‘Anyone ever puked in your car?’

It’s the question I’m asked more often than any other and, for what it’s worth, the least interesting. But I’m a trollop for a captive audience, so here’s the short answer:

Sort of.

We’ve survived a series of near-misses, the old girl and me: jettison-spewing through the rear driver-side window, chunk-spittling from the rear passenger-side seat that just clears the door, and a traffic-stopping, exit-and-stagger into a full-body, curb-painting Pollock By Innards®. The Sonata required a profoundly humbling hose-down of shame one hot morning after, but her interior has remained (*crossing fingers and toes*) unsullied.

That makes me lucky. My horror stories pale in comparison to those of others – and they go on for miles. Drive long enough, and you’re eventually initiated into humanity’s worst-ever club, the Uber Order of Upchuck. Our members are legion, and we are Not. Fucking. Happy.

Which leads me to a recent rideshare development: Uber’s drunk detection software. It’s another in a long line of well-intentioned ideas that appear to have been workshopped in the Bay Area headquarters by LSD-addled chimps.

Here’s how it works: The company’s very best and nerdiest were chained to a table in a windowless conference room until they’d slide-ruled their algorithms and mainframed their geo-bots to determine measurables such as riders’ movements and reaction times. Basically, they geeked out and jerry-rigged the app to learn if a rider would have a high probability of being a staggering, low-functioning, besotted wanker.

You can see how this might upset some people. Hell, maybe you’re one of them. And I get it. Drunks need rides. Need ’em even more than the average rider, right? Uber, if we’re being honest, is the Patron Saint of Thwarted DUIs (and Completed Booty Calls). And so we’ve stumbled upon a far more interesting question than our original: Why wouldn’t the company – and its drivers – embrace the debauched masses?

Short answer: Because you’re dicks.

Now, I realize a blanket statement like this is lazy and potentially hurtful. It’s true that many of you are perfectly lovable, harmless messes. God bless you. But let’s not get caught up in #AllRidersMatter silliness. We live in a society, and in a society civilized people do not puke on the upholstery of perfect strangers.

If you don’t get it, I can’t help you.

See, the Sonata is my car. My car. It is not a taxi. It is not a CTA bus or an L car or a park bench. You might also notice that it is not a dimly lit alley or a nook behind a dumpster or your weed guy’s basement toilet. It’s the car I drive to work every day. It’s the car I drive to drop off my kids at school or basketball practice, and it’s the car I drive to take my wife out to dinner. I care for it, I clean it, and I expect it to never be forced to know the contents of your gut.

Cleaning fee? GTFO. If I’m lucky enough to be reimbursed by Uber for the damage – it isn’t a sure thing – I’m still stuck dealing with the aftermath of The Purge: I take a loss on whatever remaining fares I might have scored, shut down for the night. I enjoy a lovely ride home chauffeuring some dingus’ half-digested dinner. And assuming I’m willing to pony up for a service, and in the unlikely event that Uber’s fee covers the entirety of the cost, I have to to let the detritus marinate my back seat until the dudes in the hazmat suits go to work. It’s either that or take on Barf Detail myself.

I’m gonna go out on a limb and say Uber’s drunk detection software – like many things Uber – isn’t perfect. Some not-unreasonably sozzled imbibers may be denied a ride on their first try. Maybe a perfectly sober commuter is initially shut down while trying to navigate the app on a bouncy train car. To this, I say: Tough shit. We live in a society, and in a society civilized people make decisions based on the common good. Even if they’re imperfect, steps taken to protect the vehicle and welfare (and maybe even the dignity) of an Uber driver, and perhaps additional riders, are steps in the right direction.

Am I harshing your buzz? Well, that’s the idea. Grab a water. Take a load off. Or stumble to the IHOP and throw down a stack. Give it a tick before you dial me up. I’ll be glad to get you home safely. We’ll get through this together.

But if that just won’t do? If adhering to a basic standard of decency and respect for your fellow man (and his beloved midsize sedan) is a bridge too far? Try the CTA. Or, if you like, across the way I see a nook behind that dumpster. It’s got your name on it.

Patrick

The dumbshit grabbed my head.

