sorta cuz i needed to. sorta cuz i could.

maybe this is how it is with you too, but even when i dont have any responsibilities, there’s still a major tug of war between the things i wanna do and the things i gotta do.

i want to drive uber every day. i was obsessed when i began 9 years ago. im obsessed now.

i wear copper lined fingerless gloves to help heal my occasionally pained hands and like a baseball pitcher i take days off to rest my bones.

drove 12 hours today because it was 12 hours of painfree joy.

all long trips. one longer than the next. from way far on this side of LA to way far past LA.

took an 82 year old man from a hospital near long beach to an inglewood funeral home and i got his phone number because i need him on my dumb podcast, the true love of my life.

my actual wife. who asks me to be home tuesday and wednesday to deliver our weekly baby.

this old man had so much life in him. mostly Black, the rest Cherokee. from miami but moved to LA in the ’50s.

said Blacks in the ’50s werent allowed to have any good jobs so he was a janitor for a while and when the owners of Nate and Als found out he knew how to cook kosher they hired him.

how did you learn that?

boy even back then florida was full of jews. i came here knowin how to cook that food.

took a truck driver from LAX to his recently repaired 18 wheeler way out in commerce

every question i asked him resulted in a better, wilder answer

what made you become a truck driver?

got thrown in jail and no one else would hire a felon

learn anything in jail?

learned how to grow the best damn weed in uruguay

uruguay?

in 2013 they were the first country in the world to legalize it so i moved down there to do what i was doing in the mafia run warehouses in jersey. but bigger.

dont ask how i got there, but i was taking a leak at the target in duarte when i got a ping from the city of hope hospital to take someone to a hotel in el segundo

was hoping it was a lonely nurse.

ended up being an actual angel

a lively german woman who leaned forward in the back seat to get closer to me to talk and talk and talk.

she flies from bavaria to europe, australia, and the states delivering life saving stem cells in a small blue square insulated container that could easily be confused as her lunch.

her job is twofold: make sure the thing gets to the hospital in 72 hours (usually takes just 48), and make sure it stays cold. easy peasy.

i said shes got good mojo and asked if there was a german word for mojo. she said nine.

what about juju? also, nine.

sometimes she gets to spend a day or two in the city to chill, but usually she flies back the next day to pick up her next stem cells to take to the next country. and save the next persons life. 80% of the time the life is saved.

after she explained all of it i said i’ve never had a saint in my car before. please put in a good word to the man upstairs bc i could use it.

she asked what do you think the odds are we can get to el segundo in time for the sunset?

i looked at the eta, asked siri when sunset was, and then stepped on it.

and thanks to waze, the car pool lane, and bypassing the 101/110 interchange by zig zagging through dtla, we made it to the 105/405 with 20 minutes to spare so i said

i never do this. ever. but el segundo is no place for a saint to take in her first LA sunset of the year

how about we drop your bags off at your hotel front desk and i take you to manhattan beach pier 12 minutes away?

$15.60 tip

she was waiting for me inside the small parking lot of a koreatown Everything store.

you want something for your garden, your closet, or your kitchen, they had it.

Maria had a fluffy rug in a giant plastic bag and a long object in a square box. the korean uniformed parking lot guy with a whistle and two sticks to help direct traffic told me to park, but i waved him off and pointed to her waving behind him.

finally i was allowed to pass. someone helped her with her too-big for my Benz items, and magically they all fit snugly and we were on our way.

i was mad at Maria. you should get an XL if you have big things, I thought to myself. but not everyone knows the nuances of rideshare, i also thought to myself. theres a damn radio show going on in there.

i get angry over the littlest things sometimes. it’s unreasonable and illogical. in my heart i want the person standing in front of the address in the middle of the block, with an opening for me to turn into, and then deliver me an incredible tale along the way.

but reality isn’t like that, and i know it. odds are a few rides will be like that, but most will be slightly annoying for various reasons but ultimately beautiful.

and in this case, romantic.

