Thieving Uber Riders

(Apr. ’19/ 8,128 rides/ 4.97 rating)

I drove a couple on UberPool tonight, a warm Wednesday.  Chicago’s North Side buzzed with activity.  My second pick-up was for one rider.  A young man and his girlfriend approached and squeezed in.

“You can’t both get in,” I said.  “You only selected for one rider.  There’s only room for one more.”

“Uh,” said the sheepish guy.  His girlfriend was full of attitude and plopped herself in the back.

“It’s okay,” said the middle-aged man already in the car.  They were going home from the Todd Rundgren concert.  “We’re about to be dropped off.”

His wife agreed and the young couple was allowed in.  I was gypped out of a dollar of fare because they’d selected one instead of two.  A cheapskate move that clogs the car with extra riders, some will select one to save the trivial UberPool cost for a second rider.  The problem is my sedan is rated for three separate UberPool riders and it can be a squeeze for four or more.

We dropped off the pleasant couple.  The young man in the Hipster beard, sitting in the front seat, asked, “How far to Union Station?”  He had an accent from somewhere south of Chicago.

“Fourteen minutes.”  I engaged in small talk with him.

His girlfriend, alone in the backseat, was sleepy but unpleasant.  “You’re driving north!” she accused me.  That was untrue because I was headed south toward Union Station, the downtown home of Amtrak.

She appeared to be on some sort of depressant drug rather than alcohol.  She scratched herself and periodically complained about the route, although I followed the GPS route downtown.  I already knew these streets well.

The 20-ish blonde maneuvered herself to the middle of the backseat.  She fell forward onto the armrest between the front seats, then, slid back into her seat.

I focused on driving south on Larabee- a long straight shot into downtown.  At the next red light, something was off.  My phone was not in its cradle.  It was gone.

I looked around by my feet, then, the feet of the guy in the front passenger spot.  Nothing.  I turned on the overhead lights but saw no phone.  I tried not to panic; it had to be somewhere.  I had used the Uber GPS moments before.

On a hunch, I looked in the backseat.  No phone on the floor.  I looked at the blonde.  She stared vacantly.

“Do you have my phone?” I asked.  Her left hand held something close that looked like a phone.  “Is that my phone?”  It looked like my Samsung S8 in its blue Otterbox shell.

“It’s my phone,” she said.

Unsure, I kept looking around the front seat.  I realized that if she had my phone, she could jump out and run away.

“That looks like my phone,” I said.  Her boyfriend was dead quiet all this time.

“No, it’s my phone,” she said.

She had fallen up front, between the seats where she could have grabbed my phone while I focused on the road and small-talking her boyfriend.

“Let me look at your phone,” I said.

“No, it’s my phone.”

I yanked it from her hand.

“My phone!”  She reached for my arm.

I saw the Uber driver app on the screen.  My phone, indeed.

I put the phone in its cradle, shifted out of park and we went forward.  In retrospect, I should have stopped, demanded they get out, and ended the ride.

“Sorry about that, dude,” said he boyfriend.  “She does stuff like that.”   Great, a cleptomaniac.  They’d already proven their dishonesty by squeezing in a “free” second UberPool rider.

The remaining five minutes were quiet and uncomfortable.  After I let them out at Union Station, I reported the attempted theft to Uber in the “My Rider Was Rude” reporting option.

Having my phone stolen would have been an expense and a huge hassle.  It is surprisingly easy to grab a phone from the Uber driver and bolt.  If she had been a smoother criminal, my phone would have been stolen.

Riders steal.  I keep little worth taking in my car, but, three times my iPhone charger I have only for rider convenience has been pilfered.  The first time there were four high school girls on an UberX and one was fidgeting with the iPhone charger cord while she juiced her phone.  After that ride, I noticed I no longer had a charger.

Those of us who drive on the side need to keep as little as possible in our trunk.  I once took a rider from the Rosemont Fashion Outlet mall to her hotel.  She put a bunch of shopping bags in my hatchback.  Later, I noticed a Target bag with its telltale bulls-eye was gone.   There had been $100 of brand new clothes inside.  Uber doesn’t allow us to contact a rider over such things.  In this case, the woman left a message through Uber she accidentally took my bag and would leave it with her hotel concierge because she was about to fly out.  Despite two in-person stops by and a few phone calls, I never got the bag back.

In the case of the phone-thieving lady in the backseat, the best defense may be to use a tablet for Uber and keep the phone in the pocket.  I heard from of an Uber-driver using a tablet- which has a bigger screen than a phone, anyway- to protect against riders stealing his phone.  I will try this.  Better they snare a $100 tablet than an $800 phone.  It’s quite simple for an Uber rider to swipe your phone, exit the car, and run.  In this particular case, if the blonde were more coherent, she could have stashed it in her purse or even her clothing.  I could never get it back, even if I was certain she had it.  Drivers, beware!

“Wanna Shoot Some Two-Sixers?” Gangbanger Uber Rider

At 3AM, on a cool, shady street in Chicago’s Southwest Side “Bungalow Belt”, I waited several minutes for my UberX rider.  The app showed a female name.

Two young Latino men approached from a house, then, paused.  I gazed at the one nearest.  Baseball cap on sideways, flannel shirt, and dark, baggy pants, possibly Dickies.  Short hair, a little goat tee.  I thought, UrbanDictionary.com definition of “gangbanger”.  I guessed he was a wannabe.

He climbed in the front seat next to me, smelling like alcohol, while his shaved-head buddy sat in back.  Sitting up front was odd because there was an open seat in back.

I swiped my phone’s screen to start the ride.  As I eased forward, the rider next to me said, “I’m so fucked up, I might puke.”

“Oh shit”, said the guy in back.

I said, “Just let me know and I’ll stop the car so you can get out.”

“Okay,” said the guy in back.

I passed the first stop sign.  The flannel-shirt guy up front said, “You know, I’m a [street gang].”

For my safety, I won’t specify the gang, but assure you it’s one of the eight or so major Chicago Latino street gangs.  Its members are suspected of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of murders over the years in the City’s senseless cycle of violence.  I will simply substitute “G” for the actual gang.

I share my story for other Uber drivers because you never know who might enter your car.  You may recall Uber’s policy says you can always refuse a ride or stop if you feel unsafe.  Uber’s policy is just words when a couple of G’s you presume are armed sit in your car.

In more than 6,000 Uber rides, no one ever announced gang affiliation.  The gangbanger was drunk, he might vomit, and he was a street gang member.  A trifecta of trouble.

In a heavy accent, he said, “You heard of us?”