It’s that simple, really. The kid crossed a line. But he didn’t do himself any favors leading up to it, either: He kept me waiting. He required a laughable amount of hand-holding to make it to the door of the Sonata. And his first contact with me suggested the soft, stupid disrespect of a college-age doofus whose worldliness extended no further than the wall of empty Molson cans he erected in his summer sublet.

I pretty much hated Patrick from the start.

It’s coming up on 3 a.m., and I’m headed toward the one area near my ‘hood where the bars stayed open late. I’m hunting for one last fare—maybe two—before heading home. Halfway to my destination, I receive a ping.

The name: Franz. An older gent, I figure. Probably a European immigrant, who, in my Uber experience, have been almost unfailingly polite and low-maintenance. Franz. Sounds harmless enough. On a Saturday night, at this late hour, he sounds perfect.

Franz remained in near-constant contact while searching for the detonato-, er, his son.

But when I reach the pickup spot—a well-kept mid-century ranch located in a posh residential suburbanscape west of the city—not a soul can be found. I troll ahead a bit, turn around, park. I flip on my blinkers and wait. And wait. Finally, a call. It’s Franz.

“Jason?” a cheerful, earnest voice asks. I detect an accent, the hint of a Low Countries lilt. “This is Franz. I’m calling for my 20-year-old son, Patrick. Is he there?”

“Hi, Franz,” I answer, glancing at the house. “No, I don’t see anyone yet.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. He should be on his way out now. I ordered the ride for him on my app and I just want to make sure everything works out OK. Thank you for being so patient. Would you please call me in a couple minutes if he doesn’t come out?”

“Yeah,” I blurt out, just glad—like a squirrel looking for a nut—to find a little appreciation for my efforts. “Yeah, I’ll let you know.”

Franz and I hang up. Minutes pass. Still nothing—literally, crickets. The front room of the house, lit by an artsy-fartsy lamp in a bay window the size of an IMAX screen, shows no activity. Our boy Patrick remains MIA. Again, the phone rings.

“Hi, Jason,” Franz coos. “Is Patrick with you yet?”

“No, sorry. No sign of anyone.”

“Hmmm. Let me call him now. He should already be there. Can I call you back in a moment? I don’t want to inconvenience you. But if he comes out, please do call me back and let me know if there are any problems.”

I say goodbye and turn again to the house. Suddenly, my Uber-senses are tingling. “Problems”? What sort of problems? Is the kid some sort of second coming of Damien the Antichrist? Franz … bubby … who are we dealing with here? Earlier, he’d said something about “making sure everything works out OK.” I initially chalked it up as a provincial quirk, but now I’m not so sure. I’d been outside idling for 10 minutes, received two phone calls from the old man, stewed over all the riders I could be scooping up right now—but still no Patrick.

A childhood photo of everyone’s favorite little hellion.

Then, iPhone chimes. It’s Franz. Again.

“Hello, Jason,” he says, almost apologetically. “Has Patrick arrived?”

I stare into the IMAX screen, looking for proof of life. Finally, there is stirring. Shadows flicker. A figure darkens the corridor. Then more, advancing toward the door, onto the front stoop. Now I can distinctly make out the silhouettes of several … bros.

They’re slapping hands, bro-hugging, bullshitting. A tall, slender, dark-haired man-child takes two steps toward the Sonata. Then, slowly, another. Now he wheels around, shuffling back toward his boys. Then a backwards step in my direction. Patrick appears to be drunk. And, quite possibly, an imbecile.

“Uh, yes,” I tell Franz. “It looks like he’s making his way over here.”

“Oh, good.”

We exchange a few more forced pleasantries before the boy reaches my car and Franz signs off.

“Sorry to have made you wait. Again, I just want to make sure all goes well. If you need anything, please do call me back.”

Patrick opens the rear passenger-side door and crumples into the seat, catching the tail end of my discussion with the old man. He would have heard “sorry” and “made you wait,” coupled with daddy’s concern that “all goes well” on the 12-minute sojourn home. Franz, you see, is a helicopter parent and an enabler. But if he’d instilled so much as a shred of awareness or courtesy in the kid, Patrick would have mustered a fuzzy half-apology to grease my wheels.