Maria was bringing home baby gifts for her first and only grandson. she has three daughters who all live in the valley. the oldest one is her favorite because she brought this baby into everyones life, she said.

i was no longer mad at her.

i asked her all the normal things: has he pissed on anyone, does his poop smell nice, does he sleep well?

her spanish accent was thick but she didnt care. she spoke fast and full of love.

yes, yes, and only around me.

it was rush hour in ktown and waze was telling me to zig zag to the opposite side of the neighborhood. it wouldn’t take long.

i asked her if she enjoyed being an abuela.

she said it is the best.

of all the stories i like to hear, love stories are my favorite.

{earlier today i had a big time motivational speaker and his wife. they were going to a fancy hotel. when he told me what he does i asked her, “does he motivate you?” “nope.” everyone laughed.}

when i asked Maria how she met her husband — she, too, laughed.

“i worked across the street from a korean coffee shop and every day i would go in and get a cup,” she said. “his parents owned it.”

i turned down the classic rock and said, “wait, your husband is korean?” Maria is Guatemalan.

“Yes.”

“How long have you been married?”

“25 years.”

“then I must know everything,” I demanded.

she told me that koreans are not like Americans. Central, South and North Americans are all loud, she said, koreans are reserved.

“i would come in every day and every day he would forget to put sugar in my coffee and say nothing other than ‘three dollars.'”

she said he felt bad for him because here he has one job and he’s terrible at it.

“one day he said, ‘three dollars and would you like to go to dinner on friday?'”

unfortunately for the cars behind us, Maria lives on a narrow, busy street. so when we got to in front of her place, cars honked but she hustled the kiddie things out.

Hasta, Maria! i said

Caio, Tony! she said

$2 tip

she had stunning pink hair, a wildly colorful dress, and a blue eggshell suitcase

i was picking her up from one of the newer hotels in Hollywood to Rancho Cucamonga at noon on saturday. I would get paid $55 for a drive that would take about an hour and fifteen minutes according to Waze. Def a long ride but if I can gross $45 an hour during a slightly dead period on a weekend (mornings and evenings are way busier than lunch), then I would risk it.

She had blue hair and reeked of weed when I picked her up at the Silver Lake gas station.

not old lady blue hair, punk rock blue, but she wasn’t punk. More like homeless-y but something different. Some people you can’t put in boxes.

I had fucked up and this ride was going to West LA, way further than I had thought when I accepted the trip for $17. But I’ve learned sometimes the best rides are the ones I wanted to cancel before I got there or the ones I accidentally clicked.

She was going to be one of those, I realized almost right away.

First she told me that her former fiance had died in a head-on collision a few years ago. Then she told me *she* got hit by a car and won a half million dollar settlement.

Then she told me she was newly engaged to a saudi businessman whose assets had been frozen.

As you may know, I’m pretty good with tall tales, and I suspected perhaps the skunky aroma in my vehicle was not satan’s sassafras, but the shit from a bull. Since it would be 27 minutes until her destination, I decided to challenge all of her statements.

Weirdly, she had pretty good answers for all of them.

Q: why did you get $500k for getting hit by the car?
A: he had good insurance and my back was fucked for a year.
Q: why didn’t you buy a car with the money?
A: i hate driving.
Q: do people who win huge sums tip outrageous amounts?
A: i can’t tip at all, my lawyer controls my Uber account.

that fact, tragically, checked out. Sometimes with very old people or car dealerships or pimps, drivers will get an automatic message when we approach the pickup that says “please call the passenger when you arrive at the location.”

that message popped up as i got near the gas station.

just my lucky, crazy stoned nouveau rich punk homeless person can’t tip me a dime. fine.

we had to go east on the 101 to get to the 110 south in order to take the 10 west, an excruciatingly long roundabout in the afternoon but at least she was entertaining. so i asked her more questions.

q: how did you meet your new man?
a: a friend introduced us through Whatsapp. he likes white girls but wasn’t having any luck.
q: white girls don’t like rich guys?
a: who said he was rich?
q: you’re engaged to the only poor saudi businessman?
a: he’s rich. his money is just tied up. thats why i have to go to the credit union, then western union and wire him some money.
q: wire him money? is he in jail?
a: no, hawaii.

at this point i said to myself, “i hate my life.”

