3. Epiphany

No kid grows up wanting to drive drunks through a Syracuse blizzard. But life isn’t a straight road; it’s a series of turns, small decisions that nudge you toward places you never expected.

One of those decisions happened to me in Vegas.

It was 11 p.m., Monday, February 17, 2020. I tossed my luggage onto someone else’s junk in the trunk of a faded silver Oldsmobile Alero, or maybe it was a Dodge Intrepid. The trunk squeaked shut, and I slumped into the stained gray cloth backseat. Another three-day business trip down. This one had been the 104th Annual National Auto Dealer Association tradeshow. My pockets were stuffed with business cards from car dealers I needed to follow up with.

The Uber driver’s name was Branislav. Like most drivers, he was a nice guy and a talker.

Where are you from?

It’s a dumb question when you think about it. As if Uber drivers aren’t from the cities they work in. As if Branislav had driven in from LA just for fun and happened to pick me up. The truth is, when passengers ask this, they really mean, You have an accent. Where’s it from?

He told me he was from Croatia. And I responded by asking how he felt about Croatia’s tough loss in the world cup. It’s dumb, but I love dropping obscure sports references, especially as an American talking about soccer. I told him my son plays and asked if he liked Messi or Ronaldo. He said he liked Luka Modrić. And just like that, we were off.

Our conversation wandered from soccer to college costs to the expense of just staying afloat. One minute, we were talking about my son’s future in soccer. The next, I was telling him how broke I felt. I made good money, sure. But life was expensive. A daughter in college, a son heading there next, my youngest still in elementary school. A wife who stayed home with the kids. It always felt like never enough.

Branislav asked what I did for a living. And I bosted saying I’m vice president at a company. But what was his response to my money problems?

Why don’t you Uber?

I laughed. He must have misunderstood. I had a career. A salary. Bonuses. Benefits. The idea of me, a VP, becoming a low-wage gig worker? It sounded ridiculous.

It’s good and you can earn extra money.

And then he told me his story. Back in Croatia, he’d been a manager. A professional. When he moved to the U.S., he left that behind and took on two entry-level jobs. And yet he was happy. He spoke about Uber with optimism. Not just as a job, but as an opportunity.

Meanwhile, I was sitting there, a corporate guy with a title, feeling like I was barely keeping my head above water.

I kept glancing at my phone, a nervous tic, something to distract me from what he was making me think about. Could I do what he did? Could I trade my status for something simpler? Would that be a failure, or would it actually be freedom?

Trust me. You can talk. You’d make good tips.

It’s like he was reading my mind, sensing my doubt and hesitation.

As we pulled up to the airport, Branislav jumped out, grabbed my bag, and extended the handle toward me, like he was handing me a job offer. No. Like he was handing me my future. I shook his hand, gave him five stars, and left him a pathetic $1 tip in the app.

Looking back, knowing what I know now, I wish I had tipped him $100. I wish I had asked for his number.