Alas …

“What’s up, man.”

Not a “sorry.” Not a “my bad.” Not even an answer in the form of a question, Alex. His muffled “What’s up, man” was a throwaway statement from Patrick that, yes, he had indeed arrived and, blessedly, I was now free to ferry him home posthaste.

“Hey.”

In the moment, it was all I could offer—that and a pounded accelerator pedal.

Patrick begins giving directions home, but he soon trails off, surrendering to drunkenness, boredom or the stark realization that I have a fucking GPS app with the prescribed route on my phone perched on the dash. It’s also possible that he senses my condition has advanced beyond irritated to a level approaching homicidal. He falls quiet, and when I notice his head dance like a bobber in my rearview, I assume he’s passed out. Thank Christ. Eight minutes until I dump Junior on daddy’s doorstep.

From the backseat, though, the silence is broken.

“What’s up, Brandon?”

Patrick is calling one of his bro-buddies, I assume. This isn’t unusual. Riders often jump on the phone without warning, so I think nothing of it. It’s very late, the kid is only nominally coherent, and I can’t imagine what they’d have to talk about at this point, but I honestly don’t think twice about it.

“Hell-ho?” Patrick huffs.

Connection problems? Maybe his buddy is as blotto as Patrick is, and isn’t answering back. I don’t even steal a glance in the mirror to find out. I don’t give a shit. I’m just ready for a couple stiff drinks back home before bed.

But that’s when it comes.

Face forward, eyes on the road and mind keenly focused on the bottle of Absolut waiting at home, I nearly jump out of my skin when, reaching from out of the darkness behind me, Patrick’s fingertips settle around the crown of my head, palming it like a Wilson Evolution.

Now, two nights earlier, I had been handled somewhat similarly. The rider doing the handling, however, was a gorgeous, mildly tipsy woman in her early 30s, who was deeply impressed by my beard and then asked if she could touch my hair. (Not one to offend a lady, I complied.) But this business with Patrick? A different ballgame: Unexpected. Uninvited. Unequivocally uncool.

I hit the brake, spin in my seat and stare down the kid. If I hadn’t had my back turned and both hands on the wheel, I might have, without thinking, balled up one of them and winged it at his temple. I was glad that I didn’t, of course, but now the mood in the Sonata has shifted dramatically.

“I was just saying hello,” Patrick sneers at me. Again, this is not an apology. He’s defensive, bothered that I have failed to recognize that my name is actually “Brandon.” It’s my fault that he has wasted my time, fallen in a boozy heap into my car and then put hands—or hand—on me.

Having quickly scuttled my knee-jerk punch-to-the-face instinct, I’ve moved on to the where-might-I-stuff-this-kid’s-lifeless-body-in-a-barrel-and-bury-it-deep-below-the-Earth? phase of anger. I say nothing to Patrick, turn and continue driving. Five more minutes. Just five more minutes to chew on my rage. Five minutes between Patrick and the rest of his at-this-moment-undeserved life.

The car is silent, but my head is spinning. In the back, Patrick is either doleful or indifferent. I can’t tell. I think of myself at his age. Was I that oblivious? That fucking stupid? No. But was I worse than I remember? Maybe. I think of Franz. Does he know his kid is a tool, on the verge of exploding into an asshole supernova? Unlikely, but possible. Could Franz just be a bumbling but well-intentioned father? Would he be embarrassed by his son’s behavior? Would he smirk and write it off as youthful indiscretion? I think of my own boys. Great kids, both, but not perfect. And, at ages 14 and 12, not remotely out of the woods. Might I, for all I knew, have a couple of Patricks-in-waiting on my hands? Parents are all martyrs—just ask any of them—but raising a child is exceptionally challenging. Franz sounded like a good guy. How bad could his kid be? Perhaps I was being too hard on this young, besotted boob.

We pull up to the destination, a brick townhouse where roughly a half-dozen adults congregate in the garage. Again, the hour is an obscene one. The group is yukking it up. I spot a few Solo cups. Patrick steps out of the Sonata, ducks his head back into the car for a moment. “Thanks,” he says. And it almost sounds sincere.

