Rose Pedals and French Accents

 


The Uber jingle alerts me of a potential pickup. I was parked downtown San Jose when I receive the call and quickly accept the ride.  Currently, Uber doesn't provide a destination when sending the rider's request, I only see 64 minutes (the estimated time of arrival at the destination after the pickup). There are only several places which are an hour away from San Jose. I was hoping it was downtown San Francisco or Santa Cruz. I start my car and drive towards the pickup point at Adobe Inc. headquarters in downtown San Jose.

The Uber app tells me the rider's name is Renee. As I approach the pick up location, I search for my rider. I spot her, we make eye contact and I look for a safe place to pull over. She approaches the car. She is tall, at least 5 foot 10 inches. She's thin and well dressed, with blond hair and green eyes. She is physically attractive from a distance and more so close up. Her beauty was uber feminine and unchallenged by any application of makeup. I admire her looks and think the ride will be pleasant. I regard myself as a professional, so my observations are kept to myself.

In an attempt to verify I have the correct rider, I greet her as she enters the car, "Good afternoon Renee". She responds, "Bon jour David, comment ca va?".  I reply, "Ca va bien, toi? She answers, "Tre bon, merci".  She's excited, "Parle Francais!?" I probably let her down a little when I said, "No, no I just spent a lot of time in Montreal".  Her smile is inspiring and I think it's a polite gesture to reciprocate by asking how her day is progressing. Her accent is intoxicating and dare I admit, a bit stimulating. She is not defiant or contrary, as so many conversations can be. Her words flow, she is unabashed. Immediately, she starts to ask questions. With the help of her accent, her words gently fall through the air, soft rose pedals being tossed upon a foot path by a forest nymph. I'm pleased to engage.

She is a journalist for a prominent French financial magazine. Her assignment is to study the culture in Silicon Valley. She was staying in San Francisco for a week and was visiting many of the more well known tech companies in Silicon Valley starting with Apple, though Adobe was a fair shake. In an effort to foster her imagination, I begin my Steve Wozniak story. I tell her about the concert a friend invited me to at the Shoreline Amphitheater in Mountain View, with The Woz. We met Steve early and he showed us around the Amphitheater.  It was just me, my friend and Steve. Steve lead us through unmarked doors to show us a private restaurant. We sat and ate dinner before the concert.  Steve told his four color printer story during Apple's first years; a story the federal government might frown upon. After eating, the waitress offered the check to Steve. I'm not sure if she new Steve dispensed millions of dollars to ensure the Amphitheater's construction or that she even knew who he was, but Steve asked her to wait as he dispensed a tip for her using his perforated two dollar bill trick. They folded out like an accordion and he peeled off several bills. I watched as the waitress stood there with a look of disbelief. "Are those real?" She asked. Boom! Goal achieved!  I laughed and at the same time notice the horripilation on my forearms as I had just witnessed one of the most talked about tech folklore moments of Silicon Valley. I tell her how Steve played Tetris with Rob Gunderson and one other Silicon Valley tech guru the entire concert, not looking up so much as one time as Depeche Mode and Bare Naked Ladies played their sets. I tell Renee about some of the people in Steve's box seating at center stage. I tell her about the conversation I had with a very tall, thin man, probably 6'5" and his very short girlfriend, probably under 5', who was obese and holding a bag of broccoli. His girlfriend stared at him as he spoke and  nodded at everything he said. Renee compliments my eye for detail.

     Before that moment, Renee was seated in the back seat, but as she dispensed her compliment, she moved forward in her seat and leaned on the back of the front passenger seat which placed her with in twenty inches of me. I got a hot flash. I rolled down the window immediately and while trying to justify my sudden move,  I told her, "I just got a hot flash". She giggled. I yelped, "I'm not flirting! I swear!". She giggled again. I'm positive she just couldn't hear me and that's why she moved forward, but that is not the point. She simply noticed her effect on me and was entertained by my response. A few minutes later, after more conversation, she reclined.

Renee booked an Uber Pool. This means that as many as three other riders may be picked up and dropped off along the way to her destination. Around San Mateo, I get an alert that a rider was added to the Pool. Silence falls on our conversation as I focus on directing us towards the next pick up. I am to pick up another person who I will call Katina.


