u/RideshareStories

I’ve been driving rideshare long enough to know when a trip is about to get weird.

I accepted a ride that was less than a mile away for a whopping $4. While I was heading there, the passenger—a girl who looked about 21—texted asking if we could stop at a liquor store. I replied, “Sure, just add a stop.”

I dropped off my previous passenger and pulled up to pick her up. Except, she was already standing in front of a liquor store.

She got in, added a stop, and suddenly the fare jumped another $16 for a destination five miles away. Whatever. Money is money.

A few minutes into the drive, she asked if I’d seen her bag.

“What bag?”

“My bag.”

I honestly didn’t remember her ever carrying one. I offered to check my dashcam footage, but she quickly said not to worry about it.

Now I’m confused. She’s already been to a liquor store, apparently lost a bag that may or may not have existed, and now we’re driving five miles to another liquor store.

Meanwhile, she’s calling friends who somehow sound even more intoxicated than she does.

We finally arrive at the destination and discover it isn’t a liquor store at all.

It’s an ice cream shop.

And it’s closed.

She looks around and asks, “Where are we?”

I said, “Wherever you told me to go. Apparently, an ice cream shop.”

She got out, stared at the building for a moment, then tried to get back into the car. Except she suddenly forgot how doors work. After failing to open the same door she’d already used earlier, she wandered to the other side of the car and started tapping on my window.

I popped the lock, she climbed back in, and we drove all the way back to almost the exact spot where I’d picked her up.

In the end, she spent about $20 to take a sightseeing tour of the city, visit a closed ice cream shop, lose an imaginary bag, and accomplish absolutely nothing.

As she got out, I told her, “You’re going to wake up tomorrow wondering what the hell happened tonight.”

Without missing a beat, she smiled and said:

“That sounds like tomorrow’s problem.”

And honestly, I respect the commitment to the lifestyle.

I’ve only been driving rideshare for about 9 months, so compared to some of you grizzled veterans I’m basically still in the tutorial level. But it’s been long enough that I’ve developed a rideshare Spidey Sense.

Last night I got an airport pickup that paid pretty well, but the passenger had a 4.8 rating.

Immediately my Spidey Sense started screaming.

Now, I know some of you are thinking, “4.8 isn’t that bad.”
That’s exactly what the little green greed goblin sitting on my shoulder said too.

So I accepted.

I execute my patented Airport Slalom Technique™, weaving through traffic, tourists, confused relatives, and at least three people standing directly in front of signs telling them not to stand there. I pull up to the pickup zone like an F1 driver entering the pit lane.

Passenger is already waiting. Great start.

I roll down the window.

“Are you Karen?”

“Yes.”

I pop the trunk.

She stares at me.

I stare at her.

She stares at me some more.

Then she asks, completely serious:
“Are you going to put my suitcase in the trunk?”

I look at the suitcase. The thing appears to have been packed for a six-month expedition to Antarctica.

I politely reply, “No, but the trunk is open and you can take as much time as you need.”

At that moment my Spidey Sense became a full-blown air raid siren.

I should have canceled right there.

Instead, the greed goblin grabbed the steering wheel and yelled, “WE’RE COMMITTED NOW.”

She loads the bag herself and we leave the airport. The ride is completely uneventful. No drama. No complaints. No weird conversations about politics, religion, or essential oils. I drop her off and continue my night.

The only unusual thing I do is purposely not rate her. I rate literally everybody. So if something happens later, I’ll know exactly which ride it was.

Fast forward to this morning. I open the app. My perfect 5.0 rating has magically become a 4.96. Ladies and gentlemen, she hit me with the one-star review.

My crime?

Failing to serve as an airport baggage handler.

Now before the peanut gallery starts typing, this was a standard Lyft ride. Not Lyft Black. Not a premium service. Not “Personal Chauffeur Plus.”

The service includes four seatbelts and transportation from Point A to Point B. The trunk is available. The driver’s spine is not.

Also, I’m a disabled veteran with two leg surgeries. Large portions of muscle were removed from both calves, and lifting heavy objects usually means my back volunteers as tribute.

As far as I know, Lyft’s requirements are:
Have a car
Have insurance
Have a driver’s license

Nowhere does it say:
Deadlift 300 pounds
Load luggage like an airport ramp worker
Sacrifice your lumbar discs for customer satisfaction

So this morning I went back into the app, gave her the one-star she apparently earned years ago, and blocked future matches.

The best part? She started the night with a 4.8 rating.
And based on her attitude, I’m guessing that number wasn’t the result of random chance.

I wish her the best of luck finding drivers willing to gamble on that rating.

My Spidey Sense certainly won’t be making that mistake again.

So I had what may have been the most biologically hazardous ride of my career tonight.

I was stuck in one of those nightmare traffic clusterfucks where you’re moving 8 feet every presidential administration. A ride pops up taking me OUT of the area. Terrible fare. Absolute garbage. But I’m already trapped in traffic declining garbage fares anyway, so I figure I might as well get paid $6.42 to escape.

The plan works beautifully. I break free from traffic like Andy Dufresne crawling out of the sewer pipe. Immediately a much better ride pops up. Nice neighborhood. Fancy outdoor shopping mall destination. Strong “this person owns candles that cost $87” energy. Possible tipper. Life is good.

I pull up and the passenger is already waiting outside. Massive bonus points. She gets in, I start driving, and within 3 seconds I smell an aggressive amount of vanilla perfume. Like enough perfume to tranquilize a horse. But still manageable.

Then it happened.

The perfume parted like Moses splitting the Red Sea and revealed the single most horrifying smell I have ever encountered in my life.

Human shit.

