Uber Driving in Chicago’s May 31, 2020 George Floyd Riot: Part 3, Driving Steve The Anarchist

My last two posts described the horror of Uber driving through the aftermath  of the George Floyd protests as downtown deteriorated into nightmarish destruction, gunfire, and looting.

I was in the hellzone of River North, typically an expensive entertainment and fun living environment on the north bank of the Chicago River, across from the Loop Central Business District.

I landed a pickup on Hubbard amid the destruction.  Other pickups had been at the doors of apartments or condo buildings.   This rider was on the street so he jumped in immediately from the left, landing behind me.

It was dark so I didn’t have a great view, but he was a young white man, I’d guess 22.  He was in black clothing, probably blonde, and wore a large face covering like a bandana.   He had a backpack.

He muttered something to me, then, laughed and giggled.  As I drove, he stared out the windows and thought the ruined city was hysterical.  He seemed off as if on some sort of drug.

He started playing video on his phone.  He said, “Hi, I’m Steve” not to me, but to his cell.   Again,  “Hi, I’m Steve!”  His accent was definitely not Chicago.   Not Deep South, but somewhere south of Chitown.

After some more repetition, he moved on to, “This is me!”  He repeated that and I heard him playing back video with what seemed like crowd noise and his voice, “Hi!  I’m Steve!  This is me!”

I surmised I had one of the white anarchists in my car.   One who had destroyed my city.  One who had zero claim to the rage a black man may feel.  He came off the street, dressed the part, and seemed to be narrating himself in a video.  I don’t know what it was, but I speculated Facebook, Instagram, or Tik Tok, perhaps a video of his rioting.  It’s possible it was something else like him leading a Boy Scout parade, yet bands of people on the streets dressed like him had rioted all around.  News reports would later show rioters posted themselves on social media, leading to their arrests [1].

I felt rage as I realized what he probably was.  As an Uber driver, I’m providing a service and, even if he torched police cars, bashed the windows of the animal shelter, or robbed a restaurant, an Uber driver isn’t to say a word.   I held my rage and hoped he wouldn’t try to talk.  I didn’t want a leading, “So what do you think about cops?” from him.  A good way to get ourselves banished from Uber is to get into an argument with a rider.  I held my tongue.

Later in the ride, he looked up from his phone video to ask, “Hey, can we get some tunes?”

I said, “Uh, sure,” and turned the radio on.

The little conversation repeated through his phone, “Hey, can we get some tunes?” “Uh, sure.”  That felt weird.  I probably was now part of his anarchic experience video.

At Augusta and Damen, we saw our first police.  Two CPD squad cars.  Steve chanted, “F*ck Da Police!  F*ck Da Police!”  Now I was sure he was drugged.

My stomach sickened.  It was worse than Malort: “F*ck Da Police” graffiti was tagged all over River North.  Did Steve have a can of spray paint in that backpack?  Incendiaries?  Loot?

The Police paid us no mind and we continued west past Ashland.  Steve went back to video on his phone.  I turned left on Paulina in gentrified Noble Square area of West Town.   His destination was a brand new, stately brick multi-unit building on North Paulina.  I checked later on Trulia and a condo there costs more than half a million dollars.

“Whoa, is this it?”

“Yes, on the left.”

“Wow, this is nice!”

It wasn’t his home, to be sure.  Perhaps he was crashing at a friend’s.   Maybe it was an airBNB.  It could have been a hook-up.  It certainly didn’t look like a place I’d expect someone repressed by the cops to stay at.  He got out and disappeared.   Uber pricing continued to surge (who wants to drive in a riot?) so I picked up a few more riders, dazed by the destruction.

In Old Town, I waited for a rider next to a boutique clothing store with broken open windows and a relentlessly ignored burglar alarm.  A possibly homeless man stepped out through a window with a black trash bag of something.   A woman strolled past with four expensive pink purses, two balanced under each armpit against her sides, price tags conspicuously dangling.  Why not?  Everything seems to happen to me on Uber rides… why not a bunch of people still looting at daybreak?  We saw several more people walking the Near North Side with black bags, apparently the preferred mode of transporting loot.