He whirls, sashays toward the garage, arms outstretched in an “Are you not entertained?” pose. Franz—it has to be him—calls out to Patrick, doesn’t take his eyes off him. But he isn’t upset. He’s … proud?

When I back out of the drive, neither Franz nor Patrick glance my way. As I study the mask of mock outrage and amusement on dad’s face, notice mom standing in the doorway grinning, and watch the boy throw up his hands to signal touchdown, I find myself caught between a chuckle and my curiosity in the average sentencing length for a firebombing.

Zuri

The calm after the drunken maelstrom.

I roll up to one of my usual haunts a bit reluctantly, aware as ever that the place will be thick with soused imbeciles.

In the wee hours of any Friday night in downtown Naperville—not far from my own ‘hood—you’ll find no small number of people seeking transportation from piss-drunken revelry to a waiting bed or, for the more strategically minded, a toilet-seat face-perch. It’s barrel-fish-shooting for an Uber driver, but it comes with risks.

Exhibit A: Zuri.

A petite, half-dressed young woman in her early 20s, Zuri wobbles through the boozy mass of humanity that has spilled into the street outside the bar. Although she would have been immediately notified by the app that her chariot awaits, Zuri isn’t the first rider to treat Uber like a personal car service. When she flops into the back seat of the Sonata, it’s already been several minutes since I arrived and she is on the clock. And on my nerves.

“Hold on a sec” are the first words she speaks after I greet her. “We’re waiting on a couple others.”

Initially annoyed by her punctuality, I’m now irritated by her manners—and her choice in friends.

“Where are you?” Zuri hisses into her phone.

I can make out the response: “I’ve gotta go to the bathroom before we can come out.”

“No, just hold it,” Zuri answers back. “I’m already in the Uber.”

“I can’t! I’ve really gotta pee.”

“Hurry up!” Zuri snaps.

Why Nancy Drew and the Clue Crew haven’t worked out the logistics of their bathroom schedule before ordering an Uber is beyond me, but we’re already five minutes into Zuri’s “ride” and the Sonata hasn’t budged.

“They’re coming,” she tells me matter-of-factly.

They are not coming.

They won’t get to my car soon, anyhow, and that’s a problem. If the Uber isn’t moving, I’m not earning. Even during a ride, I make only 15 cents a minute. If I’m stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic, that’s $9 an hour. Minimum wage. None of this accounts for my time between rides, gas money, wear and tear on the Sonata, or opportunity cost. It also means I’m no closer to hitting a ride bonus that has become an essential part of my take-home pay. As I ponder grocery bills and doctor co-pays and mortgage payments while the seconds tick away, the overhead dome light flicks on and a wave of humidity floods the cab. Zuri has a surprise for me.

“I’m just opening the door for a sec to puke.”

Really?

Horrified, I look over my shoulder to find Zuri—ass still planted firmly in the rear right seat—hanging off the interior door handle, the Sonata still agonizingly within range of her projected spewing arc. Really.

Understand, I don’t have a lot of rules. With a healthy mistrust of authority and a distaste for rules in general, I believe it’s only fair that I don’t draw too many lines in the sand myself. But I do have one golden rule: Thou shalt not puke. I talk of it often. It’s right there in my too-clever Twitter bio. I remind riders that I shuttle my kids to and from basketball practices and band recitals and dental appointments in the same unremarkable—yet fastidiously cleaned—automobile in which they sit.

And here, now, Zuri threatens to empty her insides across its starboard bow.

“Uh-uh,” I sputter. “I need you to get outside the car.”

Zuri, hacking and spitting at the pavement but not yet in full-on chunk-blowing mode, suddenly snaps to attention in her seat. She exudes the calm of a Buddhist monk.

“Uber driver. Uber driver. Uber driver,” she chants at me.

I’m three feet away. I hear her. I’m also the only person, let alone Uber driver, in the car. Also, also: She can instantly learn my name—through the app opened on the screen of the phone in her hand—but instead calls me “Uber driver.” She juts her right pinkie at me.

“Look into my eyes,” Zuri says. “Look into my eyes.”