“Yes, of course. I heard you’re the toughest of all the street gangs.”  My hunch was showing deference was key; gangs are all about respect.  Even more so for Latino gangs with their cultural “machismo”.  He was young- 17? 18?

He said, “My boys, we’re crazy.  We’re the baddest.  We the G’s!”  He flashed the G hand sign at me.

His friend laughed.  In Chicago street gang parlance, “crazy” doesn’t mean mentally ill.  It doesn’t mean they make funny faces and dance on bar tables at 2AM.  It means they gangbang like crazy:  knifing and shooting people.

I wondered if they were for real.  The fact the drunk gangbanger sat in front wasn’t good.  Might there be a gun and knife in those baggy pants?  I didn’t intend to find out.  Sitting in the front made it easy to control me, the driver.

I pondered the situation.  The house I picked them up from was in a quiet area- although I read the next day that, hours before, a young man had been shot dead a mile away.  I happened to have recently reviewed several online Chicago gang maps.  My recollection was the pick up spot was G’s territory.

More concerning was the destination, their “crib”, in the heart of the G’s homeland.  That backed up they’re real gangbangers.  Chicago’s original area of Mexican immigration was the trapezoidal shape of the Pilsen and Little Village neighborhoods.  Gentrifying Pilsen is mostly quiet, but, Little Village still has shootings, although the most dangerous Latino areas, by far, are further south, along 47th Street in Back of the Yards and Brighton Park, where the gangs specialize in AR15s.   See also my post about driving around a quadruple homicide crime scene investigation last year, where Latin Saints used an automatic rifle to murder two Satan’s Disciples and their girlfriends in a car on 47th near California Avenue.

The Mexican-American gangs traced their origins to Pilsen and Little Village, but, had branched into other areas of the city, like Brighton Park and Back of the Yards (a/k/a New City), where Mexicans moved.  This left a crazy quilt of territories where gangs like Satan’s Disciples, The 26, and Latin Kings remain in large swaths of Little Village, but, they also hold non-contiguous enclaves throughout the city and suburban Mexican neighborhoods.  47th Street is deadly because seven Mexican gangs hold at least a few blocks in a two-mile stretch.  A short trip to the liquor store or a girlfriend’s place might take a gangbanger through several rival gangs.

On the good side, this trip was to the G’s homeland- not the 47th Street warzone where, like the other Mexican gangs, they had a small outpost.

What were my risks?  First, they could steal, although that seemed unlikely.  They had been drinking and wanted to get home.  Gangs control the lucrative narcotics trade and take a cut of prostitution in their territories.  They extort protection money from local businesses.  They generally do not engage in small time crime- like stealing my phone or wallet- because it’s chump change and it brings unwanted police “heat”.  My understanding is gangs don’t go out of their way to mess with the general population, although, if you mess with their bread-and-butter criminal enterprises, they kill you.  They also won’t harbor disrespect.  I assumed they were unlikely to mess with their Uber driver unless I did something stupid.  To avoid trouble, I decided to act nonchalant, as if driving a couple of drunk G’s was the most normal thing in the world.

A second fear was they might want me to drive them for a drive-by shooting.  That seemed unlikely and stupid.  I was surprised I even had G’s in my car because it was my understanding gangs avoid Ubers because of the GPS tracking- which might explain why this ride was in a woman’s name- perhaps a girlfriend, sister, mother, or stolen identity.  Most important, they want to control the car.  If you were driving around shooting at other gangs, you’d want to control the driving, not a random Uber driver.  I was aware they might carjack me- gangs prefer carjacked cars for drive-by shootings- but, if they have any common sense, taking an Uber and its GPS tracking makes life easy for the Chicago Police Department.  If they wanted the car, though, it’s insured and I’d let them take it.

My third fear was if a member of a rival gang saw them in my car and started shooting.  The guy in front was drunk and seemed to lack clear judgment.  If he flashed a gang sign at a rival gangbanger while we were stopped at a stoplight, they’d likely start shooting at us.  I concluded this was the option to be fearful of.  I would focus on avoiding other gangs and, for that matter, avoid police who would also get the G’s in my car agitated.

“I gotta puke,” said the G in front.

“Oh shit,” said his friend.

I pulled to the side of the semi-arterial street.  He opened the door and invested two minutes barfing.  Considering I wanted to get to their crib ASAP, extra minutes on the side of the street were worrisome.   A car or two passed and nothing happened.  We were soon on our way.

I turned onto the arterial road that would take us to the G homeland.

Having lightened his stomach, the G up front said, “You know my boys are crazy?”  The gangbanger was nearly frenetic.  I suspected he was on some type of accelerant drug like cocaine.  “I’m a G!  I’m a G!  I killed two niggaz!”  He flashed the G hand sign at me.  I really wished he wouldn’t do that in case a car passing by saw it.

“Calm down,” said his more sober friend.  To me, he said, “I’m sorry about this.”

“Don’t worry about it.”  No, this wasn’t the time to complain.  Act nonchalant.  Situation normal.  No hay problema.

The drunk G asked me, “Hey, are you in a gang?”

The guy in backed laughed.

“No.  I’m a middle-aged white guy from the suburbs.”

He laughed.  His friend in back said to him, “He’s not affiliated.”  I sensed he was making sure this was clear so there were no problems.  Realistically, he just wanted home.  The guy in back said, “He’s cool, he’s not affiliated.”

The drunk said, “You wanna be a G?”  He raised his voice.  “You wanna shoot some Two-Sixers with us?”  The Two-Six is a vicious gang, centered around 26th Street’s Little Village corridor of taquerias and Mexican shops.

“No, thanks.”

Both G’s laughed.  I was glad he wasn’t serious because this Uber driver had zero interest in a side trip to visit the Two-Six.

We came up on a red light at the 47th Street intersection.  I held back from the intersection so the car parked at the light on our left couldn’t see in.  No need to draw any looks.  We were west of the warzone area of 47th Street, but, not that far.

On the green, I proceeded.  As we approached the Stevenson Expressway, the drunk gangbanger said, “I gotta puke again.”

I pulled to the side.

I noticed the guy in back looked worried.  At the other vomit stop, he had been chill.  Presumably that was safe in G territory; I sensed we might be in another gang’s territory.  I checked later online and saw we were, indeed, on the edge of another gang’s turf.

The guy in back said, “Shut the door!”  The drunk G vomited.

“Shut the fucking door!”  This scared me; he had been a sea of placidity all trip; what did he know that made him want us to rush out?  I guessed other gang territory or he saw someone around who looked suspicious.