I greeted Katina as she made herself comfortable. Katina was an older Russian women who migrated to the United States several decades ago. She also had a heavy accent, but her English was well spoken. Renee and I had been discussing WeDriveProgress.org and my involvement with the Union building initiative. The topic of socialism came up. I asserted that the word Socialism is being misused in the United States.  Katina entered the conversation with fervor. "I've experienced socialism, I was a child. I agree with you, you must fight for your rights as an employee. Americans never knew socialism, and they don't have any idea what it's like". Katina continued to share her experiences as a child in Moscow. She was very happy to be a US citizen. She is able to travel back to Moscow now and while she is happy to visit, she would never go back. She spoke of the contrasts to the past and the social issues that have risen due to an unregulated and selfish form of capitalism since the fall of the Soviet Union in 1991. She was disgusted by the greed and the declining humanity. She found it unconscionable.

Renee had been taking notes and followed up with more direct questions put to me, regarding WeDriveProgress and California's new law, AB 5. Soon, Renee and Katina engaged in a touching conversation while I continued to focus on the drive. It was nothing less than auditory art listening to the Russian accent and the French accent entwined in conversation. It was heart felt, the way they spoke to each other. Renee sharing stories of French protests and Katina's effort to agree and validate. Katina's stories evoked a certain resolve in the human spirit.

     I drop off Katina in the Portola area in San Francisco and Renee and I continue to the final destination. Renee and I turn the conversation more personal. I talk about my attempt at writing a book about a life experience I recently had and a blog about Uber driving. She talked about her deeper need to fulfill her desire to become a novelist. She wanted to write fiction and felt creatively restrained in her position as a journalist.

     We arrived at The San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. I pulled to the curb. "We're here", I said. Renee was surprised, "Oh this is the museum?".  I was parked at the curb, but she was unsure in someway and didn't exit the car right away.  Eventually, she reached for the door handle and turned to me. I spoke most of the French I know, "Enchante mon amie, Au revior, merci beaucoup Renee". As Renee paused, she smiled, "Your accent is very good David, you should learn more French." I told her I would work on it and winked. She looked fixedly in my eyes. I returned her gaze. It felt timeless to me but it lasted at least five seconds. Her novel could have been written in that moment. Eventually she smiled and softly said, "goodbye". She could have been holding a knife in my heart, but it still felt like two vicodin and one Martini. She exited the car. Lyrics from The Wizard of Oz pop into my head, "I'd be friends with all the sparrows and that boy that shoots the arrows, if I only had a heart". I whistle the last part of the melody.

    Sure, I can talk all day about the intoxicating beauty which comes naturally to some European women, but there was more to this trip. I drive off with my head deep in thought (and my heart in my throat) and summarize the hour and a half trip. I was just in the car with two people from opposite sides of the world who shared their experiences about their governments and the perpetual good fight for human rights.

What Do Cinderella, Truman Capote and King Henry VIII have in Common?

The Uber jingle alerted me to a pickup in Cupertino, a 23 minute trip.  I accepted the ride and meandered through the Cupertino suburbs and arrived at the pickup address.  I didn't wait long before the rider approached the car.  I will call him Marvin.  I couldn't help but notice that Marvin was wearing 1970's style basketball shorts which were two sizes too small. They were too tight and fit in a way that was reminiscent of the way King Henry VIII wore his armor.  Marvin had a growing potbelly pushing through a ribbed A-frame tank top.  The tank top was tucked into his shorts; thoughtful, I think.  A faded ketchup stain on his tank top rest at the top of his protruding belly. He tentatively reached for the car door handle and fought with its weight as he pulled it open.  I considered getting out of the car to help him with the door, but soon he made it through. We greet each other respectfully. He is well mannered and polite.




He looks like a very young Truman Capote, but with curly uncombed hair which did not entirely cover his head. He's wearing thin gold wire ellipse shaped glasses almost the exact size of his eyes. The image of Truman Capote wearing one of his classic black felt hats pops into my head. Marvin didn't speak as effeminately as Truman Capote, however,  his choice of couture lends itself to the proclivity.