I was tired and near turning it in.  I had a ride through the Loop and was appalled at the looting around State Street.  Macy’s looked destroyed.  Anarchist and BLM graffiti adorned the Chicago Cultural Center.  What was the point?Crews were already boarding smashed windows on stores like a CVS and a Target.  People, later reported on TV as volunteer Samaritans of all races from the area, were cleaning broken glass and the downtown mess.  In crisis, heroes emerge.

I would soon be asleep while Chicago exploded in its worst single day of violence in at least 60 years.   My next post, part four in my Floyd protest/riot series, will find me back on Chicago’s streets.  Incredibly, I might find Steve The Anarchist again.

• [1] http://www.politico.com/news/2020/06/12/facebook-riot-loot-justice-department-314567?fbclid=IwAR1Gr-E9FAOwFdN7fCpxe9lUHOHE1eTKAZ1gqxWIK8A-qAnIYDsnvsASAU

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Uber Driving in Chicago’s May 31 George Floyd Protests, Part 2: Riot, Looters, 911, and Gunfire

I’ve entered hell, I thought, driving my rider east over the Kinzie Street bridge, usually known for romantic cityscape views like in the 2000 film High Fidelity.

3AM Sunday, May 31, 2020.  Minutes before in Tri-Taylor, just west of downtown, my rider approached with no hint of a Chicago heavy with dread.  Mayor Lightfoot declared an unprecedented Curfew at 9pm Saturday.  I listened sporadically to the Police Scanner, where the normally even keel dispatchers spoke with obvious stress.  I had seen one looted clothing store on 47th in Bronzeville and heard isolated reports of trouble downtown.

A premonition of trouble had kept me off Uber for three hours from 10PM to 1AM.  I had been unable to bring a set of riders downtown because the Mayor had all the drawbridges raised over the Chicago River.   Was there mayhemon the other side?  I assumed the Police must have cleared the protesters out in the six hours since imposition of the Curfew.   The protests weren’t even supposed to occur under the city’s social distancing rules for Covid-19.

The young woman rider mentioned she was going to River North, a downtown neighborhood, to visit her boyfriend.

“Have you heard of the problems downtown?” I asked.

“No.”

“There’ve been some disturbances around the protests.  I couldn’t complete my last ride because the bridges were up to the Loop.  I don’t know about River North.   I’ll take you as close as I can.”

The route in was circuitous.  The drawbridges were still up over the main branch of the Chicago River.   But, the Kinzie Street drawbridge was down over the smaller North Branch of the river.  The River North area was accessible.

I felt uneasy.   Small groups of sketchy men walked around.  Many wore backpacks.  While people wear small cloth masks or N-95 masks to combat the spread of the Coronavirus, these bands of mostly men tended toward bandanas or larger masks that covered more face.  Police hadn’t cleared downtown, after all.

My rider gasped as we entered the heart of the River North entertainment district.   I felt horror.   The streets were filthy with upended garbage cans, flipped over newspaper stands, and broken glass.  I turned off my Spotify music to better hear what was happening.  Some shouting.  Bands of men talking.  I saw some men carried long articles: rods, bats?

We heard a window shatter nearby.

I intuited glass was a risk.  It was seemingly everywhere.   Small bunches of pieces from smashed car windows.  Larger pieces, presumably from broken bottles.  Much bigger shards from broken plate glass windows.

The graffiti!  “F*ck 12 [meaning the police]”  “F*ck Da Police”.  “BLM.”  “No justice, no peace”.  Anarchist slogans like “ACAB”, meaning All Cops Are Bastatds. [1] Various messages about George Floyd.

We saw three destroyed civilian vehicles.  They just sat in the street like ghosts.  I wondered what horrors led to their destruction and what became of the drivers.   More than 100 Chicago Police cars were destroyed that night, but any in River North had been removed.

Everything seemed ruined.  I felt an andrelin rush and an overwhelming sense of horror.  For all its faults, I love Chicago.   My city- our city- was destroyed.   Banks, retailers, restaurants, bars, even condo, hotel, and apartment buildings were smashed and tagged with graffiti.

Store burglar alarms uselessly beeped and buzzed in all directions.

All the windows of the Anti-Cruelty Society, an animal shelter, were smashed out and the walls tagged by the anarchists.  Postal vehicles were defaced at Clark and Ohio.

“Oh my god, that’s gunfire!”