“Close the fucking door!”

The drunk gangbanger quit vomiting and tried to close the door.  Incredibly, he struggled to find the handle in his drunken stupor.  I was about to reach over and close it myself, although, I hesitated lest the G think I was somehow attacking him or reaching for whatever weapons were in his pockets.  He managed to find the handle and shut the door.

Everyone relaxed as we entered the G’s home turf.

The drunk G was again talkative in his disjointed way.  “I’m a G!  I shot two niggaz and I’ll shoot more!  Did you know I got shot?”

“No, wow, that’s terrible.”

“I ain’t scared of dying!  I’m a G!  I ain’t scared of nothing!  We’ll drive right by the corner where I got shot.  I’ll show you.”

Gee, thanks.  Nothing like sight-seeing.

We made a couple of turns to the side street where the crib was.  I noticed we passed a parked vehicle, a van with its lights on.  My G’s made some sort of handsigns or acknowledgments at the van.  Probably gang signing to a lookout.

I cruised forward, only a few blocks to go.  The drunk G pointed at a shabby, drab corner business covered in burglar bars.  “There, that’s where I got shot.  I ain’t no pussy.  I’m a G!  I ain’t scared of dying!”

Well, I was scared of dying so I didn’t slack as we completed the last few blocks.

“Here,” said the guy in back.

Whew.

The drunk G looked at me.  He put his hand out and we hand clasped.  Then, he showed me the G hand sign.  “Show me the sign.”

For the first and, I hope, last time in my life, I made the G hand sign.

“Cool.  Thanks for the ride.”

They opened their doors and clambered out.

“Wait!”  The drunk G came back.  “Where’s my hat?”

Oh no.  I didn’t want to spend one extra second here and didn’t want to look around the car with a flashlight for the gangbanger’s baseball cap.

“Oh, here it is!”  He found it on the floor, shut the door, and they hurried off.

I swiped the ride complete in the GPS.  I realized there was nothing to do.  No reason to go to the police or even Uber as they committed no crimes.  The front seat G said he murdered two people, but, there were no details and it might be braggadocio; I didn’t doubt he had fired a gun at two people.  I didn’t have their names and, if they were smart, the pick up and drop off destinations weren’t the correct street numbers (women riders often use an address a few doors down to deter stalker Uber drivers or fellow Pool riders).  I’m aware Uber claims riders and drivers can’t contact each other after a ride.  Yet, that’s not true.  I once was unpleasantly surprised by a 7AM doorbell when a rider was at my door.  That guy left his phone in my car and, without my knowing, Uber gave him my home address so he could come get his phone.  I don’t want Gs to know my home address so I let this strange ride go.

 

 

Should Uber Drivers Ask Riders for Dates?

Four twentysomething riders entered my Uber on Chicago’s South Side, scented of alcohol.  As my Honda’s digital clock showed 3:00AM- now Sunday morning- they chattered.  I heard, “What about the driver?”

One lady, the leader, asked me a few random questions about music and whatnot.  Her friends whispered and giggled.

She said, “Have you ever had sex with a black woman?”  Her friends blurt out laughter.

***

Riders- always male- sometimes ask if Uber drivers get dates.  It seems to be common knowledge it sometimes happens.  One group of guys told a story of an Uber driver friend who hooked up later with his passenger.  One woman even told me, in general terms, she gave a, shall we say, most generous tip to a driver- in the Uber.   General interest magazines profile couples who met in a Lyft or Uber, sometimes Pool passengers, sometimes driver and rider.

It ranks with the great questions of our time- like differentiating rockers Panic! At The Disco from rockers Fall Out Boy or who lost the dot in band name Portugal. The Man?  Should Uber drivers ask out their riders?  Should Uber riders ask out their drivers?

My advice: swipe left on Uber passengers.  You may be smoother than Lake Michigan, but, you will make riders uncomfortable.  All the more so if you’re a man.  Male riders shouldn’t ask out their drivers, either.

Imagine you’re a female rider.  You’re tired after work or the bars; perhaps you’re half drunk.  You’re vaguely aware of stories of sexual assault in taxis and ride-sharing services.  You settle into an Uber.  The male driver might even be kind of cute, he might be sort of witty.  Perhaps you enjoy a few minutes of small talk about the weather or sports.  Perhaps he says ‘hi’, you say ‘hi’ and bury your head in your iPhone and pay him no mind.  It’s dark outside and you’re not quite sure where you are exactly- you see cityscape out the window- as he drives you home.

Then, he says something like, “You’re pretty; can I have your number?”  Or he uses some lame pick-up line.  Even worse, he says something suggestive about your body- a comment about how flattering your top is on you.  You’re creeped out.  You aren’t interested and you’re wondering why he thought you would be.  Maybe he’s bold and asks every woman for her number.

You think fast and say, “Uh, my boyfriend wouldn’t like that.”  He murmurs something and keeps driving.  Will he give you a 1 rating at the end of the ride?  He keeps sneaking looks at you in the rearview mirror.  Where are you?  Out the window, you see gas stations, a McDonalds, apartment buildings; you could be most anywhere.  Thank God you have your phone.  Even though it’s only at 3% after a night in the clubs.  He controls the car.  The automatic locks are probably on.  If he gets weird, you’re his captive.  Yes, Uber has a panic button in the app, but, the police might be too late.

Dear Lyft Uber driver, it’s not professional to ask your rider for her number.  More important, your rider is in your control during the ride.  Do not underestimate the probability your female rider has been threatened by men before, perhaps assaulted in her past.  This isn’t a bar she can step away from.  It isn’t a dating app.  She has no way out.  Just because she small talks with you doesn’t mean she wants to sleep with you, especially not now.

If you believe she likes you, think twice.  Science shows men overestimate women’s interest.  You may be certain the two minutes you spent talking about the traffic shows she is dying to have sex with you, but, she might only be friendly.

It reflects badly on Uber when the rider didn’t want the attention.  A female friend asked me about using Uber for the first time.   I guided her through how it worked.  She later told me her first ride went well, except that her driver asked for her number.

Uber and Lyft are an inefficient way to meet people, anyway.   If you want a date, go to Match or OKCupid or a bar.  On any given day of Uber, half your riders will be your gender, many will be nowhere near your age range, many will be preoccupied on their phone, or wearing a big wedding ring.  You could drive for days without any credible prospects so keep the dating part separate.