“why?” she asked.

whoops turned out i said it out loud.

“you don’t think you’re being scammed?” i asked. “the only way this rich dude in Hawaii can make due is from your nest egg?”

she was a fast talker. nearly as fast as me. we were like two expert typists just rattling off sentences but verbally. it was ping pong. and we were both olympians.

“my credit union has to obey the court, and the court says i can only have a grand a week for now. i give him half and he’ll pay me back when he can get at his money,” she explained casually. zero concern.

“wanna know why i like you?” i asked, doing my best to make things weirder. hell if i was gonna let her outweird me.

“i like you because, like me, you’re a true romantic,” i stated as we finally got on the 10 west.

“im not a romantic,” she said. “i just like fucking and he has a huge hog.”

i looked in my mirror and noticed her eyebrows were tattoos of eyebrows. was she punk rock? who. was. this. woman?

i looked down at the app to read her name: mallory.

“is your name really mallory or is that the court or the bank or the credit union?” i asked.

“thats my lawyer. my name is Rainbow.”

the 10 was moving along way better than the 101 and 110 were. i barely noticed her weed stench any more. but i was concerned the next passenger might think it was me who was responsible for it, so i cracked the sunroof to let some of our unseasonably crisp air in.

“i was a romantic until darryl was killed in that crash, but then my heart broke. i cried all the time. we had just moved in together and he had decorated the place with all his black light posters and tapestries and then all of a sudden i was staring at them every day thinking about him. then it got creepy. like i was in his tomb. i had to get out, so i packed up my car and drove down from Oregon. have you ever heard of Weed, California?”

as a matter of fact, yes, yes I had heard of it, I said.

“in Weed i was at a starbucks and i just started crying uncontrollably. sobbing. and this woman made friends with me. i told her about darryl and she said she knew a guy nearby who, he isn’t Jesus, but he looks like Jesus and can heal people,” Rainbow said.

“so i went to him and he took all of that pain and grief right out of my heart.”

i felt like a sucker for believing her, but i *did* believe her. her stories were just too wild. if anyone was gonna meet quasi Jesus in Weed it would be Rainbow.

“were you two sitting across from each other? did he put you in a trance? did he touch you?” i asked. i couldn’t stop asking now. and she was way into it.

“he didn’t touch me,” she said, “he just…” and then she touched my back “put his hand near my heart and yanked the air away and i could feel it all leave my body.”

“what left you?”

“the pain. the sadness. all the dark crap left behind from darryl,” she said.

“did you cry out of happiness?” i asked.

“no, i laughed SO LOUD. I WAS HAPPY AGAIN!”

as we got near the credit union she did a little back seat driving, overruling the Waze and when we got there she said, “you are a great listener.”

$0 tip, as promised.

Any time you pick up someone from LAX with no luggage, you’re in for a treat.

This week I actually took a family of 5 from a grocery store in Inglewood to LAX, Turks claiming to be headed to Hawaii, and they had no luggage.

Dad sat in front, mom and the three 6 to 9 year old kids in the back. I was all, “I hear Turkey is mostly Muslim.”

“That’s right,” the dad said.

“Are you Muslim?” I asked, remembering that in polite company you shouldn’t talk about religion or politics, but I think there’s a polite way you can do it.

“Yes we are,” he said. They seemed poor. But outside of my Mercedes I probably seem poor. But thanks to you and all of my other friends, I have had the richest life.

“Tell me something about the Quran I probably don’t know,” I asked.

