Rideshare Renaissance

The evening smelled sweet.

I stepped out and headed toward my parked vehicle. Every step was an audible crunch underfoot. The surrounding plant life turned yard, driveway, and sidewalk upkeep into a lifelong chore that I had recently shelved. Yard tending had taken a backseat to priorities I'd come to value as a man and homeowner. Quirks appreciated, not fought tooth and nail. I embraced the overgrowth. The scattered leaves, the sticks. The random bits of nature's mess.

Landscaping wasn't high on my most recent list of priorities. Time, stress, and age had all combined to dull the drive I once had for manicure and tedium-filled physical labor that is otherwise known as yard maintenance.

Vehicle maintenance. Vehicle repair. Time spent tallying miles on the job. Receipts related to the job. The blessed but far-too-rare stretch of sleep that enabled me to persist for more punishment. These tasks consumed me. At times completely—and that was getting old.

I expected an average night of driving. Wednesday evening was upon us and I did not usually receive a lot of ridership during the middle of the week, nor the first week of the month. I loved Wednesdays when I was flush, and I dejectedly started my vehicle with resignation on Wednesdays when I was broke.

People pay rent and bills. Subscription services like Netflix or Amazon. The first week or two of the month is a bit tighter in the wallet than the last two weeks. That's where I made my best money.

I manipulated the touchscreen that had replaced the almighty stereo console in the modern era, turned on my usual classic rock playlist, and eased out of the driveway. I could see my dog, a Siberian Husky, staring out the opaque privacy glass, trying to find a trace of me.

"I'll be home before you know it, jerk off."

I had named the beautiful specimen of purebred Husky "jerk off" by honest accident. When the now older guy was a pup, he was the most difficult young dog you could ever have imagined. "Jerk off" was the first thing that came to mind at the time. Eventually, Simpson was no longer a name that he recognized. So here we were. Bart and Simpson AKA "Jerk Off". My name was Bart. I thought I was being clever with the cartoon reference. Oh well.

I followed my usual route toward the interstate, same as it had been five days a week for at least seven years of the twelve on the road. Predictable, I know. If I was a marked man I would stand no chance. Then again—people that are targeted usually don't.

I shrugged to no one in particular. "What can you do? I like the routine." I thought, savoring the self-knowledge that had come through years of introspection. The program of Alcoholics Anonymous, my spiritual expansion through participation in my faith and principles, as well as the sturdy but adverse beginnings I had in life allowed me a great degree of personal development that had produced a stability-anchored mindset of peace and composure I cherished.

Nearing the bustling city that my suburb straddled, I put my game face on. Preparing myself was essential to allow the most outgoing, helpful, and kind version of myself to inhabit my mind, body, and thoughts. I pulled off into a gas station and filled up after taking my exit into the area between downtown and midtown. As I set the pump to the automatic lever which held it in place, I bowed my head slightly and clasped my hands together discreetly.

"Lord, please divorce my thinking from dishonesty, self-centeredness, fear, resentment, and pride. Please allow my thought life plane to be with you and elevated to a dimension of service, gratitude, and love. Help me add to the stream of life, prevent me from taking away from it. In Jesus' name we pray. Amen."

With that I concluded my chat with God, and his son Jesus Christ. Or Sky Daddy, and Junior as I said routinely in casual conversation as a humorous shorthand. I hoped neither of them minded, but something tells me that it's not a big deal. I at least never received any indication that the silly names ever were problematic. However, the rumination tendency inherent in my mind still grappled with it every time that I referred to them by anything but their formal names. I digress.

I grabbed the side of my phone to steady my hand on it, as it was already clasped into the phone holder, and turned on my Uber app first. Within minutes, the familiar sound effect played, alerting me of a new rider in the queue. The first of the night.

The little old lady riding the edge of the curbed sidewalk stuck her hand out as if she was a hitchhiker of yesteryear and then began to wave emphatically as I expertly approached the sidewalk and came to a complete stop. She was still waving.

I rolled the window down and yelled out to her.

"Hi there, I'm right here, your requested Uber?" I said, smile plastered on my worn and tired twelve-hour deep and still swimming face.

She said nothing. Reached for the rear door handle, missed once, then yanked again with a look of consternation. Mean mugging me, she ended up plopping her petite body down with a miniature "plop" like sound when ass made contact with cushioned seat.

"There's some water back there for you if you like, your name is Gina—right?" I said, aiming for reassurance. Bedside manner was my thing now, and had become a skill that I did not have prior to this occupation.

"Thank you, yes. That door is quite sticky and hard to open." She seemed irritated.

"I'm sorry about that ma'am, I'll have to get out to open your door when we arrive at our destination," I said, making sure to keep my tone devoid of tone that would inflame or provoke.

"That would be best." She concluded her line of discussion with this, as my words softened her demeanor and she relaxed into her seat.

I pressed on into the dusk drawing towards night with a sigh. I started in on a time-honored routine at this point, a muscle relaxation meditation that I had memorized in my head. The guided voice was better to listen to, but I could recount the words in my head from memory. Visualization complete, I felt a mile better and more prepared.