I notice that the destination address includes the name of a school. So I begin. I ask, "Are you heading to school this morning?" (I can ask dumb questions too).  Three seconds pass, he replies, "Yes".  I glance at him in the rear view mirror wondering if I had interrupted an activity, as I try to account for the delay in his response.  He is staring out the window.  I try again, "Are you a student or a teacher?" Three seconds pass. With a natural diffidence he replies, "I'm a student". We reach a brief lull in the conversation.  A few moments pass. I'm hoping to hit it out of the park on my third swing, "What are you studying?".  One, two, three. Again, his response was timid, "I'm studying Animation". Usually I just stop talking if some one is not willing to play Wack-A-Mole in a conversation, but this is a subject in which I have professional experience. I mention that I once created animation cells for Time Warner Interactive and Atari Games for coin operated arcade games. This peaks Marvin's interest and he prepares to speak, though I had to wait another three seconds before he said it.  He shifts himself in his seat and starts asking questions. "Did you draw the images by hand?"  I wait. One, two, three, then I answer. Now I'm practicing his pace. "Did you use film?",  he asked. I wait. One, two, three, then I answer with one word. He asks another question, "What games did you make?" I wait. One, two, three.  It's unlike me to truncate my response to anyone, with any question, but I assimilated a certain rhythm in our conversation and was enjoying the three second rule.  I decided to volley, "What do you think of Anime?" He waits. One, two, three. This time he spoke as though he was giving thought to each word as it exited his mouth. "I-haven't-watched-a-lot-of-it".  I have a sense of something not being quite right with Marvin.  Silently, I continue to be triggered.  Aside from that, the conversation seems to start flowing. I point out the similarity in Anime and Disney film in that they were both, at one time or another, considered the leading cultural style of animation respective to their country. One, two, three, "I (two second pause), I like the Disney films". "Do you (two second pause) have a favorite Disney film?". Kind of him to inquire. I expresses my first thought, "Fantasia is my favorite Disney film, but I wasn't able to stay awake for the whole thing until I was in my teens". Marvin didn't know what to think of that answer, so he just nodded and shifted his focus back to staring out the window.  At the very least, I was expecting a chuckle, but there was none.  He soon volunteers more information.  This time his words came out of his mouth quickly and with some force, "I like Cinderella the best".  Interesting choice, I say to myself.  I think that may have been his version of an overshare. "What was it about the film you enjoyed the most?",  I ask.  Marvin's energy completely changed, the flood gates have opened. I struck gold. Through my entire life, even with three older sisters, I did not learn as much about the Disney Princesses as I learned in that twenty-five minutes.  Marvin explains, Cinderella's real name is Mary Beth Ella Gertrude. Her ill-tempered older sisters were step-sisters to her, which explains their jealousy, selfishness and the mistreatment imposed on Cinderella. Their poor behavior is due to being raised in a broken home, according to Marvin. I ask, "Do you live with your parents, Marvin?" "I live with my Grandmother", he says. I guess Marvin's age to be somewhere in his early forties.  I didn't ask where his parents had gone.  I'm afraid to ask.  He continues, "Maleficent turned evil because her parents where killed by humans".  He goes on to explain the connections between The Brother Grimm's stories and Sleeping Beauty and more.  I interrupt, "I'm confused Marvin, but I'm curious to know what you want to do with this knowledge".  At this point I find the depth of his understanding staggering, but I also notice the first signs of confidence in his expression. In a way I'm pleased to recognize his passion. With a voice of commitment he say's, "I want to make a documentary".  "Thats fantastic!" I exclaim. His attention again turns out the window to the passing traffic.

     

     Silence lingers in the car and the sounds of traffic sooth. I was taking inventory of the cadence in our conversation.  In my reflection I have an epiphany.  Marvin's parlance is indicative of a person who has had the training necessary to overcome a childhood speech impediment. He may have stuttered. Then I wonder if because of that speech impediment he developed a behavioral inhibition.  I can only imagine that he may have been teased by children who were purposefully cruel.  Or perhaps the teasing came first.  In any case, his parents may have sheltered him, as would be the response of caring parents. That may explain his introversion too.  I get that, but I'm not an expert. I'm only adding up my observations.    