The kids were enthralled by me for some reason. Huge smiles. It could have been because when I asked them where they were flying to, and they told me Hawaii, I asked them to tell me the Turkish word for brother bc I want to be their brother.

Turns out there’s several words for brother, one being specifically older brother: abi.

I’m your abi now, kids, I told them and they laughed and hugged each other as they giggled.

“The virgin Mary has over 100 pages dedicated to her in the Quran,” the dad said.

WTF?! Why? I asked.

He said, “Muslims recognize Jesus as a very important figure because he was born as a miracle – no sex, no father, just a mother. But Mary gave birth while being a Virgin. That’s a bigger miracle.”

And now I’ve gotta read the Quran to see what those 100 pages are all about.

Which brings us to today’s luggage-less traveler. A gentleman named Petey from Miami, Oklahoma. “Not that Miami,” he stressed, very quietly. He was a very timid fellow.

We were headed to Hollywood Presbyterian hospital where Petey was going to do something that, quite frankly, I’m not sure he will succeed at.

9 months ago he knocked up a stripper who he had met two years previously. Prettiest girl in Miami, he beamed. They met on Facebook because she was looking for someone who could drive her home after work.
Petey was about 30 years old and when I asked him what he did in Miami he told me he was a Box Boy at the supermarket. Normally he would get around 6am to go to work but once he met his lady, he would wake up at 3am to fetch her and drive her home.

Once there, she would do meth and he would try to score with her. Apparently he had a few lucky nights. But as soon as her parole (!) officer found out she was pregnant, he informed her that no court would grant her custody because she has a police record, strips, and has a raging meth addiction.

So she skipped town and landed in Hollywood. Blocks away from my apartment, it so happens.

“I love her but she’s crazy.” he whispered.

“No offence, Petey, but you’re a little crazy too,” I told him with the tone of an older brother, an abi, if you will.

“You flew out here with no change of clothes, you don’t even have a duffle bag or backpack. And your plan is to somehow take a newborn child and, what, fly home with it by yourself? You’re gonna need a carseat just to get in the Uber.”

“You’re right,” he agreed. “I did not plan this very well.” And then he told me that this would be his first child and he couldn’t sleep knowing that she surrounds herself with drug addicts, dealers, hookers, and pimps.

Just then his phone rang. It was the soon to be baby mama.

“I’m on the way,” he said. “This is so weird being here. I see the Hollywood sign. The driver showed me where Biggie was killed.”

They exchanged I love yous numerous times which confused me and he later explained it was the only way he figured she would sign the Declaration of Paternity and allow him to sign the Birth Certificate when the boy is born in a few days.

We drove by a giant billboard advertising condoms. I pointed. He laughed.

He told me his daddy was a pool shark and his momma was a thief. He didn’t want his son around either of them or anyone except for his actual girlfriend back home who was “a cougar” with three grown kids who cant wait to have an infant in her arms again.

“Fine fine fine, but how are you going to feed that baby on the airplane on your way home? Isn’t the baby momma going to get suspicious when you ask her to pump a dozen bottles of mothers milk into bottles? Also, how will you keep them warm? Also WTF Petey?!”

He told me he only has money for bus fare home, not airfare. And he was planning on getting formula at Walmart.

AINT NO WALMARTS ANYWHERE NEAR HOLLYWOOD PETEY! I said thinking, do I need to let him crash in my living room? Do I need to raise this baby?

Then I asked, “are you a Christian man?” He said he was.

So I said, lets pray. And I took off my Cubs cap at the stop light.

“Lord please help Petey figure out how to get his child to safety. He’s going to need your help. His heart is in the right place. And this looks like a job that he can’t do alone. So please guide him.”

“Amen,” Petey said and when we pulled up to the hospital, he got out, empty handed except for his Samsung phone, and said thank you.

$3.88 tip.

t was 445pm. I got a ping to drive someone from the middle of South Central to Anaheim for $50.

