Ride Oversharing
Dear Uber,
I am writing to address my Uber score. Surely there must be some mistake. My children tell me that no one has a score that doesn’t start with a 4. And they know people who vomit in Ubers. Please. Let me explain.
By way of background, my early memories of getting into our family car involved curling up like a pill bug in order to squeeze, alongside the unyielding vertebrae of my sister, into the hatchback of our Gremlin. In case, you are unfamiliar with Gremlins, Uber, they were small two-seaters never intended to be family cars because they lacked a proper backseat. Instead, there was a sloping hatchback resembling a space module, squat and high, making it ideal for transporting birdcages or candelabra, but not two adolescent girls. If you have a sibling and ever fought about backseat space boundaries – “MOM, her leg is touching my leg!” – you still don’t have an inkling about the difficulty of contorting two bodies to fit into a Gremlin hatchback. Worse, the space was made much smaller because of the large sofa cushions my dad insisted on propping up against the hatchback door. He did this because Gremlins were known not just for their odd shape, but also for their propensity to burst into flames when hit from behind. My sister and I would watch in conjoined fear at the incredibly close faces of tailgating drivers, praying those sofa cushions would do their trick.
So, perhaps you can see why I might have a problem with drivers that get right up behind another car, especially when speeding far beyond the recommended New York City limit of 25mph. As was the case with Mahmud, who was rocketing down Madison at a whiplashing 27mph. I only raised my voice because I was concerned the very thick plastic sheeting separating us might dampen the urgency of my plea to please slow down. And the only reason I lifted the sheeting -- I was unaware of its Dexter-like stapling at the time – was to gently tap Mahmud’s arm. The fact that he characterized my actions as “screaming” and “grabbing,” Uber, is a total mischaracterization and perhaps a function of a person who has lived too long in isolation behind very thick plastic sheeting. I would say that I spoke loudly, and only to enhance our dialogue. And in fairness, records will prove that I did check the “happy to chat” option and was thus only exercising my Uber-given right. The right that, sadly, you are now taking away from me for this entire calendar year. A penalty likely to impede my ability to develop real friendships with Uber drivers, which has always been my number one goal.
The thing is, Uber, I am someone who gets along with all people. Really! People love me. Well, love is a powerful word. Let’s not say love: let’s say tolerate. I am tolerated by all people. Almost all people. Just apparently not George. Upon entering George’s Toyota Camry, I asked who he was picking up, as per Uber’s own instructions. Yet George did not respond. Whether due to the ear-splitting decibel level of his EDM music or the haze created by his passion fruit-subway urine-scented air freshener, I cannot know. But since both affected not only my riding pleasure, but the very well-being of my person, after seven terrible minutes in George’s car, I had no choice but to call your safety-incident reporting line. And while I don’t pretend to know the training protocols of your safety incident reporting line, I’m going to go out on a limb and say that laughing at a customer is probably not how you want these things handled. Scent-sensitivity is no laughing matter. The Drakkar Noir years were brutal for me. Nor is it a laughing matter that George, when alerted to my safety incident reporting line call, had me get out of his vehicle on the exit ramp to LaGuardia Airport. With my suitcases, Uber. With my suitcases!! Thank heaven for the yellow cab hero happening by, who rescued me and my luggage, getting me to the terminal just in time. Which is why it pained me to cancel his tip when he couldn’t drop me curbside but at some ridiculous center median. Save that bullshit for O’Hare, buddy.
Uber, did I mention that I am a Capricorn? I feel this explains a lot. The hallmark qualities of a Capricorn are strength, determination, and collaboration. I believe the breakdown in communication between myself and last week’s driver, Pbob, was a function of his misinterpretation of my aforementioned Capricorn qualities. Headed downtown from the Upper West Side, I felt I was at my collaborative best when inquiring of Pbob what kind of person he thought would attempt to go crosstown to the FDR Drive during rush hour when the whole bloody expanse of the West Side Highway existed for optimal cruising. Would it be a person with half a brain, or perhaps, a person with no brain at all? I may have suggested that a person blindly headed to the FDR could only be a moronic, psychopathic, FUCKING IDIOT because who – WHO ELSE, PBOB – would entertain such a route? If Waze told you to drive through a river, Pbob, would you do it? Is there no critical thinking involved in Uber driving, Pbob???!!! It was then and only then that I removed my mask to be sure Pbob could capture the full flavor of my bewilderment. That is why it is frustrating that in addition to the long litany of Uber score tanking behaviors ascribed to me, Pbob tacked on “not wearing a mask.” And while I won’t refute much of Pbob reported – hard to argue with video monitoring – I stand by my mask wearing. I trust you can and will adjust this egregious error on your end.
Just one last teeny, tiny thing, Uber. I almost hesitate to mention it. My last driver insisted on leaving his window open a crack, but locked all the other windows closed, resulting in a reverberation that caused my teeth to rattle so forcefully that they came loose in my mouth. Respecting your recent admonition that I do not speak to drivers, and the fact that my mouth was full of teeth, I bore my pain silently. That being the case, I must now ask you where I might direct my dental bills for reimbursement. I expect to heal shortly and look forward to many more rides ahead! Really hopeful about bumping up my score. Please. I’m begging.