     Whatever it was, overall, it occurs to me that he had expressed a heart felt passion, something deeply personal and important to him. It must have been difficult for him to open up like that. I wonder what went on in his head or heart for that matter. Perhaps in a way, he felt like Cinderella. After all, her story appears to have parallels. She was a hard worker who never had anything negative to say about anyone. She was humble and kind, even though she was subject to cruelty unnecessarily.  Or perhaps part of him feels a bit evil, like Maleficent, spiteful and resentful, because his parents had been taken from him. Now my imagination contributes to his story.

     We arrive at his school. "Is this the front door Marvin?". "Yes", he said. "Good luck, Marvin. Study hard!" I regret saying it as soon as the words left my mouth, as the image of his couture flashed in my mind. His energy picked up as he opened the door. He said thank you and walked with an accelerated pace towards the entrance.  I enjoyed our conversation. I have a lot to think about. He, like all of us, is seeking fulfillment and purpose.  I could only respect him for expressing his passion. He trusted me with something very personal and in a way I'm honored.

Oh Beth What Can I Do?

          The Uber jingle alerts me to a potential pickup in the Mission District in San Francisco. I will call the rider Beth. I follow the blue line to the green dot (Uber driver app specific). I spot her leaning against a street light post. She looked like a supermodel who just left a photo shoot; not a drag queen, but a supermodel.  She stumbles into the car. She is extremely inebriated and reeked of alcohol, the air in the car thickens. "Hi Beth", I said.  She tried to answer and before then, I hadn't realized it was possible to slur the word "Hi".  She lived in the Cow Hollow area, so it was going to take some time. The Uber app says the trip will take 20 minutes, but the app is rarely correct in its estimations. I didn't say anything to her as I expect it would be really hard to understand anything she said, so I just focused on driving in silence. I cross my fingers hoping that later, I wouldn't be trying to find a place to wash my car's upholstery. 

After sitting in stoplight traffic for 20 minutes, I look to the back seat from the rear view mirror and she had fallen asleep. That was fine. Good for her I thought, sleep it off. So many scenarios went through my head. Will she die like a Rock Star by drowning in her own vomit? If she pukes, I'll have to pull over. My stress comes from a basic fear of the unknown in this moment. As I approach her address, I turn a corner and hear fabric against fabric sliding, she had fallen over, passed out in the back seat. "Oh Shit", I said under my breath. It was just a few more minutes until I reached her address. I found a place to pull over, which you may or may not know is nearly impossible in San Francisco, I consider myself lucky.  I open the door and said, "Beth?, we're here".  No answer, no movement. I repeat myself a bit louder this time, "Beth? Beth? We're here".  No answer, no movement. I pause to consider my options. In days past it would have been considered a gentle gesture to shake someone's shoulder in this scenario. But not in this future. More scenarios pass through my mind. I can't leave her on the sidewalk, even if I could remove her from my car. The thought of being here with her for an extended amount of time concerns me as it could impact my income for the day.  If I call the Police, she could be fined for being drunk in public. If I call an ambulance, it could cost her a lot of money. Though I will consider it if the situation becomes life threatening, but then it might be life threatening now as I have no idea how much she drank. I left her there in the car and went to the door to the address she gave, hoping she had roommates. I knocked. A man answered the door. I thought I had the issue resolved and I was a bit relieved.  

Not the actual building...

"Hi, I'm Beth's Uber driver and she is unable to exit my car."

"Who the Fuck is Beth?", he says. 

"She entered this address as her drop off",  I point out. 

"Well she doesn't live here",  he slams the door.  His response strikes me as disrespectful. "Sorry, I can't help you" would have been a more human offering and at the same time I realize I'm self conscious as an Uber driver at 58 years old. I feel my cheeks turning red.

I go to the next door and knock, no answer. I knock again. No answer.  I go to the next door and knock, no answer. I try all four doors at that building. I decide to go to the next building and promise myself this is the last building I'm going to before I call an ambulance for Beth (An ambulance is a better choice, as a ticket would cost more and offer no medical assistance). I look back to make sure Beth is still in the car, I see no movement, but somehow her high heel was sticking out of the open door. 

