As you may remember from last Friday’s story, I flew to Philly on December 9th to meet two colleagues for a big client meeting. The result was a solid, energetic meeting with clear next steps. 

Post meeting, we duck into a “premium” chain steakhouse for a quick lunch before heading home. The restaurant is inviting and set up for the holidays with a well decorated Christmas tree next to the hostess stand. We washed down overcooked burgers and leathery chicken salads with a round of cold beers. The food was bad but the hang was high quality. Is there a more overrated spot than McCormick and Schmicks?

Lunch winds down and we prepare to commute home. I’m headed back to the airport so I dial up an Uber. Two minute wait. I push through the revolving door as “Christopher” pulls up in a silver Chrysler 200M. 

I crack open the back door and am assaulted by heat. The cabin I’m sliding into is an inferno. I run pretty hot as it is and today I’m wearing a puffy jacket with a vest underneath. I’m fucked. I try a “hello” that disappears into the heat without a response. 

Chris doesn’t respond because he’s taking a phone call. Not surprising. In my experience, in every ride I’ve ever hailed, the driver is on the phone. The surprising part is that the call is being broadcast through the car's speakers via bluetooth. I am listening to both sides of the call. 

The subject of this call is car trouble and shady mechanics. A tale as old as time. Chris picks up where he left off, giving the woman (wife? girlfriend?) on the line a ration of shit about the alternator in her car. He calls her a sucker for falling for the dealer’s offer to hook the vehicle up to the diagnostics computer for 89 bucks. He launches into a long diatribe about the business model of car dealerships. They make all of their money on service. She’s quiet except for a couple lukewarm “mm-hmms”. 

I want to shed a couple of layers but the floor under my feet features a few lonely French fries and a plastic single use teeth flosser. Behind the driver’s chair is another flosser and a couple of the fries’ pals. 

The ride to Philly Int’l takes 28 minutes. I’m overheating and the dirty floor makes my skin feel like it’s crawling with bugs. So far, we’ve exchanged no words. I’m unsure if he knows that I’m in the backseat. We get to my terminal and I’m opening the door before we reach a full stop. I say thanks (no response) and make a last check for personal items before slamming the door behind me and taking my last gulp of fresh air before putting my mask on for the next couple hours. I’m left with a few thoughts from the experience.

First, what kind of people are OK with strangers listening to both sides of a phone call? 

Second, what am I supposed to do with Uber’s rating system in this situation? I decided to ignore it for the time being, but they are relentless about it. Days later, when I open the app to have a 30 dollar ice cream sundae dropped off at my house by a stranger, Christopher’s face is staring back at me. The right thing to do is to give him zero stars. He sucks at this gig. I want to ding him but I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m assuming he needs the money. I give him 5 stars and a medium tip and decide to punt the responsibility to his next customer. 

Third, what is it about me where I wouldn’t dream of asking this guy to turn the heat down?

Happy Holidays, everyone.

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