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.
Milwaukee Avenue 