Friends and Strangers - J. Courtney Sullivan Page 0,75
offense.) They were bone thin and they left their sunglasses on when they got in, even though it was raining. One of them barked an address at me, without saying so much as hello, and for the rest of the ride they pretended I wasn’t there, like the car was driving itself.
“The cabs here are gross,” one of them said. “Have they never heard of a car service? Town Cars. Your name on a sign. A guy to carry your bags. Decent air-conditioning. How hard is that.”
They were bad tippers, but I have to credit them with giving me the idea that would keep our family afloat for the next thirty-five years. I saved up, buying one Lincoln, used. I had business cards printed with our home phone number, and asked the nicer hotels and restaurants for fifty miles around if I could leave a stack at the front desk.
I made Faye answer the phone in the kitchen, “Riley’s Car Service. We’ll get you there.” You can imagine how much she loved that.
After a couple years, it started to pay off. I had accounts, entire companies, who worked exclusively with me. I rented that small storefront in town. I bought more cars, and hired help. From then on, I had at least four guys driving for me, a part-time bookkeeper, and a girl who answered the phones.
You know how the story ends. Two and a half years ago, I’m on an airport run. I pull up to the curb outside Terminal B and see Rocky, one of my guys, on his day off. He’s wearing jeans, standing by the open trunk of his own car, an old Toyota. I honked the horn and waved, then pulled up alongside him. I made a joke about him taking a busman’s holiday.
Then I noticed the couple in the back seat. I watched them climb out. The guy pulled two suitcases from the trunk, and handed Rocky some cash.
I wondered: Were they friends of his? Cousins? If so, why were they giving him cash?
I thought it over and I figured it was probably for gas.
I didn’t think about it again until I ran into Rocky at the car wash a few days later.
He said to me, “Listen, boss. I know you know what I’m up to. I hope you know I never used the Lincoln for that.”
Never used the Lincoln for what? By then, I’d forgotten all about the airport.
My mind wandered straight to drug deals, bank robberies. I asked what he was talking about. He got this look on his face, and said, “I’m driving for Uber on my days off.”
I said, “What the hell is Uber?”
After Rocky filled me in, I told him it was fine. I didn’t care if my guys had other jobs on the side. And this Uber, some online thing where a driver could be anyone, no permits, no experience, just a guy in jeans driving his own car? I couldn’t see that taking off with the sort of clientele we served.
I told Rocky Uber had nothing to do with me.
He seemed surprised. He thanked me for being cool about it. He said he made good money doing it, too good to pass up.
“How much?” I asked.
It was three dollars more per hour than I paid.
A few months later, by the time I had to fire all my guys and the bookkeeper and the girl who answered the phones, Uber wasn’t paying their drivers shit anymore. (Pardon my French.) But passengers had gone nuts for the convenience, and now they refused to do it any other way.
As you know, I kept the company going in name only for a while. Pathetic. I was the only driver, and even so, my days were maybe half booked at best.
That’s when Faye suggested I start driving for Uber myself. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, that kind of thing.
I’ll admit to you, I was mad at her for saying it, even though I’d already had the same thought.
More time passed. No money to show for it. So I gave in.
My first day driving for Uber, my very first customer was Victor Winslow, the head of an insurance company based in Albany. Victor lives on the West Coast. He contracted with me fifteen years ago to be the company’s official transportation in the area. I gave him a great deal. I made sure to drive him myself when he came to town.