Conversations with an UBER Driver: From Dulles to DC

They city was greener than I was expecting.

From the sky, we break through the clouds and make our long descent over parts of Maryland and Virginia. I catch a glimpse of rain-slick streets below.

The sun is breaking out, the wet asphalt catches the star’s bright reflection. Streets look like rivers, parking lots like ponds. I swear I see flooding, but it’s only the last of the rains.

The flight ends with turbulence and I’m happy to land. Customs, just as shaky.

Standing in line, we wait to enter the USA. A man, somewhere off to my side, shouts in a thick Australian or New Zealand Accent. Everyone turns at the sound. He runs past the lines, into a place where passengers clearly shouldn’t be.

“Stop now!” shouts airport security as they close in from all sides. “Stop moving!”

“I’m walking,” was the last discernible thing he says before they surround him. He waves a suitcase wildly. A brief struggle and the man is tackled to the ground. I see the cuffs come out. A moment later he disappears things returned to normal.

Outside, the skies are clear. The arrival ramp crowded and busy. I hail an Uber, hoping to spot him in the crowd and him me. A car that matched the description cruised by.

“Hank!” I shout, bobbing my way through cars parked and immobile. His name is not really Hank but even a driver has a right to some anonymity. The car slows down.

“Thank goodness you spotted me man, it’s packed out here today.” His voice has an accent that strikes me as Virginian but with articulation reminiscent of Denzel Washington. He peers out the open window and opens the door for me. “Hop in.”

We pull away from the airport and that’s when I hear another voice in the car. I then realize it’s his GPS. I think it might be Mr. T, but as if reading my mind he asks: “Have you ever heard of Shaquille O’Neal?” I remark that I have. He nods. “That’s his voice.”

Shaq accompanies us out of the airport and onto the highway.

I decide that I want to talk with Hank. I break the ice and ask about the weather. He mentions that it’s been raining like crazy, but making things a whole lot greener a whole lot faster.

I slide in that I’m from Montreal.

“Montreal?” He repeats, interested. “That’s up in Canada right? State of Quebec?”

“Technically it’s a province.”

“I’m thinking of immigrating to Canada one of these days.”

“Because of what could theoretically happen in the next six months?” I ask, also interested.

“That’s part of it,” he says. “I love my country and I like it here, but I’m not too happy about the prospects of some loud crazy man running our country.”

He looks out the window a moment then resume concentrating on the road. “It tells you a lot about our country and what kinds of people live here if they can make that man a candidate for president.”

He goes on. “America’s been in a bit of a downward slide. Our president’s doing what he can to keep people’s heads above the waters, but there are tears in this country that run deep. I mean we got this useless congress, people paid to pass bills and they aren’t passing any bills. It’s like they got better things to do. How’s a good man like our President supposed to get his job done when we got people like that supposed to be working with him?”

He slows down, suspicious that a car parked on the side of the road might be highway patrol. “But I’m also thinking you guys have got it pretty good with healthcare up there.”

I remark that we do. We can see the doctor for free.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about. Here, our hospitals they try to charge you for anything and everything. They make you pay for the Band-Aids they put on your kid’s finger, or a cup of water. Can you believe it?”
His face takes on a philosophical look.

“When I was young, my dad was in the Navy. Stationed right around here. We had it pretty good, but he was no slouch. Still taught me that even if you have things one day, you gotta work if you want to get anything out of this life. But just working don’t seem to cut it anymore.”

As we reach Arlington, the roads clear up. His phone beeps in notification that another ride is along the way.

“Looks like we got a guy here in Arlington going to the same street as you? You mind if we pick him up?”

I don’t. We take the off-ramp and go looking for the second fair. He finds the street easy enough, but things get tricky.

“Can you believe it? There ain’t no numbers of these buildings.” He’s right. I can’t see a single one. He pulls around one bend and slows down. A blond woman with big sunglasses and a light dress stares into her phone and eyes the car wonderingly. He lowers the window.

“Hey lady, are you Calvin?”

“No”, she answers, seemingly disappointed. Then, rather remarkably, she adds “I’m Carmen.”

“Carmen? Close but no cigar. We’re looking for a Calvin. Sorry to bother you ma’am.” We back up and he turns around. As he does, we see a young Chinese man hurrying from one of the buildings towards the car.

“That must be our boy.” He looks over at the building were Calvin came from. “Sheesh. If he lives in a place like this, he must have deep pockets.

“Or his folks,” I add.

“Yeah, that must be it. Daddy must have a good job.” He glances past rows of cars in the parking. Most of them look just as expensive.

“Are you Calvin my man?” Hank asks and the young man nods. “Alright, hop in.” Calvin hops in.

As we pass through Arlington and get to the bridge, Hank remarks how things have changed.

“When my mother was a little girl, her daddy had a place alongside the canal for the princely sum of $10 a month. $10 can you believe it?” He gestures with his fingers to the rows new buildings. “I can’t even imagine what these stars must coughing up from month to month.”

“Place used to be called Foggy Bottom”, he adds. “Tells you what kind of neighbourhood it was. Now it’s all glamour.”

We cross into Georgetown. The sidewalks are crowded.

“It might look busy now, but last weekend there were people here like you wouldn’t believe it.” He slows down and makes a turn. “Must have been graduation or something.” He looks back at Calvin. “You graduate Calvin?”

“No, not yet.” He replies.

“Well, one day you will, and you’ll see how busy it gets with people and their families flying in from all over.”

We wait to take another turn.

“The damnest thing is there’s a cupcake shop somewhere around here and the other day I saw people standing in line halfway around the block. Can you believe it? Standing in line for a cupcake!”

I remark that they must be pretty good if people are willing to wait that long. He shakes his head.

“After a point, quality don’t matter. Even if that store is selling $10 cupcakes, there’s no way I’d wait in line like that for a single pastry. Anyways,” we turn again, just a block or two from my destination.

Out front, he slows down the car and I get out.

“I hope you have a good time in Washington,” he says.

“Thanks for the ride. Have a good one Calvin.

Calvin looks up from his phone, smiles and nods. They drive off.

By alexander

Drinker of bad wine and writer of many things. Alexander writes fiction, manages a team of SEOs, and dabbles in food history. He also has a Doctorate in North American Religion and Culture and used to teach at Concordia University.