The Uber app swore it was only an hour trip. But it always lies. I, however, am a college man, and I can figure out how to get there in around that time. So I clicked accept.

As I drove the 10 minutes north to where he was in the 60s, I thought to myself “whats the catch? why are they offering me $50 for a 60 minute trip? They usually give you fifty cents a minute not nearly a buck.”

Stopped at a light where an abandoned Pastrami shop swayed in the wind and a stray dog limped up the sidewalk, I thought, oh, because you’re the only person in the hood at this hour and not one damn body wants to be in Anaheim at 615pm on a Friday night. Uber is finally paying what they should.

Plus the passenger could be anyone. It’s a crap shoot. Ironically, a group of my passengers’ neighbors were shooting craps next to a stairwell as I approached.

First an old woman came out of the modest apartment complex. What could I possibly talk about for an hour with her, I worried? Then an extremely large man with an LA Kings jersey and an LA Kings cap emerged and got in.

Hit it, he said and pointed west.

Anaheim was south east, but whatever. I peeled out. Starled pigeons scattered.

His name was Darnell. Before we even got to the 110 I knew where he worked, that he was a Christian, didn’t smoke weed because of his asthma, the old woman was his mom, and he had a short fuse if you praised either the Angels, the Clippers or the Ducks.

“Oh so you’re a homer,” I chided.

“One star,” he said, straight faced and mimed like he was pressing a button on his phone.

As is common knowledge, I get along pretty much with everyone. If I am on bad terms with someone, they fucked up royally and never earnestly apologize.

But the people I get along best with are light skinned brothers like myself, particularly sports fans. He was headed to the Ducks / Kings game and he really wanted to be there in an hour.

We talked about everything. Sex drugs rock n roll, the gangs, the projects, the venues, the hookers, we said a prayer to Jesus, and we spent a good chunk of time debating grits and whether it was sacrilege to put sugar on them.

For a Black man who spent his entire life in South Central he knew an obscene amount of information about hockey. I asked him how is that possible.

“Oh because I’m Black I can’t like hockey?” he said looking over his sunglasses.

“You can only like hockey if I give you permission,” I replied.

Faberglasted. He said, “I don’t need anyone’s permission.”

“You say you like the Kings, name all their players.” I said and turned down the Slayer.

Darnell cleared his throat and said, “Moore and Arvidsson on the wings. Danault at center. There go your first line. Second line is Kempe, Kopitar and Byfield. Third is Fiala, Lizotte and Iaffalo. On D you got Doughty and Anderson; Roy and Durzi, Walker and Elder. In the net is the legendary Jonathan Quick. His wife is Jacqueline.”

I let that last fact of his hang in the air a little and said, “Everyone knows that. Who plays the organ at Staples for the Kings?”

“Dieter Ruehle,” Darnell yawned.

“The best in the game,” I said.

“No competition,” he agreed.

We were flying down the 105 to this freeway and then that one. Did I mention how big this man was. The orange and brown colors from a Dunkin Donuts sign blurred by. His head whipped around.

“WTF?” I asked.

“I thought that was a Whataburger,” he explained.

“Negro, you know there aint any Whataburgers in LA.”

“I know. That’s why I had to make sure,” he chuckled.

“You are soooo big. Are you always hungry?” I asked.

“Zero stars,” he said.
Turns out Darnell does security all over LA: the forum, sofi, staples. Almost every night he gets a call for the next day or two. He takes them all.

“Is this one of those jobs where you have to stand all night?” I asked.

“I get a few breaks. But honestly, I could use the exercise.”

We were becoming friends.

“What was the best concert you did security for? Prince? Beyonce? The Weeknd?” I asked.

“I don’t work at the Grammys any more after what they did to the Weeknd,” he declared, super seriously and then went down the list of all the acts that have beaten his guy at the Grammys.

Then he said, “but the best show I saw was Linkin Park.”
Got there in an hour and seventeen minutes.

$0 tip.