Shots rattled the air.  It echoed strangely between tbe towers.  The shots seemed to be accompanied by glass shattering as looters broke in.  There may also have been fireworks, which violent protesters have used as incidiaries

The flagship location of beloved Portillos restaurant was defaced.  “F*ck Da Police” contrasted with the characteristic red, black, and white decor.

There were a lot of people among the debris and chaos.   Only a handful held placards.  My take was these were professional thieves and mostly white Antifa, anarchists, or whatever they call themselves.

Spoiled brats had been unleashed on our city.   Total nihilism.   Dumpsters were pushed into the streets.  Odds and ends of River North’s cultural scene were rearranged by the hedonists.  Patio dining furniture in the street in a bizarre take on the Paris Commune, blocking lanes.

I dropped my horrified rider off at her boyfriend’s residential tower.  It hadn’t been hit, although others had.

“Thank you so much for driving me in this!  Be careful!”

I turned off my app.  I took two dozen pictures of the Hellscape.  Mind you, River North is only one downtown neighborhood and wasn’t even as badly hit by mayhem as parts of the Loop like State Street, North Michigan Avenue, Oak Street, and I never saw the scene around Trump Tower Chicago, which was the focal point of protesters.

Restaurant Barrio was looted, presumably for its well-stocked bar, with a window hole punched out for emphasis.  I’ve driven Barrio workers  and customers before.  Chicago’s restaurants had been closed for two months of Coronavirus lockdowns.   Most were prepping for a Wednesday partial reopening of outdoor dining.   Many restaurants weren’t just smashed, tagged, and looted for alcohol, but some had interiors just vandalized for no reason other than the childish desire for destruction of young anarchists.

A Bank of America branch was especially hard hit.  A Chase branch seemed to be looted in real time.

Police arrived at a looted CVS in real time.  Pharmacies and liquor stores would be especially targeted by looters in coming days.

Anger built inside at what surrounded me.  All the ruined entrepreneurs.   All the property damage.  Many workers might not be back at work Wednesday.   The violence.

I turned the app back on.  I picked up another young woman from the area. We chatted about the chaos as we left River North.  Quite a distance away, where North Avenue meets Clybourne and Halsted is a nicer shopping district bordering the Old Town and Lincoln Park areas.  The air was quiet here.

My rider said,  “Look!  They’re breaking into the It’Sugar store!”

She was right.   A caravan of three cars parked in unison.  A man with a sweet tooth smashed the windows of candy store It’Sugar and two others jumped through the gaping window to loot.  Groups of three left the other two cars and surveyed the adjacent retailers, as if window shopping for, well, plate glass to break.

“Should we call 911?” I asked.  Technically, that’d slow down the ride and she might pay a little more.

“Yes.”

I called.  911 rang and rang and rang.  The Chicago Tribune would report 65,000 calls to 911 that day, a multiple of the normal 15,000.  We gave the information and address.  The flustered dispatcher quickly finished the call.

It’Sugar is still closed three weeks later.

After I dropped her off, I kept driving.   I felt wired and Uber fares were surging.  Who wants to drive in a riot?

My next few blog posts describe an incredible Uber ride of an anarchist, more looting, arson, and coming face-to-face with street gang vigilantes in the face of mass chaos in Chicago.

[1] http://www.google.com/amp/s/www.gq.com/story/history-of-acab/amp

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Uber Driving in Chicago’s May 30 George Floyd Protests: Part 1, Prelude to a Riot

The aftermath of the horrific death of George Floyd under the foot of a Minneapolis Police officer, that city exploded with indignation, violence, and property damage. Chicago hosted several mostly peaceful protests until Friday when some store windows were damaged downtown on State Street.

Danger and anticipation permeated the Saturday air. I felt foreboding so I started driving as early as I could on Saturday afternoon. I drove a few Uber riders early on who said they’d been at the George Floyd protests, which started in the morning. I strongly support the Constitutional right to peaceful protests. My two riders spoke of the protests, mostly non-violent at that point. One man mentioned some threw bottles filled with urine at police near Trump Tower, which he didn’t support.

The City shut the CTA trains and bus service around downtown. The Uber app showed significant surge pricing stretching miles out from downtown. That meant high rider demand relative to the number of drivers willing to risk Covid-19 and potentially violent protests. I got an older woman from a bus stop.

