The Uber ride from the bar was supposed to take about 15 minutes. The music was low, we started chatting, and after a few drinks I asked the standard late-night passenger question: What’s the weirdest thing you’ve seen doing this?
He told me about a regular. Almost every weekend, he picked this guy up from different bars, usually very drunk and usually with a different woman. Sometimes they went to another bar. Sometimes her place. Sometimes his.
The driver knew the guy’s house because he’d picked him up there, too. Apparently, this passenger had established a fairly comprehensive transportation network.
According to the driver, the guy spent most of these rides either kissing whoever was with him or arguing with her. He sounded baffled that someone so consistently drunk, and apparently so unpleasant, kept finding women willing to spend an evening with him.
He did tip well. A small bright spot in an otherwise troubling customer profile.
Then we turned onto the street where I was getting dropped off.
“He lives on this street,” the driver said.
Naturally, I started wondering whether I knew him. Small town, familiar street, plenty of opportunities for an unfortunate overlap.
I’d been seeing someone for a couple of weeks and was heading to his place. When I booked the ride, I couldn’t remember his exact address, so I’d entered a random one on the right block. As we got closer, I asked the driver to slow down so I could spot the house.
There it was. I asked him to stop.
Same house.
I had managed to request both a ride to my date’s place and an unsolicited background check. The second service was considerably more useful.
I had the driver take me home instead. Whatever I’d expected from that evening, standing at that front door and trying to sort out his weekend schedule was no longer on the list.
I blocked the guy and haven’t spoken to him since. I still don’t know what I’d say if I ran into him.
Probably nothing. I’d already heard enough on the ride.