I’m already looking at her. To be accurate, I’m staring lasers through her.

“I pinkie promise,” Zuri says earnestly, “I will not throw up in your car.”

Her pinkie extends toward me like an olive branch. I melt just a little. She actually appears to be in control of her faculties. I’ve been in her tiny little high-heeled shoes before, and I can tell you that a little sympathy toward the over-served can go a long way. “You tell me right away if you have to puke,” I say sternly. “I’ll stop—I’ll stop in the middle of the street if I have to—and you’ll get out.”

She doesn’t blink. I exhale. She smiles. I hook her pinkie with mine.

Then Zuri’s phone rings. The back-and-forth is muffled this time. But we’re friends now, and I relax just a little, feeling reasonably certain that I’ll have this inebriated, adorable little lady tyrant and her friends on their way soon enough. Zuri nods, swipes her phone and looks up at me with all the self-assuredness of a five-star general.

“Just give them five more minutes.”

“Get out.”

Let’s review the rules

As Moses once proclaimed: “We got rules for a reason, BoJack.”

It isn’t hard to be an easy rider. Every Puritan, Boy Scout and sober, well-adjusted citizen of the world knows instinctively how to behave inside another person’s vehicle. But guess what? That ain’t my clientele.

So, briefly, a review of the Uber rules:

1. No puking. My singular, immutable, die-on-that-hill rule. If you must puke, don’t get in the Uber. If you are already in the Uber, you must not puke. If you face any confusion regarding this rule, simply pass into the next life, Bon Scott-style, and I promise to sort it out with your next of kin.

2. No smoking. That means no cigs, no stogies, no blunts. No hookahs, vaporizers or whatever numbnuts contraptions you haze fiends have created back at the lab.

I get it: Those 12 minutes in my Sonata are precious moments you could be turning your lungs into fried Spam, and you can never get that time back. Find a way to cope. It builds character.

3. No booze in the car. Makes sense, right? Tell that to my riders.

It’s simple: Uber isn’t a party bus. Drivers sign up to shuttle riders safely from Point A to Point B, not to risk open container citations for drunken, dimwitted strangers. Also, not for nothing, see Rule 1.

4. Four belts, four riders. Look, Copernicus, the math checks out: one seat and one belt per rider. My ride isn’t a clown car. It isn’t a flophouse. The high school pep band will not, in fact, fit into the cabin of this mid-size, four-door sedan. Broken axles and wrongful death suits aren’t my thing, so buy a sixer of Natty Ice instead of the case of Pabst and pony up for the second Uber.

And, no, bro: You aren’t going to tip me if I’ll just “be cool.” You know it. I know it.

5. Clean up after yourself. I’ve had customers seemingly mistake my ride for the dessert buffet at the Ponderosa in Hammond, Indiana. Some nights, I would swear the Local 745 United Steelworkers had held their poker night in my back seat. Just a week ago, I picked up a grumpy cat who demanded tissue (all I had were napkins), then honked for 20 minutes before leaving the phlegmy remains scattered around my floorboards.

Best practices: If you’re on the short list to appear on Hoarders, or even if you’re just a garden-variety filthy animal, ignore every basic instinct and cosplay Martha Stewart until you see my tail lights round the corner.

6. Ask—don’t tell—if you’d like a stop-off. Uber’s rules for stops between pickup and destination are ambiguous. The company doesn’t prohibit them, but it stops short of requiring drivers to accept them. For the record, I’ve never turned one down—even last night’s gas station pit stop in a supremely dangerous Chicago neighborhood. (Hey, Ramona needed snacks.)

But this isn’t a concierge service, Sir Periwinkle. For 15 cents a minute (yes, that’s the going rate for UberX), consider it an executive decision left up to the driver. We make our money on miles, plus bonuses for number of trips made. So if you’re gonna stand in the way of that, don’t be a jagoff and …

7. Don’t be afraid to tip. News flash: There is literally nothing stopping you from tipping your driver. Uber champions its cashless app but provides no tipping option within it, implicitly okaying you to stiff its employees. Drivers, when offered, are instructed to remind riders that tipping isn’t necessary. (And I have, in all honestly, uttered the phrase “No, that’s too much” in response to a handful of over-the-top tips.)