“The bus driver said, ‘I don’t go any further.'” She was on her own from there. I took her toward her apartment in the Gold Coast area near Chicago and Wabash. When I turned my head south at each cross street, I saw blue flashing lights from police cars and streets full of people on State and Wabash Streets. The Trump Tower Chicago is located on Wabash at the Chicago River.

I found it ominous when I noticed carpenters putting wood boards up over retail stores on our route. The closer one gets to North Michigan Avenue, the tonier the stores become. After I dropped her off, I immediately received a ride request on Oak Street (http://www.oakstreetchicago.com), home of the finest retailers.

Seemingly everywhere, service vans and carpenter trucks were parked with dozens of workmen scurrying. The sound of hammers was incongruous with the usual traffic noise on the pleasantly cool-late spring sunny day.

Busy carpenter crews

Boarding up Dior on May 30, before the riot

Nike Store

My new rider was a bit amused by the boarding all around us. It was surreal. Our route took us onto Michigan Avenue, which was blocked by Police and Fire units. We went east to Columbus, which was partly blocked by a lot of Fire trucks, police, and ambulances dealing with something around Grand Street. We went south out of downtown. I realized magnificent Lake Shore Drive was blocked northbound by police. People were only allowed to leave downtown. Sadly, the majestic Chicago lakefront, which should be full of bikers, joggers, and sunbathers, was empty because Mayor Lightfoot, illogically, has banned anyone from going because of Covid-19.

Every exit off Lake Shore Drive was blocked by police cars until 57th Drive in Hyde Park. The CPD apparently wanted to funnel us out far, far away from downtown. Trouble brewed.

I had several more rides and tried to keep away from downtown.

On one northwest side ride, my rider’s phone buzzed first, then, mine. A notice Chicago was instituting a curfew, starting immediately at 9pm. Uber drivers are “essential workers” so I could continue to drive.

I periodically listened to the police scanner, which testified to extraordinary trouble: a continuation of neighborhood violence that intensified under the Coronavirus “shelter-in-place” lockdown, coupled with a burgeoning riot at the George Floyd protests downtown. I even parked the car and walked Pilsen’s 18th Street to hit my 10,000 steps on the day. I went home for two hours for chores and to avoid rides into the riot.

After 1AM, I ventured out for driving. I assumed the downtown protests would have subsided. The city felt wild, despite the night’s curfew and “shelter-in-place” order. While traffic was light for the wee hours of Sunday, the evidence was in the flashing lights: blue for police cruisers, red for ambulances. Cops darted around, although I saw no disorder in person.

News reports said highways were closed into downtown and the bridges over the Chicago River were raised, barring entry.

I received a pick-up in Pilsen of a Latina and two African-Americans. The destination was in the heart of downtown.

I said, “I’ll take you as close as I can, but I hear downtown is closed and the bridges are raised.”

The African-American man behind me, who was the woman’s boyfriend, said, “I’m sure we can get in.”

He asked, “Do you understand why there’s trouble?”

I saw where this was going. I support protests, but not riots. I never want to get into political battles with passengers.  He also had been drinking, which often makes people a bit more strident and less cogent. His girlfriend encouraged him to back down several times. My approach on any political topic on Uber is to diffuse and move conversation onto something else. I said I understood the anger. We were soon distracted by the Uber app’s bad maps into downtown. Mayor Lightfoot had raised the bridges over the Chicago River, literally stopping anyone from coming or going except by an isolated route or two. The raised bridges metaphorically reminded me of a medieval drawbridge raised in front of a castle. This bode poorly for the rest of the city in coming days as the Mayor marshaled resources to try to protect downtown, leaving the neighborhoods to fend for themselves.

The streets near the bridges like Adams, Canal, and Van Buren had a lot of debris.  Protesters had dumped everything they could into the roadways.  Trash complicated street navigation.   A handful of protesters walked past, a few with placards about George Floyd.

“Don’t hit that tree!” yelled the woman. 

I braked hard.  She was right.   A planter box had been upended with dirt, flowers, and a small shrub strewn about in front of me.

She asked her boyfriend, “Can we take it home?”

He laughed.  “No.  It’ll be dead.  It can’t live long out of the dirt and water.”

She laughed.  “I knew you’d say that.  Are you sure?”

“It’s dead.”  

