ hak ] noun

a person, such as an artist or writer, who exploits their creative ability or training in the production of dull, unimaginative, and trite work; one who produces banal and mediocre work for money in the hope of gaining commercial success in the arts: As a painter, he was little more than a hack.

- Dictionary.com

Why is a taxi driver called a hack?

Hacks or hackers is a common term that originated with the hackney horse, a breed of horse typically offered for hire in the 19th century. Other terms used are livery cab, car service, or jitney cab. The phrases vary by locality and often refer to different classes of licensed transportation providers.

- Wikipedia

I get in the car around five in the afternoon. My first stop is a Wawa to return a catering bag, but it turns out they don't take them back -- sad waste of polyester, that. As I'm leaving, and keep in mind that it's a 39-degree day, I see a middle-aged white guy in shorts and a T-shirt only, and the T-shirt says "I'm Fine". No, sir, you are not.

The first few rides go well enough, with just enough surge price going on to make things better than ordinary. I get pulled up to Princeton where I pick up a family of four, tipsy but responsible and loving parents, from one of my favorite restaurants. Ten minutes of banter later, they have a half dozen more recommendations and I have a $20 cash tip. The next fare is a string of Japanese characters that turn out to be foreign exchange students for TCNJ, because this is going to be one of those shifts where the script writer of my life has overdosed on Random. It goes well enough.

Two hours later, I get my first wild video game ride of the night, three teenage boys from Trenton going 25 minutes south to Willingboro. The one in the front insists on having his window down the whole way, much to the "Bro we hella cold" chagrin of those in the back. Fifteen minutes in while on the highway, he asks if I can pull over, as if I'm willing to spend extra time with these chuckleheads on one of the most lucrative nights of the year for hacks. Two minutes from the drop, one of the people in the back tells me he's going to be sick, but when I point out that he's two minutes from the drop, he quiets down. I drop them with their bad idea liquor, three star them so that I don't get them again, and count my blessings for passing the timed mission without having to clean the car, photograph the mess, and lose the rest of my shift. At least it drops me near a Wawa, where I can refuel and make the gashop's night with a $5 cash tip. (Side note: tip the people who pump your gas, fellow citizens of New Jersey. Especially when it's an hour before New Year's.)

Ninety minutes later, I'm back in Trenton as the locals set off fireworks on a number of streets as per usual, moving people around who shake their heads at the drunkenness and lack of fire safety while, of course, being intoxicated themselves. 

Just to make sure I've gotten the Random note from the scriptwriter, I pick up a very devout woman from her urban church -- yes, some services happen late on a Sunday night, it seems -- and after ten minutes of gentle banter and conversation, she asks if it would be OK if she prays for me. Hey, free speech and you are two minutes from your drop, and I've never had a passenger actively pray for me before, so why say no... and her well-rehearsed prayer tells me that she's done this a lot, but the stitched in ad libs also tells me she's been listening very closely to every word I've said. She tells me I am loved. I've had worse fares.

Like, say, the next one... where two drunken guys in their 20s are heading off to a nuisance bar over the bridge into Pennsylvania, which is 25 minutes of driving for people who need to (a) note all of their high school haunts and locations of friend's homes as loudly as possible, and (b) Facetime different people in their orbit to arrange a meet up at the nuisance bar, or there will be violence. Charming! Plus I get ten minutes of dead time where I can't pick anyone up, because at this point, I'm an Uber-only driver to redeeem a higher bonus bounty, and that app only works for me for rides that start in New Jersay. (Yes, folks, drivers are on both apps, and we are that way For Money. You'd be silly not to do the same.)

The next pick up are a drunken carload from a riverfront bar that always has overserved patrons and high surge price, and it's 20 minutes of one of the four passengers saying the same thing to the sober passenger up front. Alcohol really does a number on your short term memory, folks. This leads to a marketing pro who engages in networking that he won't likely remember for ten minutes, then a mom with a squalling infant, because why wouldn't you bring your squalling infant out on New Year's Eve? That ride finishes my last bonus ride, which means the only other rides I'm going to take have to be very high surge price... and that gets me the final ride of the evening, a couple who perform a 20-minute version of "Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolff" because she had a good time at the party and he was aloof. I will never be, nor understand, people willing to be That Way in public, but then again, I'm sober and they aren't. I head home.

Final totals for Uber: 18 rides in 6:42 for $249, $55 of it in promos, $12 in tips. Plus a $20 cash tip.

Final totals for Lyft: 6 rides 1:15 for $86, $35 of it in promos, $5 in tips. 

Net of something like $320 after gas and tolls, or about twice what you normally make. Which is why I drive on New Year's Eve, after all...