The area we cruised through when nearing the destination was not at all where I imagined I would be dropping this passenger off at. Liquor stores dotted every street corner. The unsavory seemed to stalk every crosswalk, and I clutched my concealed carry, momentarily checking on its placement and availability to my dominant hand as I came to a stop at one of the many excessively delayed red lights at a four-way intersection. I knew the risks to being stopped here late at night and would not have bothered with a stoplight even if it was much later than it was. This was the worst neighborhood in 100 miles, and I kept glancing in my rearview to look at my passenger, then back out the windshield to the war zone she had requested transportation to.

I couldn't help myself—I had to inquire. Leaning back into the rear passenger compartment, I let out a hesitant noise of questioning.

"Uhhhhhhhm, is this area near to your destination? It says so here on the directions but I wanted to double check with you before I dropped you off."

"Yes."

"Okay, you sure? Sorry I don't normally ask riders this kind of thing but this is a really bad area and I'm worried about your safety alone here."

"I don't think my safety is any of your concern, sir." Her tone snapped at me. Like a rubber band, it seemed to ricochet its effect back toward her as I caught a glimpse of anxiety, concern, and fear in her eyes.

"Okay, sorry. How about I give you my business card and you can give me a call if you need help of any kind, or assistance in any way. I'll come get you for a ride elsewhere, if you need me." I had these for this purpose exactly, and loved that I was able to form so many connections with them.

"Sure. I could use the contact information. The nature of my work brings me to the darkest places and I am always in need of reliable transportation." Her tone had softened and as she said this she seemed appreciative, expression soft and demeanor shifting toward friendly.

"Certainly ma'am, call me whenever." I handed her one of my business cards from one of the many that I had printed in packs of fifty for my outreach which I effectively ran out of this vehicle.

Coming to a left-hand turn off the intersection-laced main drag of this neighborhood of the city, I slowed to a turning speed a bit faster than I would have used anywhere else. Preempting the brakes, I came to a quick and complete stop—exiting the driver's side door, sliding my Glock into my waistband in one motion.

I came to her door and opened it, allowing her to exit without issue. She thanked me. I called out, "Don't forget, call me!"

She didn't respond or even look at me, as she wandered down the street in an awkward gait, as if she had never worn heeled shoes. Strange. My gut was grumbling, and if I was Spider-Man I would've dropped the Spidey-sense one-liner in a bubble above my head post haste. As her pace slowed she turned into a yard, disappeared past a few men, and then into a single-family home that looked to be inhabited and maintained. I hadn't gotten back in yet. If she thought it was creepy, I could live with that—it was worth the risk to make sure she got inside safe.

Once she stepped inside, I checked my surroundings and got back into the brawler of a sedan that I called home sixty hours a week. I stowed my pistol once I peeled away and had cleared the danger zone. Hidey holes for the gun-and-knife club were abundant and provided ample position in the side streets of this area. Ambush alley was not the time to be complacent.

Once, I too had been in the grips of immorality and destructive behaviors. I escaped by the grace of God and kindness of my fellow man. I was hip to the hood rat. I spent near a decade, decades ago, as one of the very same bandits. The ways and means and methods of the car jack were familiar. Retirement was around the corner. I visualized it as a person, holding all my luggage, wearing white gloves, who existed only to make my life effortless. A man can dream. That dream was not going to be interrupted.

My lofty plans stopped for no man, boy or beast.

I had dotted all my i's and crossed all my t's, and managed to eke out a feasible plan of retirement through a combination of luck and back-breaking hard work. This was my second round of attempting an entrance into the retired club's shiny membership scrolls. Working hard was no unfamiliar friend to me. I had worked for Kroger for 15 years only to be laid off just short of a pension. That kind of bitterness isn't to be trifled with, and I thank my lucky stars as well as my creator I was able to overcome the pity, poor-me doldrums that came with it. Easily, any man in that situation could take the easier path of least resistance—crying to anyone who will listen, assailing the creator, resenting the universe and the people who inhabit this world with me. But something in me prevented that somewhat likely and predictable outcome. I can only thank God and the genetics of resilience imbued in me by my ancestors for my success, as I now fulfilled my last full-time work day ever—for the rest of my life.

I knew that I would not be hanging up the driving for life, or even longer than a few weeks once I retired for real. I was not the type to become an idle bedroom community vegetable. I needed this type of work in order to keep the gears of substance having presence in my mind lubricated with fresh experiences and stimulation of all kinds.

Plywood flew off a pickup truck. I swerved into the next lane as it shot from the truck bed and nearly slammed my windshield—landing on the ground with a clatter and screech as it got recycled by some poor bastard's wheel well. Fortunately, all was well on my end. I stopped in a parking lot to survey my vehicle.

The Walgreens on the corner of this neighborhood's main intersection was pretty well lit, and there was what appeared to be armed security posted to the front of the structure.