I agreed.  We all chuckled.  I dropped them off at the Adams Street bridge, unsure how they’d cross to downtown.  I wondered what was on the other side of the river.  Had the protests ended?  Why were the gates to downtown still up if all was well?

As I went north for my next ride, I saw Chicago snowplows barricading the streets in, but allowing drivers out.  In the Hotel Downtown Chicago, you can leave but never enter.

A ride along 47th Street was an ominous sign.  In predominantly African-American Bronzeville, a clothier had been looted.  Two CPD police squad cars were outside.   Mannequins ineptly stood guard by broken windows.   The store looked mostly empty of merchandise. 

My forthcoming ride at 3AM, the subject of my next post, would be unlike anything I ever experienced. 

The Uber Rider With the Black Gun

Cool and clear at 3AM on an early March night on Chicago’s Southwest Side, I waited in silence for a rider with a female name.  Elsdon Park lies in the bungalow belt of industrious families, typically first or second generation Mexican-Americans.

A skinny young man shot into my peripheral vision, wearing a gray hoodie.  His left hand held an item that protruded slightly out.  He nearly ran, aiming straight for the front passenger door.  He landed in the shotgun seat with a thud.  Whatever was in his hoodie pocket slid down onto the seat, a slight metallic sound against my fabric upholstery.   Because he was left-handed, it was right by me.

I looked.  Something L-shaped and black.

A gun.

Was I scared?  Sort of, but I determined he was a gangbanger.  Gang members always seem to wear hoodies unless it’s really hot outside.  Prior probable gang members liked to sit up front and loved the hoodies.  Normal riders sit in back.

Gangbangers ride Uber like anyone else. Driving the Little Village neighborhood at night can feel like you’re running the Latin Kings Express.  They’re usually polite, even gentlemanly, and no problem if you don’t mind their copious tattoos.

Or guns.   I always assume they’re armed, which is not as big an issue as it sounds.   I have 12,600 cumulative Uber rides.   How many “normal” riders are concealed carry?

My rider slid his pistol back in his hoodie left pocket.  His hand stayed firm on it while a Cheshire Cat grin spread across his face.  We both knew I had seen it.

Should I acknowledge the gun?  I could have said, “Sir, I noticed you have a firearm and that’s a violation of Uber’s rider agreement’s terms and conditions.   I ask you to please step out so I can cancel the ride and please put the handgun back in the house before you request your next Uber ride.”

I opted for the safer path and pretended not to notice.   Chicago gangs don’t rob or randomly shoot their Uber drivers.  They’re too well disciplined, especially with the Uber app GPS being a blueprint for the police.  They will, however, be prepared to fight any rival gangs we happened across on the route.   That was my main fear.

I swiped to start the ride.  Whereas Elsdon Park is rather safe, we headed for Chicago Lawn, where 63rd Street transitions from Chicago’s notorious Englewood to the east- the city’s most dangerous [1] killing zone of abandoned buildings, vacant lots, and dangerous apartment complexes- to the tidy single family homes in much safer West Lawn.

Chicago Lawn had 17 homicides in 2019, not the worst Chicago has on offer, but too many for my taste.  Chicago Lawn also has a serious problem with gangsters, one of whom I presumed sat next to me.  My goal was simple: get him to his destination as quickly as possible.   ETA 12 minutes.

I noticed he failed to put on his seat belt although my car beeped its annoyance the whole ride.  Why?  I believe gangbangers don’t want to be weighted down by a seat belt.  Perhaps he thought he might leave in a hurry or need to rapidly take that gun out and shoot rivals through the window.   Being left-handed, a belt would crimp his ability to whip out the gun and aim out his window.   That is the answer why gangbangers like the front seat so much.  The windshield offers a clear field of vision and the front right window is larger than the back, more convenient, one presumes, for shooting out of.

The ride started.  I said my obligatory, “How’s it going?”

“Good, but the night went fast.  I only meant to stay with my buddies at the bar until midnight, but here we are.”  His eyes were intently focused on the outside.  That’s another gangbanger trait: a hawkish view of everything transpiring outside.

What to talk about?  I thought against asking what he did for a living.  I said something about how busy Uber was that night.   We had a light conversation and I cannot recall quite what we small talked about.  He stared out for potential rivals, as did I, lest I need to speed up.