But mama didn’t raise no fool. If you throw me a few bucks, I’ll look you in the eye, offer my heartfelt appreciation and, without a second thought, stuff those bills away like a ravenous pack rat. We earn this shit.

Veronica

I’m an easygoing, affable guy. Ask around. I avoid drama like most people do herpes. No time for the nonsense, you know? Don’t start nothing, won’t be nothing.

So, for the love of Christ, what was Veronica’s beef with me?

It was about three weeks back, past midnight, when I rolled up to the spot, a quaint little area in a quaint little Chicago suburb. Here, ambling about a deserted downtown street, were a couple of women in their mid- to late-40s.

They were blotto.

Which is fine. I’ve been known to, uh, take a nip myself. And I’d ferried drunks home before. Driving Uber, it’s part of the deal. Hell, some nights it’s the whole deal. Get shitfaced. Come ride with us.

(Note to Uber Human Resources: Call me. There’s plenty more marketing gold where that came from.)

At any rate, Veronica doesn’t fit the mold of the happy/silly/bubbly lush. She’s sarcastic. Belligerent. She’s spoiling for a fight before ever setting ass to upholstery. When I pull into the nondescript alley where Uber’s GPS has sent me, I suspect something is off. This isn’t my first rodeo. I wait maybe 10 seconds to call and confirm the location.

“We’re right out front.” It’s Veronica, and she seems to be put upon in the worst way. “Where are you?”

“Ah, sorry,” I say, backing up the car. “I should be just a moment away. Can you give me a street or intersection that’s close by?”

“Really? Because this is such a big town that it’s just impossible to find us?”

I pause. See, the way Uber works, a driver is guided to a rider’s pickup location by the proprietary app. A snaking, responsive navigational plot on your driver’s phone screen directs them toward the rider and, if they’re lucky, an exact address. But we aren’t local taxi drivers. We are not topography/traffic savants. Driving Uber can require covering an area of thousands of square miles. We are, for the most part, slaves to the app. The technology, when it works, is fucking amazing. But it is less than perfect.

I turn a corner, still on the phone, and spot our heroes on a dimly lit block of sleeping shops, restaurants and taverns. The ladies stare blankly. They wobble. Slowly, almost in stages, they gather themselves up and fall into my Sonata.

“Wow, that must have been really tough tracking us down,” Veronica slurs.

I blink but shrug off the comment. “So we’re headed to—”

“No,” Veronica says, cutting me off. “We’ve gotta go somewhere else.”

I click my teeth. “OK. No problem. Do you want to make the adjustment in the app?”

Veronica heaves an Oscar-worthy sigh. “Why is this so hard? I mean, it’s pretty much on the way. Just change it in the thing. Can’t you just drive?”

Another Uber lesson: In the app, a driver can’t change a rider’s address. It’s not that it’s prohibited. It simply isn’t possible. Think about it: Ever had that one creeper Uber driver? Sure you have. Now, whether he only plans to overcharge you or he has something more nefarious in mind, do you really want that guy in charge of setting your destination? Right. Trust me, Uber (and its attorneys) feel the same way.

So I bite my tongue and drive. Veronica’s friend—sensing the creeping tension and, perhaps, her friend’s batshit demeanor—is mildly apologetic. She also offers to manually guide me to their destination, the coordinates of which apparently are encrypted-nuclear-codes-level classified. “You can just take this street down,” she says.

By now, I have lost much of my patience, most of my good will and every ounce of cheer. It’s also about this time that Veronica begins to cry. As in, openly weep. This isn’t a reaction to our previous exchange, mind you. But a reaction to what, exactly? Had she been thrown out of the last bar? Scorned by a lover? Is she currently bleeding out in my back seat? It isn’t certain.

“Are you OK?” her friend asks.

“It’s fine,” Veronica says, sniffling. “No, I’m fine. I mean … it’s just—it’s just, you know. I don’t know.”

