Heyy Mister

 It’s a little after midnight in Richmond, El Sobrante or wherever. Cities off the shittiest part of I-80.  I never lived north of Emeryville because of this.  Never lived in Berkeley because of the college students and boomers who call the police when you park in front of their house, and because of the freeway. I guess freeways play a part in my choices.

 

My phone vibrates. I accept the ride and follow the directions, down the hill, past the old mall, and into the vast darkness of a city I don’t know.  Dim lights have no effect on the dark night.

 

Midnight marks the shift from regular rides to drunk rides. It’s mid-week, though, so I should be ok. I never work weekends because of this hazard, and because weekend rides usually involve two or more people in the back. During the week it’s primarily solo riders. If Uber could guarantee

solos riders only, I’d be on board.

 

The app says 4 minutes away. The phone buzzes. I look over while looking forward. It’s never easy to read, even in the daytime. The distance from eye to phone is in the grey area of vision. It’s the 18’ to 24” zone where distance and reader glasses are ineffective. I squint and look more at the phone than the road.

 

“Can you take us to McDonald’s?” I pull over. I’m not taking them to McDonald’s. I resist the urge to reply, “Fuck no!” 

 

I click through the app trying to figure out how to cancel the ride. I’ve canceled other rides, but it’s a process, a process I don’t remember. I give up and Google it. First up is a video - a 2-minute video of how to cancel a ride. I fast-forward through it and figure it out.

 

My phone vibrates. “heyy mister?” The two “y’s” bug me. I cancel the ride.