The ride wasn’t long, but it felt much longer, especially when we crossed California Avenue into the heart of Chicago Lawn.  But, trouble could come from anywhere.   A car of a rival gang might pass at any time and there could be shooting.  In the event, we were soon on the destination street, lined with a jumble of flats and apartments.   I stopped and he raced away, unencumbered by a seat belt, his hand still clutching the gun in his pocket.

[1] http://housely.com/the-10-most-dangerous-neighborhoods-in-chicago/

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University of Chicago Study Shows Small City and Male Riders Tip Most and Women & Younger Drivers Receive The Best Tips

October 24, 2019.  Cumulative rides: 10,063.  Driver rating = 4.95.   A University of Chicago economist’s data study of 40 million Uber rides found only 16% of riders tip.  The average tip is $3.11.

Men tip a bit more often:  on 17% of trips, while women tip 14% of the time.  Women earn 12% better tips than men.  Men tip best for younger women; perhaps currying favor for potential dates or out of deep-seated gender roles of ‘providing for/protecting’ a young woman?   Another theory would be women could be more courteous drivers.  Older men receive the worst tips, but women’s tips also decline with age, which is consistent with some young woman date-seeking behavior for men.

“Gender also interacts with age, with men tipping younger women more than they tip any other group.” Drivers in urban areas who, presumably, are less likely to see their driver again tipped less, they added. The higher quality of the ride, the more people tip.

There’s no surprise that higher rated trips lead to higher tips.  As a driver in the big city of Chicago, despite my excellent service (4.95 rating), tips are not common, about the same (~1/6) the study found nationwide.  I suspect the study’s author, economist John List, is right small city passengers may experience their Uber driver again, leading to better tips.  In a big city like Chicago, where many riders are tourists or business travelers, too, a rider probably won’t ever see me again.

Sadly, people tip taxis more often.   Did you notice Uber and Lyft charge less than a taxi?  That’s because rideshare drivers are paid less.  If you tip a better paid taxi driver for mediocre service, you should consider why you don’t tip your Uber driver who provided useful info about the city you’re visiting or made pleasant conversation in a pristine vehicle.  An astounding 60% of Uber riders never tip.  Drivers at least think they can earn tips through better service (car washes, detailed car interiors, pleasant neutral music instead of what they want to listen to, water bottles and charges for rider use, etc.).  If no one tips, drivers have less incentive to bother.

That said, as an experienced driver, a pet peeve of mine is riders who ask for something special, typically a stop at a convenience store or a McDonald’s drive-through, and say, “I’ll give you a $5 tip if you take me through the drive-through.”  They don’t.  It actually makes me less likely to change the route for you because, for whatever reason, the 40% of riders who tip almost never broadcast it in advance.  The kind of rider who asks a driver to make a quick stop for cigarettes is one of the 60% who never tip.  So don’t lie.

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Uber to Deactivate Riders With Poor Ratings

May 30, 2019. (4.96 rating, 8728 cumulative trips)

Uber will deactivate accounts of low-rated riders.  Should you worry?  If you use common sense and decency and follow Uber’s rules, you won’t have an issue.  Engage in rude and obnoxious behavior and violate the rules and you should worry.  As a driver, I applaud Uber for finally taking action.

I award the highest rating of “5” to the vast majority of riders.  How do you earn less than a “5” rating?

I recently posted 10 ways- some ridiculous, some amusing- to earn a bad rider rating.  Here’s my fresh post of more ways riders earn fewer than five stars.

More Ways Uber Riders Earn Less Than 5.0 Stars: Gangbanging, Harassment, “What’s this jazz sh*t?”, and More!

May, 2019 (4.96 rating, 8,717 lifetime trips completed) 

Earning 5 stars isn’t difficult for you.  I award a “5” to most riders because you’re paying for the service.  Some helpful hints follow on how to maintain a “5”, especially now that Uber will deactivate accounts of poorly-rated riders.

1. If you flash gang signs or ask your Uber driver if he’d like to do a drive-by to shoot up your rival gang, you’re something less than a Five-star rider.

2. Blatant disrespect.  I’m not an ego guy and I don’t need you to talk to me.  But, a nasty demeanor hurts.  The rare rider who doesn’t so much as say hello or goodbye- as if mine already was one of the autonomous cars Uber plans- is at risk of perhaps a “4”.

3. Harassing other riders is wrong.  This occurs on some Pool rides.  Some male riders ask female co-riders out, sometimes in non-subtle ways.