***

The young women in my Uber laughed and goaded on the leader.  She asked more uncomfortable leading questions.  Not that she wasn’t fairly attractive, she was.  But, it was 3AM, I was busy adding Uber rides to hit my weekend numbers before I was too tired to keep driving, they had been drinking, and we were in a rather unsafe area of the city.  She might be joking and a driver who expressed interest might then piss her off.  Drunk people don’t always act sensibly.  Drunk people may change their mind.  Drunk consent isn’t really consent.

She said, “We’re going to a party.  Would you like come with and get a blowjob?”

Two of her friends gasped; one laughed.  I probably turned ruby red; in my 5,000+ Uber rides, no one else asked that.  I chuckled and didn’t answer.  I was in a bad spot; rejecting her advances might annoy her and earn me a bad driver rating.  A one rating for declining oral sex, that might be an Uber first.

When I dropped them off at a house, the only one lit up on the street, the three friends piled out with mocking byes.  A music beat pounded from the residence.  The leader stepped out and turned to me.

“Hey driver!” she said.  She pulled her top and bra up, exposing her breasts in the cool night air.  Then, she scurried behind her friends to the house party.

***

Now, reimagine my story with the genders reversed.  Creepy.  Really creepy.  A driver- or rider- need not be explicit to freak people out.  The compressed space of the car makes an uncomfortable situation impossible to escape until the ride ends.

But, you say, I’m the most charming Uber/Lyft driver ever, women love me.  I bet you are.  The fact you’re a stud means you easily meet women wherever: bars, online, at funerals.  That fact also means you don’t need Uber to meet you.  Be a pro, instead, and focus on driving.

Any time men and women are thrown together, sure, sparks might fly.  You might vibe over small talk.  You might have an alma mater in common, a shared love of gardening or pit bulls or Impressionist Art.  My advice, though, is let the rider take the initiative.  Women often fell empowered and, if she’s into you, she might ask for your number or offer you hers.  Let her have control because you control the spatial dimensions of the Uber ride.

It appears there’s an innocuous way women may try for future communication.  Several times a ride with some pleasant banter ended with the female rider saying they enjoyed the ride and would like to request me in the future.  They ask for a contact number or give you theirs.  Everyone knows you can’t request a specific Uber driver.  Perhaps that’s their way of signaling interest.  Clever riders will figure out a way to signal to you.  The one and only time I asked an Uber rider for her number was in my first month or two of driving for Uber.  After a ride full of pleasant conversation, I stopped the car in front of her place and the female rider stayed to chat for another 10 minutes.  I figured, correctly, she was interested because who would chill in an Uber after the ride?  We had a few dates.  Hanging in the car ten minutes after the end of the ride signaled interest.  That’s be quite different than a driver who, mid-ride, figures a pause at a stoplight is a good time to make dinner plans with his rider.

Women will let you know if they’re truly interested.  A few times a rider made this obvious, but, I was working on a relationship or just not interested.  Recently, I drove a woman past the Devon Avenue strip full of Indian and Pakistani restaurants.  As we turned onto her street, she asked from the backseat, “Have you ate at any of them?”

“Yes, at least once.  It was excellent.”

“I live less than a mile away, but I never tried them.  What is Indian food like?”

“Very spicy, but tasty and healthy with balsamic rice and vegetables.  You said you’re Mexican; you’d probably like how spicy it is.”

She laughed.  “Where do you live?”

I told her the neighborhood which is on the other side of the city.

After a sigh, she said, “Too bad you’re so far, because I’d like you to take me to one of those restaurants sometime.”

I wasn’t expecting that and didn’t have a quick comeback like, “Thanks, I’m flattered, but I’m in a relationship.”  Instead, I said, “Uh, thanks for riding and have a good night.”

She stepped out, waved farewell and that was that.

While a mellow way of showing her interest, it still was uncomfortable.  Did I get a 1 or 2 rating for turning her down?  That said, it’s far better for the rider to take the lead.  If she’s interested, she’ll find a way to signal you.

45 Dozen Eggs, Ice, Donuts, Curry, Dogs, and other odd Uber deliveries

UberEATs deliveries may be ordinary: lunch or late-night pizza, tacos, and burgers.  Pizza and curry dishes, while delicious, linger in your car in olfactory sense.  It’s a disadvantage when the next driver plops in his seat and says, “Do you have any pizza left in here?”

Other deliveries are odd.  One morning my request was to go to a produce wholesaler on Chicago’s near west side, the district of restaurant supply houses.  Trucks abounded, the air rang with the clatter of metal truck ramps landing on concrete, and men pushed dolly carts loaded full of pallets.  I could smell fresh produce- thousands of pounds of it.  A man directed me toward the concrete end of a loading dock where my Honda HR-V looked like a child trying to peer over a high window, unable to quite reach it.

Unfazed, I left the car and walked inside.  Cold hit me because it was a refrigerated storage building.  I was directed to a business office where I soon found myself signing a business bill of lading for receipt of 244 eggs.

I loaded three big boxes as carefully as possible.   My car soon zoomed past the produce trucks and east toward downtown.   I guided the car around the city’s lunar pavement of pot holes, lest I break any eggs.

My destination was a swanky River North restaurant in the lobby of a fancy hotel.  I parked in the drive up where the unfriendly valet grumbled and insisted I leave the keys with him while I carried the first box in.  I hoped he wouldn’t need to move my car because crazy valet driving might break my eggs.  I cringed at the memory of the valet joyride in Chicago-set Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

I expected the restaurant to take my eggs at the entrance given I wore shorts and a Tshirt whereas the patrons were well attired.  Instead, the concierge directed me to the kitchen.  A chef in white hat and apron accepted the first batch of eggs.  Soon, I had all three boxes inside, just in time for someone’s omelets and Eggs Benedict.  Not one cracked egg, I hasten to add.

Other deliveries included transporting a big, fluffy dog a few miles. Yes, he furred up my back seat.

A Chicago luxury donut shop, Glazed and Infused, sent me with four dozen trays of fresh, wonderful smelling donuts- the high end ones with organic bacon or a gazillion vegan calories- from an overstocked store to one that was running out.  Tempted as I was, I didn’t share any for myself.

One night in an upscale suburb, my UberX ride request took me to a McMansion.  Cars filled the driveway and 80s music blared from the backyard, Prince, I think.  A man in a dress shirt, off-kilter tie, and disheveled peppery hair approached.

“I’m not getting in,” he said.  “You’re going to the nearest gas station. You’ll buy two bags of ice, bring it back here, and I’ll pay you for the ice.”

Unusual, but it’d work.  Uber drivers are paid for time and distance driven.

