My passenger smelled of cologne as he settled into the backseat. We drove from a decent suburb on a gorgeous summer night. Our small talk started pleasantly.
“Guess why I’m heading into the city?” asked the rider, a male about fifty.
Based on his clubbing clothes, I guessed, “Bars?”
“No, for this.” He thrust his phone between the front seats. I gave a courteous glance because we were driving 70 mph on the tollway. His phone had a selfie of a woman’s bare chest. “Nice tits, huh?”
“Uh, sure.” How does one respond? Uber drivers need to navigate some unexpected questions and topics like politics and dating. I eased the conversation to music and other non-breast-related topics.
The rider asked, “What’s our ETA? I’m texting her now. She said she took an Ambien and I don’t want her falling asleep before I get there. There won’t be any sleeping once I’m there!” He laughed.
He told me how he met his date on Facebook- and by accident. He was a charming fellow; if not for the uncomfortable chick pic, it would have been a pleasant trip. He shoved the phone toward me twice more to show the breasts his Uber ride were all about.
TMI, Too Much Information. It may be a rider’s abrupt statement about their drug usage, their sex life, their petty crimes, and, sometimes, all of the above.
My ride ended with the man mentioning his ex-girlfriend, a “Colombian model”, a nice segue into another TMI situation.
***
A few months before, on a long ride to Chicago’s South Shore neighborhood, my rider, another man about fifty, and I had veered onto the topic of Latin America, and then, Colombia.
He said, “Colombian girls! I love them! When I was in Aruba, I rented two for a whole week. Beautiful. Young. Fine.”
Whoa! “Rented?” For a week? TMI! Our nice conversation now had unpleasant implications. Prostitution at best. The reputation of Caribbean and Latin America? A woman “rented” for a “week”? The US State Department warns prostitutes in Aruba may be sex slaves. This was total buzzkill on the conversation. I am not moralistic about men who choose consensual prostitutes, but I am about totally opposed to sex slavery.
***
Sometimes, TMI is unavoidable. The 4th of July fireworks display had just ended in suburban Elk Grove Village. Smoky air and the smell of gunpowder wafted along the main road as I stopped for my riders.
When the couple settled in, the woman said, “Can you stop at the nearest gas station? I’ve been needing to go for an hour.”
There was a terrific jam of cars stretching for blocks into the next stop light. Thousands of people left the fireworks show at about the same time.
“I think I can sneak on side streets to skip most of this, but there’ll be a jam into the Arlington Heights Road stop light.”
“Thanks! You’re the best!” she said.
I weaved through the subdivision, effectively cutting in front of dozens of cars.
“Oh god, I need to pee!”
A gas station was only a block away, but the log jam of traffic would mean several stop light cycles. “It’ll take a few minutes there. Can you wait?”
“Not long.”
“I have an idea. I can take this side street and snake all the way down to the Speedway gas station at Devon. It’s a lot further but I bet there’s no traffic.”
“Go for it!” said her husband.
We had covered two blocks when the woman said, “Please, just stop the car. I can’t wait.”
I don’t want an accident on the upholstery. “Yes.”
“Is there a fire hydrant?” she said.
“Here, yes.”
“This hydrant will do; please don’t look!” she said as she opened the car door. TMI on ID4.
Milwaukee Avenue 