At 4AM, on a Pool in the working class suburb of Cicero, a woman sat in back.  We stopped at the 54th/Cermak Pink Line mass transit station.  A man got in and immediately directed what charm he had at the woman.

“Hey, you headin’ home or you still up for partying?”

She sighed.   “I’m tired.  I’m headin’ home.”

The man said, “Are you sure?  You could come party at my place.  I got drinks.”

“No, I’m really tired.”

“Oh, you could come by for just a bit.  I got drinks and we can have a good time partying.”

“No, thanks.”

I attempted to small talk to break the conversation flow, but he was relentless.  His stop was a mere two minutes away.  When I stopped, he hung halfway out the door, pleading with the woman.  “Why don’t you come in and party?  I got money.  I can get you an Uber home when we’re done.”

“No, thanks.”

He earned a bad rating for hassling the woman and slowing the ride with his last minute pleading.  Women can harass men (yes, it’s happened in my car) and men can harass men.

3.  Making weird, adversarial conversation.  I am very careful about where conversation goes.  If our small talk veers into orange talk (Trump), something’s gone wrong.  Only in a few instances have I given “4” stars for wackiness.  I picked up a bartender from a fancy new restaurant in Hyde Park.  I asked about the place and commented on Hyde Park’s burgeoning restaurant scene.  He sighed and said, “This prosperity is an illusion.  When the next recession hits, it will all blow up.”  So far, so good, a reasonable statement, although veering toward the dreaded political.  He kept talking, “The capitalist economy is based on exploitation and borrowed money.”  On and on he went.  “When the next recession hits, I think the 99% will finally wake up.  They’ll be marching on the mansions and pulling the billionaires out and beheading them on their lawns!”  He wasn’t joking.  He continued with talk about the virtues of socialism over capitalism.  I didn’t argue, but I didn’t agree, and I think he gave me a “1” because my rating immediately dropped.  I gave him a “4” for advocating violent revolution.

A white woman from the North Side- a world away from Chicago’s dangerous hoods- launched a verbal manifesto about how the gangs “at least are making something of themselves”.  She said they weren’t destructive like our “consumerist white society” and were “real”.   Her odd theory of good gangbangers and bad everyone else continued.  I rated her “4” for conversational imbecility.

4. I am liberal about your attire, but if you reek of alcohol or marijuana or horrible BO, you might get a “4.”  Gyms have showers for a reason, hint hint.

5. Bringing open containers of alcohol in my car and arguing that it’s okay because it’s for them, not me.  The local police beg to differ.  It also violates Uber policy.

6. “Hey, dude, got an aux cord?”  No, I don’t want to add your phone to my Bluetooth on our five minute ride so you can choose the music.  There’s a weird inverse correlation between length of ride and how people demand their music.  I listen to almost anything, but am not a fan of misogynistic hip hip, which is usually what they want.

One drunk woman yelled at the song “Listen” by Chicago playing on my Spotify.  “Your music is dreadful!”   The song is critically-acclaimed but not what some of the younger set want.  I skipped it, but not to her hip-hop.  Fair enough, but insulting the music and- by extension- me puts you below a “5”.

On another late night ride of drunks, a man climbed in the front seat while his girlfriend and her friends got in back.  No romance in the air for that couple, apparently.  My Spotify played “Take Five” by Dave Brubeck“, the most famous jazz tune of all time.  Did he appreciate the masterful tune?

“What’s this jazz sh*t?” he blurted out.  His girlfriend, at least, apologized.  Many riders compliment the classic jazz songs like “Take Five” or “‘Round Midnight.”  I know it’s not for everyone, but at least be subtle in asking me for something different or, better yet, don’t try to take over the radio on your five minute ride home.  If you ask nicely, I will switch to a Spotify channel like “Rap Caviar” and set it on random play for the duration of our ride.

An odd white guy once pulled out a compact disc.  Uh-oh.  “This is my reggae CD, can we play it?”  I let him play the first two songs.  The first started promising with plausible reggae music, then, the downhill roll: his voice.  His voice was tinny and whinny- not good for music, but it especially didn’t work for reggae.  He let me keep the CD.  Did I give him a low rating?  No, I gave him a “5”; old white aspiring reggae artists need all the help they can get.

###

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.

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.