The Shell posed a dilemma.   He hadn’t specified the ice bag size and there were two types in the icebox.  I texted and called, but no answer.   Perhaps he couldn’t hear his ringer over “When Doves Cry.” After a minute, I chose the larger size bags, paid, and returned.

The man came out to meet my car by his mailbox.   I lifted the ice bags and receipt for him.

“Oh, no.  Those are too big, I only need one bag.”  He looked at the receipt and paid me half.

That was lame.   I was stuck with an unnecessary bag of ice I’d dump in someone’s trash can shortly thereafter.  Mr. McMansion should have taken and paid for both, but, then, maybe there be nothing left for the Super Sized Mortgage, party food, and Pandora Prince Channel subscription?

I could have argued, but, I couldn’t force him and I’d suffer a 1 rating and perhaps a complaint to Uber.  So I absorbed the $5 ice loss and made a mental note to never again purchase anything for an Uber customer unless they provide the cash upfront.  I learned that in the Uber world, Eggs > ice.

Hot Chicago Uber Nights: Police Chase, Dinosaur, CSI, Racial Profiling, and More!

Chicago is a more dangerous city on hot nights as heat chases poor residents from their old, non-air conditioned residences to porches and sidewalks.  Memorial Day 2018 weekend found temperatures soaring into the unseasonable mid-90s.

My Uber weekend started fine with an uneventful Friday night of driving Brazilians to the airport, urbanites to and from restaurants, and Hipsters to and from bars.  Most of my driving was in the preferred downtown and north sides.

In Wicker Park, where bearded rich kids pretend to be poor in Under Armour beanie hats, Saturday night started with an unusual sight.  A pedicab stopped in front of Leghorn Chicken where a T. Rex dinosaur jumped out (photo below).  He approached young women and put his jaws around the first woman’s head.  Does street theatre count as a #metoo moment?  Having a dinosaur suit’s mouth around your head is about the worst violence you might experience around Wicker Park.

Far worse things happen in the working class Mexican-American Little Village area on the southwest side.  At about 3AM, on 26th Street, famous for its miles of authentic Mexican restaurants and all manner of Spanish language stores and services, a man popped out between parked cars.  He was a half block ahead and, as I got closer, I saw he was sweaty, angry, and most important, carried a baseball bat in a batter’s stance.  As if he was primed to hit a gram slam, except there wasn’t a baseball game taking place in this street.  He kept moving westward, zigzagging toward something on the other side of 26th.  Driving by, I saw it wasn’t a bat, but, a wooden post, perhaps a stairway banister?  I didn’t stop the car to take his photo.

Waiting for my rider from 26th Street’s Taqueria Atotonilco in a well lit stretch with several busy bars, at the nearby corner I saw a woman’s silhouette: long hair, form-fitting outfit, and high heels.  She stood by herself, looking up and down the street.  If her goal was to be barely visible, yet, near the 26th Street action, she had the perfect spot close, yet, under a tree canopy that blocked most of the lighting.  A late-night Uber rider from Miami once said, “take me to the hookers”; sadly, then, I had no clue where, but now I can tell future riders, “26th Street near Pulaski.”

The real Chicago Uber fun started Sunday night, a bonus weekend night because of the Monday holiday.  The heat had most everyone out.

Around 10, a gas station at 31st and Michigan looked odd as I cruised past.  I heard the gush of water as a man power sprayed near the pumps.  I saw a bit of yellow tape, an ambulance, and one of the larger Chicago police trucks, possibly an evidence technician.  I’m not sure what happened there, but, the cops seemed to need something cleaned up.  Not a good sign.

The ride that started nearby took me into the heart of the downtown Loop, the safe canyons of skyscrapers.  Stopped northbound at a stoplight on LaSalle Street, the center of traditional banking district, I had two riders.  Windows were down because it was in the low 80s.

A man burst out of the Thompson Center, a tall government building open 24 hours because of a mass transit station inside.  He sprinted across LaSalle on a diagonal toward Randolph, closer to us.  He had a little Jesse Owens in him, he was fast.  Moments later, two Chicago cops in vests and full outfit of gear charged after him at a similar rate of speed.  Because it was so unexpected and cartoonish, we chuckled at the sight.

The light turned green and I went forward. I hit the brake because a third cop, less conditioned than the others, ran out of the Thompson Center, following them at distance. We heard his huffing and puffing.  He must have been the Dunkin Donuts cop.  The scene made the three of us laugh.

Then, a cop car to the north of the building and another just south of us flipped on their flashers and raced away in pursuit of the runner.

All this proves the adage, you might be able to outrun the cops, but not the cop cars.

A few hours later, I stopped my car, double parked due to the on-street parking being filled, on North Pulaski in the Albany Park neighborhood.  A Chicago police car headed my way on the other side of the street, then, abruptly stopped and U-turned right next to me.  I wondered if she was going to hassle me about being double parked, but no, she drove up a few car lengths then stopped.  An African-American male emerged from around her, then, once he got in my car, the Latina police officer started and did a U -turn to go off in her original direction.

My rider said, “I’ve been profiled.”  He laughed.  “She and I made direct eye contact and she watched me the entire walk to the car.”  The neighborhood is mostly Latino with some whites; I think my rider was profiled as “out of place”.

The busy night ended taking a rider from downtown to suburban Oak Park, beyond Chicago’s West Side.  The Eisenhower Expressway route there hosts the city’s three most dangerous police districts.  We small-talked about the Chicago crime- new reports covered the Memorial Weekend mayhem almost in real time- at that count, seven dead and 30 injured.

The second-to-last exit before hers was Laramie Avenue, an area hard hit by gang violence.  The exit was blocked by three Chicago police cars and a tow truck, all with lights flashing.

“That doesn’t look good,” said the rider.

“No, and I bet it’s a homicide.  Do you see on the frontage road?  Yellow tape, more police cars with lights on, cops walking around.”

I was correct.  According to the Chicago Sun Times, just after leaving a holiday cook-out, a local man was killed on the frontage road after an argument.

 

From Chicago Sun Times, May 28, 2018. Fatal shooting on Flournoy Street

That’s why I decline to accept the Uber rides offered in my app on those hot weekend nights in that West Side neighborhood.  Wicker Park and its crazy street theatre is preferred.

###

30 West Side Minutes

My Sunday evening UberPool rider got in the backseat west of Chicago in the cool night.  After my usual small talk starter, “How you doing?”, the twentyish Latino said,

 

 “Oh, I hurt so much.”  He touched his right shoulder.

 

In that working class area with more than its share of crime, that could be the result of a knife or a bullet- or be the plea of someone needing a ride to the hospital for other medical attention.  I asked, “What happened?”

