Hit and Run

“You have arrived,” said the Uber app voice. “Your destination is on the right.”

The map on my iPhone showed only coordinates. No physical address. I craned my neck, looking up and down the dark sidewalk. This was the part of Uber’ing that stressed me the most: finding the address and passenger without getting rear-ended, honked at, or flipped-off by other drivers, especially in San Francisco where a love-hate, tug-of-war relationship between locals and Uber/Lift drivers thrived.

I drove slowly until my headlights swept across a shadow and then the reflectors on a bike.  A man dressed in black pants and a dark hoodie stepped to the edge of the sidewalk, eagerly waving me over.  Damn. A bike. No way.

I pulled to the curb and quickly got out of my car to tell the man that his bike wouldn’t fit in my Mazda 3.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “You’ll have to call for a bigger Uber.”

“Please,” he said, grabbing his helmet and backpack that lay at his feet. He lifted the road bike by its frame and approached.  “Can’t we at least try to fit it in the trunk?”

I heard the desperation in his voice and sighed. One of the cashiers at the Chevron station near my house had offered some advice when I told him I’d signed up to drive for Uber until I found a real job. I imagined the cashier shaking his head, saying, “No way! Tell the guy that your son just called and needs you to return home immediately. Or say that you just realized you’re almost out of gas. His bike is not your problem.”

I shook my head. “I’m really sorry but it’s not going—”

“I’ve had an awful night. Please.”

Damn.

 “All right. Let’s try.” I opened the trunk, and just as I expected, the space was too small. We both stared silently at the trunk, as if hoping, by magic, it would expand to accommodate the bike.

“Can you remove the tires?” I asked.

“I don’t have any tools. Plus the frame is bent. Can we try the back seat?”

“I don’t want oil or dirt to smudge the seats or carpet.  Or rip the fabric.” I knew I sounded whiny, but a tear in the fabric would mean I’d be unable to drive until I could have the fabric repaired.  And that wouldn’t be a cheap repair. Plus, no Uber’ing, no money. No groceries. No chance of paying my PG&E bill.

“Can we try, please? I’ll be really careful. I just got hit by a car and the driver took off.  Didn’t even stop to see if I was okay.”

I scratched my scalp as I tended to do when flustered. It wasn’t unreasonable for me to decline. Surely he could find another way to get home. But if it were my sons stranded and potentially injured, I’d hope that someone would help them.

“Okay. But please watch the seats.”

I opened the back door as cars zipped by and reached across to grab the front wheel rim, which I now saw was indeed misshapen. We pulled and pushed the bike across the back seat and managed to turn the wheels to shut the doors. Given there was no room in the back, the man sat beside me.  It often made me nervous when a solo male passenger, especially large men, sat up front with only the emergency brake and gear shift separating us. But this guy was skinny enough that I could hopefully fend him off if needed.

“Thank you, again,” he said, setting his backpack and helmet on the floor at his feet.

“No problem.”

The car filled with his sour body odor. It reminded me of the years of driving my sons and their friends around the San Francisco Bay Area after they’d been biking or skateboarding. A bunch of laughing, taunting, smelly teenagers. Now that my sons had their own cars and driver’s license, I rarely drove them and their friends. It was one of my mom-jobs I greatly missed.

We drove a couple of blocks when I heard the man begin to softly cry.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“No need to apologize. I completely understand.”

His crying continued until we merged onto the highway heading to Concord. Then he sighed and said, “So how are you? How’s your night going?”

 “A lot better than yours.” I laughed nervously.

He wiped his eyes and chuckled. I’d made him smile, I thought, happily.

“So, a driver just hit you and drove off?” I asked. “What an asshole.”

“Thank God I was wearing a helmet. It’s ruined now.”

“Better the helmet than your head.”

He nodded and wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

“I’m glad you weren’t badly injured. Do you always ride your bike at night?” I asked, looking back and forth between him and the road. Bay Area drivers were maniacs. The advent of texting just upped the stakes.

“Not usually. My boss and I were finishing a project and he asked me to work late.”

We speculated on the character defects needed to knock someone off their bike and leave the scene without checking to see if he or she was still breathing.

“How’s your head?” I asked. “You’ll want to make sure you don’t have a concussion.” As a former high school diving coach, I’d learned to take concussions seriously, to watch for signs and always err on the side of caution.

“I think I’m okay. But my mom is home.” After a beat, he added, “Yes, I’m a thirty-five-year-old man who still lives with his mother.”

I laughed and said, “No judgement here. My sons could very well be living with me until they’re forty or fifty. California is expensive.”

The conversation soon landed on the uneven recovery of the economy and the upcoming 2016 presidential election. Wanting to avoid any and all prickly confrontations with Republicans, I tested the water. I loved politics.

“It’s an interesting time. I never imagined we’d have a person like Trump running for president.”

“He won’t win,” the man said. “Surely people can’t vote for a man who brags about molesting women.”

“Let’s hope not. Sadly, he’s making George Bush look good.”

Our conversation devolved into an entertaining volley of reasons why Trump was the devil-incarnate. When I pulled in front of his house, I clicked the “drop off” button on the app. Since neither of us appeared eager to say goodbye, I turned off the car and we continued one upping each other with “And did you hear about this?” until we were interrupted by the ping of another Uber request.

“Well, it was really fun talking to you, despite the circumstances,” I said. “I’m glad I was the driver who got your call and that I could help.”

He opened his door and we pulled the bike from the car.

“Thanks, again. I really appreciate the ride.”

“No worries. Be sure to watch for signs of a concussion. Google it if you don’t know what to look for.”

A block from his house, I parked at the curb to inspect the backseat. I didn’t want the next passenger to sit in a grease spot and file a claim against me if they discovered a stain on their clothes. Everything in my life, since being laid off and going through my savings, had revolved around avoiding further financial setbacks. Luckily the fabric and carpet weren’t damaged: no smudges or tears. I brushed off some lint and rolled down the windows to air out the stale body odor.

As often happened after six or more hours of non-stop driving and a lively conversation with a passenger, I suddenly hit a wall of exhaustion. Hopefully this next trip would be only a short distance, not to San Francisco or Berkeley, which would add another hour to my already long shift. Before I tapped on the navigation button, I clicked “Stop New Requests”.

I always felt a tinge of panic when I headed to my final ride before signing off. I’d think about movies where the retiring detective insisted on taking one last call, and it was always this final call that he faced his all-time, career worst, life-or-death situation.  I’d think about my younger sister’s reaction when I told her of my plans to drive for Uber. As a veteran police officer in Louisiana, she’d experienced many threatening situations. In my mind, I’d hear her response: “Oh, Marie. I consider myself a brave person, but I’d never drive for Uber. You have no idea who’s getting into your car. Please be careful.” I’d hear my friends say, “You’re crazy to drive at night.” I’d hear the guy at the Chevron station say, “Never drive past ten. It’s not worth the ten or twenty extra dollars to have some drunk asshole vomit in your car or worse . . .”

As I followed the directions to my next stop, I did what I’d do every shift when these scary thoughts entered my mind: I simply decided not to dwell on the possibilities. So far, ninety-five percent of the passengers I had picked up were nice, and the rest were a pain in the ass but not really threatening. So far, I hadn’t picked up that game-changing ride, and hopefully, I never would.