Red lights optional: The Uber daredevil diaries
It was always interesting when I got another Uber driver as a passenger. I picked up this rider/driver in downtown Rialto.
The moment he got in, I knew this wasn’t going to be a normal ride. He had that swagger, like a guy who once outran a speeding ticket but didn’t stick around long enough to pay for it.
“Yo,” he said, sliding into the back seat of my sensible Toyota Camry. “You’re one of us?”
I glanced in the rearview. “One of…?”
“An Uber knight of the road,” he said with a grin that practically left skid marks. “I drive too. Scat Pack.”
Ah, here we go. I hadn’t even hit the first red light, and I was already in a confessional.
“Nice,” I said. “Bet that’s fun to drive.”
“Fun? Dude, it’s a rush,” he said, leaning forward like we were old buddies meeting at the DMV for speed-racer tryouts. “You gotta understand. I don’t drive Uber—I fly it. Got a five-star rating because I get people to their destination fast.”
“Fast, huh?” I said, easing into a left turn with all the speed of someone hoping their car insurance premiums wouldn’t skyrocket. “What about safety?”
“Safety?” He laughed like I’d just told him my mom packs my lunch. “Listen, man, no one gets into a Scat Pack expecting a knitting circle. People want the thrill. You ever hit 130 on the interstate with a bachelor party in the back, all of ’em chanting your name?”
I had not. Nor did I want to. But I let him keep going because, honestly, it was like watching a car crash in slow motion, only with fewer airbags.
“This one time,” he continued, “I picked up a group heading to the airport. They were late. Like, plane-already-boarding late. I said, ‘Hold my Red Bull.’” He paused dramatically, probably hoping I’d gasp or applaud. I did neither.
“So, what’d you do?” I asked, because apparently, I hate myself.
“What’d I do?!” His eyes lit up like a Christmas tree in the middle of a power surge. “I took the shoulder. The whole shoulder. Semis were honking, people were flipping me off—whatever. I shaved ten minutes off their ETA, and those dudes tipped me $50 each.”
“Fifty bucks for a near-death experience. Sounds… reasonable.”
“Dude, that’s nothing. Last week, I had a corporate lawyer in the back. Hotshot in a hurry to close some billion-dollar deal downtown. I floored it down Main Street, hit a drift around a traffic circle, and got him to his meeting with two minutes to spare. He shook my hand like I’d saved his life.”
“Or shortened it,” I muttered, but he didn’t catch it.
“You ever done a donut in front of a hospital?” he asked, eyes gleaming with the kind of energy you usually see in infomercials for tactical flashlights. “It’s all about the timing, man. Show off the horsepower, but don’t let the security guard catch you. Patients love it.”
“Yeah, I usually aim for ‘boring and predictable’ with my passengers,” I said, hitting my blinker like the obedient traffic drone I am.
“Boring? Come on, man. Live a little! You know what my motto is?” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper. “‘If the speed limit’s 35, that’s a suggestion.’”
I turned onto his street, resisting the urge to accelerate just to make a point. “You ever get complaints?” I asked. “Or, I don’t know, arrested?”
“Pfft. Complaints? My passengers love me. Except for that one guy who didn’t appreciate me beating a red light in reverse. But, you know, you can’t please everyone.”
I pulled up to his destination—an apartment complex with more dents in the parking lot fences than I was comfortable with. “Well,” I said, “here’s your stop. Safe and sound.”
He hopped out, grinning. “You’re a good driver, man. But if you ever want to make some real tips, give me a call. I’ll teach you the ways of the road.”
“Thanks,” I said, watching as he walked away, still full of speed-fueled bravado. I thought about his stories for a moment before deciding to stick with my current method: keeping my passengers alive.
But hey, the guy tipped me five bucks.
