A gaggle of teenagers stood in front of the Walnut Creek Cheesecake Factory as I slowly pulled past the crosswalk and parked. A boy in a varsity hoodie noticed my car and rushed over.
“Uber?” he asked. I nodded. “Let me get my friends.”
The kids parted as he walked a drunk girl to my car. Her chestnut hair was wild and tangled. She could barely stand, so he half carried, half dragged her. Another girl hugged her friends and waved goodbye. She followed the boy and the drunk girl. She looks annoyed. I thought of my high school friends and how their evenings were often cut short or ruined when they had to deal with a drunk and obnoxious Marie.
The boy and the friend wrestled the drunk girl into the backseat. The girl was slurring, “I don’t want to go home. I’ll give you a blow job for twenty dollars.”
Her friend sighed and said, “Shut up.”
Ignoring her friend, the girl reached for the boy’s arm and said, “I’ll let you do me the butt if you want to.” Have some self-respect, I thought, feeling sorry for the stupid girl.
“Quit talking now,” her friend said. She hugged the boy goodnight, and he rejoined the group, relieved, no doubt, to drop this problem off on someone else.
The drunk girl began mumbling about wanting the boy to like her and the things she was willing to do to make that happen. As she curled into a fetal position in the back seat and quieted, I looked at her friend seated next to me. “Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. She’s just not feeling well.”
I rolled my eyes. I could smell the alcohol. That was more than a case of food poisoning or flu.
“I need to pee,” the girl suddenly said.
“Don’t pee in my car.”
“She won’t,” the friend assured me.
“Seriously, I really need to pee.”
“No, I’m serious. You pee in my car and I’ll drop you off right here.”
Her friend twisted around and said, “Just hold it and don’t talk.”
Minutes went by. I looked in the rearview mirror. The girl had fallen asleep. I followed the directions to a familiar subdivision and pulled up in front of the house.
“Can you help me carry her to the front door?” her friend asked.
A new ride request pinged and I accepted.
“Sure, but I’ve got another call to get to.”
We opened the back door, and the girl didn’t stir.
“Can you hold her feet and pull while I grab her arms,” I asked.
The girl was much heavier than she looked. We managed to lift and pull her out of the car but just as I began to pivot and step up on the curb, I heard gurgling. Immediately, vomit spewed forth, landing on my arms. I gagged and lost my grip. It was like watching in slow motion as the girl slipped from my hands, and in turn, the friend, unable to bear the weight alone, lost her hold. Neither of us could catch the girl in time. We watched her fall to the curb and cringed at the gruesome sound of her skull hitting the cement.
“Oh, shit,” the friend and I said in unison. The girl was splayed out, half on the curb and half in the street. We bent down and gently poked her arm to wake her. There was no reaction.
“Run and get your parents,” I said.
“It’s not my house. Her grandfather lives here.”
“Well, go get him. Hurry.”
I considered calling 911 but figured I’d leave that decision to her grandfather. A couple of minutes later, a man in old-fashioned pajamas rushed over.
“Ellie,” he said, kneeling down beside the girl. She didn’t respond. He looked at me and at his granddaughter’s friend. “What happened to her?”
“I’m just the Uber driver. She was already drunk when I picked up her and her friend. She fell and hit her head as we were helping her out of the car.”
The friend didn’t say anything.
“Do you think you could move her foot?” I noticed it had landed too close to my back tire and I worried I might run it over when I pulled away from the curb. “I have another pickup and need to get going.”
“Could you please wait,” asked the grandfather.
“Sure. Let me cancel the ride.”
While I cancelled the next ride and signed off from the app, the grandfather called 911. I stood next to him trying to figure out if I could be held liable or sued for dropping her and possibly contributing to a serious injury.
“We should turn her on her side so that she doesn’t choke on her vomit if she starts throwing up again,” I said.
“Good idea,” said the grandfather.
Within minutes, a fire truck, an ambulance, and a police cruiser had arrived. The friend, grandfather, and I answered the same questions, over and over: What was our relationship to the girl? How long had she been unresponsive? Had she been drinking? Who gave her the alcohol? Had someone called her parents?
The father finally showed up and struggled getting out of his sporty BMW. Judging by the smell of booze and his red, puffy face, he was also intoxicated. I was surprised he’d risk driving when he knew there’d be police. By now, the girl had been placed on a gurney and was in the ambulance. She still hadn’t responded to the medics.
“Unless I’m still needed,” I said. “I’m going to get back to work.” In truth, I was done driving for the night, but I wanted an excuse to leave. The police officer, the father, and the grandfather nodded. The friend was texting and didn’t look up. This story, hopefully a cautionary tale for their teenage friends, would be the headlining gossip at school on Monday. Surprisingly, no one asked for my name or contact information. I knew they could track me down via the Uber app if needed, but I prayed I wouldn’t hear from any of them ever again.
Next time, I told myself as I headed home, don’t pick up drunk teenagers. Call 911. It was too risky for both me and the kid. I hoped the girl would be okay and this experience would scare some sense into her. In the following days, I was relieved not to hear or read about a fatality of a local high school student.
Photograph by Oscar Keys