Not a hint of it. Not “maybe someone stepped in something.” No. This was industrial strength. This was medieval battlefield level. This was “something has gone critically wrong in the lower intestine” territory.
I gagged instantly and cracked my window.

Huge mistake.

All that did was create some kind of aerodynamic fecal vortex that swirled directly around my head like I was being haunted by the Ghost of Taco Bell Past.

I closed the window immediately and realized I now had two options:

1. Breathe through my nose and die

2. Mouth breath for 15 straight minutes.

So there I am, speeding toward this outdoor mall while breathing like a Labrador retriever in July.

The whole time I’m fighting for my life wondering:
“Do I kick her out?”
“Can smells stain?”
“Is this what mustard gas felt like?”

I finally peel into the shopping center entrance at NASCAR speeds. She gets out. No apology. No explanation. Nothing. Just exits the vehicle and disappears into the night like a biological weapon deployed behind enemy lines.

But wait. We’re only at halftime.

I immediately 1-star and unmatch, then roll down all four windows while driving away. It does NOTHING. The smell has fused itself to my vehicle at a molecular level. I’m still mouth breathing.

I call my wife in full panic mode.

Me: “The car has been compromised.”
Her: “How bad?”
Me: “I think I need an exorcist.”

We decide no more rides tonight. Straight to the car wash.
And not just any car wash. I drove 35 minutes back toward home because if I was going to fight this demon, I wanted familiar territory.

I vacuumed every inch of carpet. Sprayed the vegan leather seats with glass cleaner. Scrubbed the mats like I was removing evidence from a crime scene.

Eventually I couldn’t smell it anymore, but at this point I’m pretty sure my nose had simply accepted death. So I pull up at home for the final inspection.

My wife leans into the car like a CSI investigator.

“Was she sitting HERE?” she asks.
“Yes.”

She recoils immediately.

“Nope. Still there.”

I swear to God my soul left my body.

At this point I take a shower because I’m convinced the smell has attached itself to my hair follicles. Meanwhile my wife is furiously Googling solutions like we’re dealing with radioactive contamination. We settle on pet stain remover. Like the industrial shit you use when your dog commits war crimes on the carpet.

Round one: better, but still lingering.

Round two: SUCCESS.

The beast had finally been defeated.

Anyway, before anyone says “submit a cleaning fee,” trust me, I thought about it. But there was no visible mess. Just invisible chemical warfare permanently embedded into the seat fibers.

Maybe I should’ve ended the ride at mile one. I honestly don’t know.

P.S. She didn’t tip.

So I broke my own rule this week and accepted a pickup at an NBA Playoffs game. I usually avoid those like expired gas station sushi, but the fare was decent and I thought, “what’s the worst that could happen?”

I pull up to the arena and immediately regret all of my life choices. There are about 40 other rideshares in a line that hasn’t moved since the Clinton administration. I inch forward just enough to start the timer and settle in. I see my passenger on the map—little GPS person—about 500 feet away.

Three minutes go by. Phone rings.

“Where are you? I can’t find you.”

I tell her I’m in the giant, obvious line of rideshares directly outside the arena with 30,000 people stampeding into the night like it’s the Running of the Bulls.

She goes, “Okay, but how will I find you?”

I’m like… “Ma’am, the app literally shows you where I am and what car I drive.”

She hits me with: “But I can’t see you.”

Fair. I respond, “Yeah, I can’t see you either—there are thousands of people out here.”

And then she drops this absolute plot twist:

“I can’t see you because I’m blind.”

Pause.

“…Blind, like you can’t see see?”

“Yes. But I have my friend with me.”

Oh good. Reinforcements.

“My friend is also blind.”

…

WHAT.

At this point, the timer has expired, but I’m not about to leave two blind women stranded outside an arena. So now I’m basically running air traffic control using the tiny GPS dot.

I tell her, “Alright, just start walking.”

She immediately walks the wrong direction.

“Other way.”

We do this whole hot-and-cold routine for a few minutes, and then—no joke—like a miracle out of a buddy comedy, two women with red tipped canes emerge from the crowd and make their way toward my car.

I guide her in verbally—“a little left… little right…”—and she overshoots and smacks directly into a street sign pole. BUT—she had her cane positioned like a professional, so it took most of the hit. Honestly, 10/10 technique.

Now here’s the next boss level: I drive a Tesla Model 3.

Sighted people already treat these door handles like a Rubik’s cube. So I’m like, “Alright, there’s a curb right in front of you,” and I just reach back and pop the door open.

She feels it and goes, “Ooooh, you have the fancy Tesla with the automatic opening door!”

I’m thinking, lady, this is about to be the least confusing part of this experience.

After about 15 minutes total, both of them successfully get in. I’m fully committed now. There’s no backing out of this mission.

Then I hit another obstacle: I’ve got PIN verification turned on.

I tell her, “I need the PIN from your app to start the ride.”

She says, “What’s the PIN?”

I say, “I don’t know… you have to tell me.”

“Where do I find it?”

“In the app.”

Now I’m fascinated. Like, I need to see how this plays out.

She starts tapping on her phone like she’s defusing a bomb, and it’s talking back to her at warp speed:

“Settings. Menu. Display. Brightness. 10%. 20%…”

She pauses and goes, “Hold on, I need to turn my brightness up. I keep it all the way down to save battery.”

And I’m sitting there thinking… you know what? That is the most logical thing I’ve heard all night. Why WOULD a blind person need brightness?

She cranks it up to 80%, hands me the phone, I find the PIN, and we’re finally off…

…like a herd of turtles.

And honestly? Probably the most impressive passengers I’ve had all year. Plus they tipped me $20 for being so accommodating.