 

“My new tattoo.”  He pointed.  “Some people do this in parts, but, I told the tattoo artist, ‘I take this like a man, let’s do it all now.’  I’ve been through a hard life- I did my time in prison, but, I’m out now and I got my life back on track.”

 

That wasn’t the first time in 2018 a passenger confessed to recent time in the slammer.  He was quite polite and we spoke most of the ride.

 

At a stoplight, I took a good look at him in the rearview mirror.  His exposed arms, face, and neck were covered in tattoos.  The neck tattoos caused me to freeze a moment.  Courtesy of President Trump’s Tweets, the gang MS13 has been in the news for its torture and killings in New York, Virginia, and elsewhere.  My rider’s ink job looked a lot like the MS13 guys on the news.  Yikes.  

 

But, was he MS13?  Time in jail could mean a gang, but, MS13 is not well known in Chicago where the powerhouse Latin Kings and Gangster Disciplines and their affiliates reign supreme.  In a clear case of you-can’t-judge-a-book-by-it’s-cover, my rider was, tattoos and all, a polite gentleman.  No problems whatsoever.  I was surprised to see he tipped me in the app, because young riders in poorer neighborhoods rarely tip, especially on shorter rides.

 

I had already picked up the next Pool rider as we crossed Oak Park and I dropped off my MS13 friend on Chicago’s immigrant-heavy Belmont Central neighborhood.   The route bent southeast, into the West Side.  

 

Tourists often say “South Side” as if it were a talisman for murder.  Chicagoans, however, say, “Southside” (no break) and know the West Side is the most dangerous.  The top three neighborhoods for shootings are adjacent on the more impoverished West Side.  Our destination.

 

We turned onto Cicero Avenue where a Chicago Police car sat in the right lane with lights flashing.  I picked up another rider as we snaked through Austin and Garfield Park, ground zero for shootings.  Fortunately, it was a Sunday light and unseasonably cool so few people were out and about.  I turned right onto Kedzie in one of Chicago’s neighborhoods that feels like Dresden after its firebombing- or Detroit.  

 

This is not the Selfie Chicago you know downtown or at the lakefront.  A few century old brick houses stand in random spots on the cross-streets like Fifth, Adams, and Jackson.  The former commercial thoroughfares like Madison Street are obliterated.  After Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated on April 4, 1968, the West Side erupted and hundreds of mostly Jewish-owned businesses were looted, then, burned to the ground.  Homes and apartments were torched, too.  Decades of neglect sent more structures to the wrecking ball; others were destroyed in arson-for-profit scams by slumlords who preferred to take whatever they could get from their insurer than continuing to invest in the neighborhood.

 

On Kedzie, the police car in front of me suddenly U-turned without lights, siren, or a turn signal.  By the way he raced off, I doubted it was a donut run.  He nearly nicked the front of my car in his haste.  A minute later, an ambulance raced by, but not from the direction of the police car went.

 

I dropped off one rider at one of the few apartment buildings standing among the weeds and empty lots on the pitiful Fifth Avenue.  Christened Colorado Avenue, 1800s real estate interests convinced the City of Chicago to rename it Fifth Avenue in honor of New York’s poshest address.  Never more than a working-class area, this section of Garfield Park declined and “Fifth City” depresses passersby.

 

The last rider was en route to the working-class suburb of Cicero, a place beyond Chicago’s murderous borders.  On the last mile, Harrison Street at Kostner had a bunch more Chicago Police cars in front of a gas station, lights flashing.  Something had gone down.  I eased around them.  

 

Before Cicero Avenue, a few hundred feet from Chicago city limits in a stretch with no other cars, a young woman in a tight red top and thigh high boots crossed the sidewalk right before the corner.  She darted toward my car, even though it should have been clear in the streetlights’ glare I had a woman, my final UberPool rider, in the back seat.  The lady in red yelled, “Hey baby!” to me.

 

Chicago’s West Side- with its ready access to the Eisenhower Expressway and the suburbs beyond- is noted for open air drug markets and streetwalkers.  I made my turn onto Cicero Avenue and left the West Side behind.

 

As so often happens on urban Uber rides, it is a quick peek into the rough life of many residents.  Gangs, drugs, hookers, aggressive police- in a setting of poverty and ruined neighborhoods.  There’s no easy solution, but, every West Side ride is a reminder of the suffering.

 

 

 

 

 

Bloody Guy and other Wrong Riders

The rainy, chilly Saturday night near downtown Chicago found me en route to the ultra hip Fulton Market area, home of 700 Google employees and trendy bars and fancy restaurants.  On my phone screen was “Carissa”, my rider’s name.  The pick-up was the popular Federales restaurant and bar.   It was late and rainy so there was limited foot traffic.

On the opposite side of the street near the exit of the new Morgan Street CTA el train stop, a man stepped toward the curb, raising his arm at me which held a backlit phone.  I expected Carissa and wrong side of the street, but, he seemed sure it was me.  Some riders use the account of their wife or girlfriend or perhaps Carissa was still inside.

I stopped the car and looked closely at him.  He wore a collared shirt and appeared well-groomed, but there were red splotches on his clothing and his head.  He said something I couldn’t hear through the window and in the drizzle.   That was blood.  Lots of blood: on both sides of his forehead and on much of his shirt.  He probably was in a bar fight… and lost.  I thought his blood would stain my car’s fabric.

I guessed he was not Carissa, but, a guy from a bar fight.  He probably needed an ambulance, not an Uber.  I had a paying rider ahead and it wasn’t him.  If he was my rider, I’d cancel because I didn’t want him bleeding in my car.  I drove off, squeezed a U-turn at the intersection and, immediately, found Carissa and her friend waiting for me in the rain, directly in front of Federales.  Bloody Guy wasn’t visible as we left.

***

Uber drivers must watch for the wrong rider.  Most residential pick-ups are easy; you stop in front of 2654 West and your rider comes to you.  It’s trickier in nightlife districts, especially at night end when most riders are inebriated.  In theory, they will check your plates, verify your car’s make and model, and confirm your name.  In practice, not so much.

Chicago’s River North area, centered on Hubbard Street, is lined with clubs.  Gridlocked traffic- Ubers and taxis- try to snake through the chaos of drunks seeking their ride.  Three times on one busy Saturday night, wrong couples or groups of four clambered in, seeming very confident they had the right car.  I confirm the rider’s name, but, that doesn’t always get through to drunks talking among themselves.  Twice, I started the ride, only to learn they were the wrong riders before finishing the block.  It’s a hassle when it happens: the correct rider needs the trip canceled; the wrong riders may slam your doors and leave in a huff.