Precisely: We don’t know. And at this point, if I’m being honest, I don’t care. I’ve already had something of an unfortunate night, and now, here in my car, Veronica —a stranger who only a moment ago had history’s heaviest axe to grind with me—is suffering a breakdown of sorts in my back seat. I want clear directions and an end to this ride, or I want the hemlock.

But none of it seems forthcoming. Worse, the conversation behind me has turned icy. Veronica, no longer sobbing, blames her friend for some grave, vague offense. Meanwhile, I’m blowing off the app as it pleads with me to turn at every left—any left—as we meander toward … somewhere? Each time I reluctantly interject with a hushed-tone “Keep going straight?” Veronica fires back with a mixture of bile and, I can only assume, bourbon.

Arriving at a T intersection, I quickly scan the app, find no thru streets to the left, and decide to bank right. “You should have taken a left there, but that’s OK,” the friend says, just a little too matter-of-factly. Veronica spits out something unintelligible, and in that way station between my mind and mouth, I’m suddenly both Jules and Vincent in the brain detail scene from Pulp Fiction—a race car in the red and a mushroom-cloud-layin’ motherfucker.

The interior of my Sonata, post-Veronica, in my darkest dreams.

Boiling but silent, I turn left, then left again. “You can take a right here and just keep going,” the friend says. This makes no sense, but she’s beginning to understand that this ride has transformed my soul into pure cobalt malice, and her tone is now conciliatory, almost bordering on apologetic. She and I, at least, both just want this to be over. Maybe, I think, just maybe, we’ll get there.

“Ummm,” Veronica blurts. “Is there some reason you didn’t take a left back there where the app told you to?”

I pull hard on the wheel, yanking the Sonata into a mall parking lot. I brake, shift to park, unclick my belt, flip on the dome light and turn to face the rear.

“You have two choices,” I say, jaw clenched but raising my voice only a tick. “You can get out right here, right now, or I can take you to the address in the app.” Under normal circumstances, I’m not the type who would leave two women in a desolate parking lot in the wee hours. These are not normal circumstances.

“Those are your choices,” I say. “What’s it gonna be?”

Before Veronica can speak, her friend sputters, “Ohmygod, I’m so sorry. Yes, of course, the address in the app is fine. That’s perfect. I understand.”

“You’re sure?” I ask, eyeing Veronica.

“Yes, please,” says the friend. “Look, I’m really sorry.”

I say nothing, settle back into my seat and drive. A drunken murmur drifts from the back but is swiftly shushed. Then, quiet.

We ride like this, silent, for blocks. A mile, perhaps. But as we near our destination—the original address—the ladies whisper.

It’s right there.

I know.

I can practically see the car.

I feel the slightest pang of guilt. Had I overreacted? Was I really going to dump two sloppy-drunk chicks in a parking lot in the middle of the night? I extend an olive branch.

“How close is it?” I ask wearily. “Are we talking a block or a mile?”

“It’s right there,” they chime in together.

“OK,” I sigh.

This lifts the mood, if only a little. “Wow, you were really angry back there,” Veronica says, genuinely surprised. “I mean, I thought you were really gonna kick us out of the car.”

I veer onto a side street. I drive a block, turn, then drive another. I roll through the intersection and, sure enough, there it is.

“That’s it,” the friend says. “That’s my car.”

Sweet relief. My long national nightmare is over. Yet from the back, I make out the sound of hands sloppily rummaging through handbag.

“I want to tip you,” Veronica says. “Do you have change for a twenty?”

I’m stunned. Apoplectic. Every dime for me counts right now, but I still have a shred of pride left lying around somewhere. “No, I don’t,” I say. “But we’re good. Don’t worry about it—we’re all good.” I haven’t bothered hiding the just-get-the-fuck-out-of-my-car undertone. It’s the best I can offer in the moment.

This was all Veronica needed to hear.

“You know what?” she says, instantly fuming. “You’re right. You’re right! I’m not gonna tip you. You know why? Because you’re a fucking asshole!”

The back door slams. Tiny IEDs explode in my mind. My ears are ringing. I’m roughly three seconds away from locking up my own ride—straight to Cook County Jail, before serving 20-to-30 downstate—when my last rational instinct, so to speak, takes the wheel.

My foot hammers the accelerator.

And now it can be told.