I knock on the first door. No answer. "Fuck", I say silently.  I'm feeling embarrassed and I'm frustrated. I knock on the 2nd door, a young women answers. "Hi, I'm an Uber driver and I'm trying to drop off a rider, her name is Beth, do you .."

"Oh shit, Beth. Where is she?" she exclaims.

"She passed out in my back seat, I need someone she knows to get her out of the car." 

"Of course, of course, hold on". 

I didn't ask her name, but she was able to wake Beth and usher her out of the vehicle. I politely offered my help, but her roommate insisted she could handle Beth by herself. I suspected having a stranger, specially an Uber driver help her, may have been discomforting.  I closed the door and left as they struggled on the sidewalk. Just a few feet away, while I was at a stop sign, I looked back to watch them nearly fall. I didn't hang around long enough to watch them negotiate the ten steps to their front door.

It's not unusual for women to give anonymous addresses for pick ups and drops offs, many other people take this approach as well. This is done in an attempt to protect them from the creeps of the world, I get it. I felt lucky to be done with that ride, but I know from experience others like this are coming soon.

 * * *

          Like Coke, Uber has now reached a brand status which appears sealed in social interaction and pop culture. Even people who use Lyft occasionally refer to it casually - "I'm going to Uber". Uber is the new floating convertible, gliding across the dessert on a remote planet in deep space and I, like Obi Wan, meet many types of odd and seemingly normal beings while driving. There is one thing I can say with certainty, everyone has a story and some of these stories can be deeply personal.

It is easy to imagine that many people hold judgements about the type of person who drives for Uber and about the work itself. That is, if they think about it at all. Distain and mockery for the Uber driver is frequently expressed and it could be argued that it is natural course. It seems to be a silent, but common understanding amongst the populace that Uber drivers are inept, anti-social, incapable, mindless, untalented individuals. It is an assumption that Uber drivers where born yesterday and never accomplished anything else in their lives, that they had no passion. It is also a common belief that there is truth in every joke.

Often, during the transport of riders, I find myself enduring repeated attempts to penetrate that barrier; the barrier formed of unease and retention. I am not insensitive, so I easily accept not speaking with my riders, but I am also aware that not all my riders seek to impose this boundary, thereby voluntarily engaging in conversation. I've discovered that people are wrapped up in their own stories, their own moments, their own thoughts, their own life. The inside of a car can be a quiet respite from all of that mind fodder and in contrast, snowball into a fervent and comedic cacophony. I enjoy both at times. 

There is much to observe from the driver seat. It's similar to being the hairdresser, or massage therapist or dentist asking you questions while his fingers are in your mouth. Equally, there is so much to consider outside conversation. I've grown a sensitivity to my various observations and physical senses while driving for Uber. I think about how they tie into current events, past and present. Because I travel up to 12 hours a day in a car in greater portions of California's Silicon Valley and surrounding Bay Area, I have much to take in.  I was born here. In that time it has become an epicenter of international commerce; the tech capitol of the world. That fact is an important consideration and is occasionally weaved into my posts, but whether or not a conversation commences during any particular ride, I still apply my imagination, instincts and intuition.  

Many would assert that driving for Uber is a simple matter of driving from point to point. That there is no skill to be had or to advance in, that it is devoid of intellectual pursuit. Those opinions may hold some truth, but consider this, the human condition it seems, is universal.  For me, driving for Uber is a unique place from which to observe and to take note.

In any one day, I will see license plates from all over the United States; Montana, Nevada, Louisiana, New Jersey, New York, Michigan, Minnesota, Oklahoma and more. Each day I will hear at least ten different languages, Chinese (Cantonese and Mandarin), Farse, Hindi, Taiwanese, Arabic, Spanish (Mexican and European), Portuguese and more. So far there is enough evidence to suggest that there is a common thread in the human condition.

I liken my following blog post's stories to the Japanese Pachinko game, where the rider's stories are the steel balls. They make a lot of noise as the bounce down chaotically and independently, inevitably landing in the same place - This is why I blog, this is what I want to share.