Another night in River North, I stopped in front of a bar for my rider.  It was an unusual name – possibly Eastern European – something like Tryon.  I said it to the young woman entering my car.  She grunted something, which I took as accent that she was Tryon.  A north side destination appeared.

She used her phone rather than talk.  A few miles later, she looked outside and said, “Um, it looks like we’re heading north?”

“Yes.  Your destination is in Lincoln Park, right?”

She laughed.  “No, I live in Hyde Park.”

That was a problem.  Hyde Park is on the South Side.  “What’s your name?”

“Emily.”

Not Tyron.  I pulled the car to the parking lane.  “OK, you’re on someone else’s ride.  Let’s cancel.  You can request a new Uber ride and I’ll take you to Hyde Park.”

The implication to the driver is lost revenue because the canceled ride becomes free.  Emily didn’t understand Tyron even was a name so she didn’t realize I was trying to confirm her identity.  The lesson is be clear who your rider is.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Breakin’ Up Is Easy To Do… In An Uber

The couple piled into the backseat of my Uber, carrying gym bags in from the light evening rain.  We were in front of a suburban community college; the late twenty-something man and woman had been in some sort of athletic activity.

“Hi,” said the woman to me.

“How are you?” I said.

“Fine,” she said in a clipped way.

“How are you?” said the man.

I drove off toward their destination, the Rosemont CTA train stop.  I noticed the small talk was odd; the woman talked to me and the man talked to me, but they didn’t talk to each other.

My Honda cruised when the woman said to the man, “Okay, let’s talk about this.”  I knew the tone of voice meant bad news for him.

“No,” he said. “Not here.”

With a slight chuckle, she said, “Why not here?  Let’s get it out.”  Uh oh, I thought.

“I’d rather-”

“We need to talk,” she said.

I focused on driving.  Riders sometimes discuss personal matters and as a courtesy, I concentrate on driving, the radio, whatever else but their domestic problems.  Still, a driver can’t help but overhear some.

I heard enough to know.  “Every time you go out with your friends, she’s there, isn’t she?”

“Not always.”

“How would you feel if every time I went out with my friends there was the same guy there?”

I tried not to hear the details.  Later, right before I dropped them off, I definitely heard the woman say, “When we get home, I want you to pack up your things.  You’re moving out tonight.”  So uncomfortable to listen to, believe me.

The drop-off ended in awkward silence.  When I stopped my car at the CTA station, the usual, “Have a great rest of your evening,” seemed hollow.  We all thanked each other and, it would appear, all three of us parted ways forever.

When Your Uber Rider Flashes Gang Signs; AK-47s on 47th Street

Uber ride detour around quadruple homicide on 47th Street in Chicago

Unseasonably warm weekend nights mean trouble in Chicago.   Riot Fest, an annual punk and alternative music festival, draws an estimated several hundred thousand to see Nine Inch Nails, Queens of the Stone Age, Wu-Tang Clan, Taking Back Sunday, New Found Glory, and dozens more.  About 11pm Saturday night, I fought through probably a thousand other Ubers to get a pair of young women and a separate man from the Fest.  The scene was chaotic as tens of thousands of concertgoers meandered in and around the eight-lane Ogden boulevard in giant Douglas Park.  The once grand park now hosts Riot Fest, but otherwise is mostly forgotten in a very poor, dilapidated part of Chicago’s West Side.

Our route crossed the park to Kedzie Avenue, where I turned north into the vacant lots, abandoned buildings, and litter-strewn streets of the depressing neighborhood.  Young hipsters addled about, their phone screens shining in the dark, probably calling Ubers as they realized walking home wasn’t such a bright idea.  Many local residents, almost all African-American, watched the scene from sidewalks and walk-ups as the 84 degree weather chased people out of non-air conditioned old buildings.  People who know Chicago know hot weekend nights mean higher shooting counts.

My riders small talked and we had the windows open for fresh air.  All seemed well when I turned east on Roosevelt Road, an especially run-down commercial section where the riots of 1968 and arson-for-insurance-scams caused this surreal scene of vacant lots.

The man said, “I’m from New Orleans.  I’m glad I came to Riot Fest because I always wanted to come to Chicago.  When I was in the Marines, one of my buddies was from Chicago.  He was a Gangster Disciple.”

I perked because the Gangster Disciples is one of the nation’s most dangerous gangs, blamed for a sizable chunk of the violence in their hometown Chicago.

My white, bearded Louisiana rider said, “He showed me how to do the Gangster Disciple gang sign.”  Then, he pushed his right hand forward to emphasize his making the distinctive pitchfork symbol of the GD’s.  His fingers were illuminated by the streetlights.

I froze with fear.  Roosevelt Road was busy with traffic, while people meandered on the sidewalks in this tough neighborhood.  If anyone affiliated with a rival gang- quite likely here- saw my rider flash the GD sign, they would pull a gun- or rifle- to kill us within seconds. A real GD might not be any more sympathetic if he saw my tourist rider who thinks it’s cute to flash Chicago gang signs.  It takes little to get killed on mean Chicago streets (see below).

For only the second time in my Uber career, I screamed at a rider.  “Stop!  Put your hands down!  Stop the gang sign!  You’ll get us all killed!”

“Oh, okay.”  He put his hands down, out of sight.

Whew, I thought.  I then explained to him why I was especially edgy about four people in a car among Chicago’s gangs.

The night before, an UberPOOL ride included a male and a young female I picked up at different spots in the stable, working class Latino Southwest Side Gage Park neighborhood.  We’d travelled east on 47th Street into Brighton Park, which appears pleasant enough, but has suffered an explosion in gang violence recently.

I told my Saturday Riot Fest riders what happened the prior night.  “Coming upon California Ave., there were squad cars blocking the street and cops and bystanders all over.  We had to detour onto a side street to get around what looked like a huge crime scene.  47th was blocked with police tape.  One of my riders said, ‘Probably the gangs, this always happens now here’.”

“Yeah?  What happened?” asked the Cajun rider.

“After I dropped them off, I had another pick up that took me west on 47th and I again had to detour around the crime scene.  I asked my rider, who was from the neighborhood, if he’d heard what happened. He told me, ‘Four people got shot.'”

The New Orleans guys said, “Well, I never been here, I don’t know Chicago neighborhoods.”  Obviously.

