I picked him up in the University neighborhood. I was in a talkative mood, as the last passenger had been a child actress and there were stories and stories and more stories.
He got in the front seat carrying a brown paper bag and smelling slightly of some sort of herb. The kind you smell at a Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young show, which was my first concert ever. I asked my sister what that smell was, and she said “nature.” I learned later she was partially correct. It was grown in nature.
Anyway, I asked the man, in a cheerful voice, “Where to this fine morning?”
“I’m going to court. I got an Uber so I wouldn’t have to tell my family.”
“Ah.”
“Don’t tell them.”
“I don’t know them.”
We were quiet the rest of the trip.
I feel like rideshare drivers might be the new bartenders. Strangers enter your space and they know you are an anonymous sounding board; they can say a little or a lot.
I picked up a woman on a Friday morning. After having worked in Salt Lake City for two years, she was finally heading back east to reunite with her husband.
She was 70 pounds heavier than when she’d left. Her husband didn’t know and she was so nervous about how he’d react to seeing her that she almost asked me to turn the car around. I told her to take the advice of Julia Roberts’ co-worker in “Pretty Woman” and “Work it, work it, own it, own it.”
There was another woman I picked up on North Temple. She got in the back seat and seemed agitated. Her phone was pressed to her ear.
“I’m calling about my lab results? They’re supposed to be ready now?”
I have to admit I held my breath. I’ve made that phone call before.
She was quiet. I sent positive vibes toward whatever powerful being had control over the universe (Possibly a lobster from outer space? An omniscient alien from sector 9?).
The lobster came through. With a sigh of relief, she thanked whomever she was talking to and ended the call. We celebrated, as strangers, at her final destination. Reader, we literally hugged it out.
And then there was the time five weeks ago that the roles were reversed. My then-husband and I were passengers in an Uber. On the ride home, we had a disagreement that made it very clear our marriage was crumbling. And our driver was the first to know.
Needless to say, that ride got awkward fast.
I’m not writing this for sympathy. We both tried our best to make it work and nobody is to blame. And yes, we failed, but I got something out of this relationship that I never thought I’d have — a weed trimmer and an extra set of steak knives.
The days following were filled with the logistics of splitting up. Somehow in all the confusion, I think he ended up with my walking shoes. He denies it, but I have proof.
OK, I don’t have proof, but no other explanation for their disappearance makes sense. Or maybe they’ve been in the front closet the whole time. Let me check…
Yep. There they are. My bad.
Anyway, back to why I’m telling you this. I’m a writer, and the fact that I write a rideshare column, and my marriage ended in a rideshare car, could not be ignored. The creative part of my brain wouldn’t allow it.
I often wonder about our Uber driver that night. Did he sign off immediately after the ride? Did he swear off love forever? Did my ex tip him? He probably did.
But these are things I’ll never know because there’s safety in the anonymity of a rideshare driver. Maybe that’s why I get to hear so many secrets.
I don’t know what the future holds. I don’t know what confidences will be shared.
But at least I am armed with a weed whacker. And who knew that the second prize of a second marriage was a set of steak knives?
Brodi Ashton is a New York Times best-selling author who lives in the Salt Lake City area. She’s also an Uber and Lyft driver who shares stories from the road in this occasional column.