We now were by the Medical District, a much safer neighborhood of hospitals.  I told my Riot Fest riders, “The Chicago Tribune website said four people were in a car on 47th.  A white SUV saw them and 15-20 rounds were fired by Kedzie Avenue.  The SUV caught up with them a half mile later, at California Avenue, where they killed all four riders.  One was a pregnant woman.  The police said dozens of shell casings were on the street because they used an AK-47.  The bodies were so badly shot up that, when the six ambulances arrived, the cops just turned them around.  The police believe it is gang-related.”

I continued, “I don’t know how it started, but I do know a lot of these shootings start when one driver flashes a rival gang sign at the other.  They just start killing.”

My rider then told me how dangerous New Orleans neighborhoods were, too.  Which made his flashing the GD sign in an unfamiliar, but obviously poor,part of Chicago even dumber.

***

On Sunday morning, a young Latino rider in suburban Cicero talked to me about the 47th Street shooting, word of which had spread through the Mexican-American community.

“The pregnant girl who got killed, I know her brother.  He was crying on the phone.”

I was shocked.  The rider told me the 47th street quadruple homicide was the Latin Saints gang killing Satan’s Disciples, another Hispanic gang.

“That’s why I moved out here, out of that neighborhood.  I got kids; I don’t need that.”

As an Uber driver, there are many things you can control.  You have to be aware of your surrounding as well as what your riders do inside the vehicle.  I don’t believe gang members often use Uber for the simple reason they want to control a car in the event they get chased by a rival gang.  I wasn’t expecting a tourist to think it was cool to flash real street gang signs in the “hood”.

I’ve warned before about the UberPOOL at night.  The random person you share your ride with might be fine, but, they might hit on you, fall asleep on your shoulder, smell, throw up next to you, or, like the two ladies from Riot Fest who shared my Saturday night ride, you might share the car with someone who flashes gang signs.

 ###

To Vomit or Not to Vomit: Uber Cleaning Fees

At 3AM, the Northwestern graduate student said, “I feel sick, do you mind if we stop the car?”

“No, not at all.”  I braked for the first available driveway.  She stumbled out and within seconds, lost her dinner on the sidewalk in front of a commercial business.

She sat on the concrete a few minutes before returning to my Honda.  “Sorry about that.”

***

Riders and potential drivers ask me, “Do people really throw up on Uber rides?

Yes, absolutely.  If you drive nights for Uber or Lyft, riders will get sick in your car.  It is a matter of time.   Uber recently congratulated me on my 2,000th Late Night ride and that night I experienced my third rider in-the-car barf moment to go with two near misses including the Northwestern student mentioned above.

Whether you’re a drunk passenger or thinking of driving for Uber, you should understand Uber’s cleaning policy.  When a rider throws up in an Uber, the driver is to photograph the wreckage (lovely pics you’ll want to save on your phone, to be sure).  Then, the driver uploads the evidence to Uber after clicking “A rider made a mess in my vehicle” in the app.

Important point: Uber charges the fee to whoever booked the ride.  If you are sober, but your friend is drunk, keep in mind you are the one who gets charged if your friend gets sick in the Uber.

The lucky Uber employees who review vomit pics for a living then make a decision as to the charge, which currently ranges from $40 to $150 per incident.  My first time was a 3AM pick up in Chicago’s Chinatown outside a karaoke bar.  I picked up four riders, one of whom had to held up by the others.  A very bad sign.  Although their destination was only eight minutes away, I’d barely pulled away before the guy in front vomited all over the front passenger side of the windshield and dashboard.  One of the guys in back added a little to the backseat moments later.  The only sober rider, a woman, apologized profusely and, when I dropped them at the hotel, Chicago’s Essex House, minutes later, she came out with a roll of towels.  Nice thought, but not much for my year-old car.  The maître de of the hotel kindly brought towels and cleaning supplies to me.  A very kind gesture.

Still, you can’t clean vomit with a towel and wipes.  You most likely need it detailed by a professional.  If you do not, you will never get all the acids and residue out of your car’s upholstery.  It will smell for months.  Don’t be cheap.  Get it detailed.

I photographed the mess, uploaded it to Uber, and a few hours later, had $150 in my account.  Taxable by Uncle Sam, but Uber at least, doesn’t charge a commission on vomit cleanup revenue.  The rider paid.  Yes, if you’re a rider, keep in mind that vomiting in an Uber will probably mean $150 charged against your credit card.

Some riders complain, but they shouldn’t.  Detailing the car will run the driver about $150.  The driver is much worse off, though, because he or she is done driving for the night and the rest of the weekend.  If you vomit at midnight Friday, you might cost your driver hundreds of dollars in lost fares before he or she can get it detailed on Monday.  Drivers take time off from day jobs to get cars detailed, too.  To say nothing of the horrific stench and absolutely disgusting nature of vomit.  Detailing may not get everything out so you may leave a permanent stain in your driver’s car, too.  Be glad you got off at $150.

On another night, I got a drunk man from a River North club.  We added another random guy for the UberPool. A few miles later, the sober Pool guy said, “Dude!  Ugh!  Gross!  Driver, this guy just threw up all over your car!”  That is something to think about when you opt for UberPool late night: the other rider might vomit while you sit next to him, perhaps on you.  I got $150 for my troubles.

Last Friday night, a woman and two men climbed into my car in the increasingly hip and trendy Pilsen neighborhood.  One man was queasy and both were drunk.  The woman steered one to the open window, which he promptly vomited out.  She was nice and took care to keep the man from vomiting inside the car.  I took a picture of the vomit that landed on the outside of my car.  I recommended the minimum $40 cleaning fee to Uber, which they charged her (the ride was on her account).  I got an exterior car wash the next morning.

If you’re a driver, late night Uber means the occasional vomit episode in your car.  You can’t really look at a passenger and determine who will barf and who won’t.  Also keep in mind your ratings may suffer.  My rating dropped from 4.89 to 4.88 after the last vomit incident.  I don’t know who gave me a lower rating, but any rider may be unhappy with a cleaning fee and they may give the driver the worst possible rating.  I think they do.

One San Diego Uber driver specializes in cleaning vomit, keeping specialty cleaning supplies in his trunk so he can get back on the road minutes after a rider throws up. He pockets the cleaning fees, earning as much as a thousand bucks a week by targeting late night drunks likely to puke.

If your drive, think twice about late nights.  Drunks can be tough on your car; they slam doors, act rude, and vomit.  I often use the 2AM to 4AM danger zone to gas the car, take a bathroom break, or even sneak a nap.   Late night makes the most sense if you can achieve premium pricing, be it surge or boost pricing.  At standard rates, you’re better off driving during the day when the risk of vomit is much smaller.  Unless you want stories to blog about!