College Girl Pukes: An Uber Driver Story

Where are you?

I get this exact same message from Uber passengers every, single, day. Late-nights and alcohol can make even simple things, like finding your Uber driver, way more complicated than it has to be. The obvious response is that I’m at the green pin on the Uber map, where you, the passenger, told Uber to tell me where to pick you up. I'm right where I'm supposed to be. 

This particular Uber trip was a normal crazy a Saturday night. A night where I question my life choices that had me quit my job to be an Uber driver. I was picking up a passenger in Armory Square, Syracuse’s Brooklyn wannabe downtown. It’s like every small city in America has their urban revitlization zone, with a craft breweries, a Starbucks, stores that don’t sell anything to afford to stay open, and eclectic restaurants that serve things like chicken on waffels with hot sauce. 

But it’s stupid cold outside, like -10 or something. I'm exhausted, struggling to keep snow and ice off my windshield. Outside my car, hoards of excessively loud, underdressed 20-somethings roam the snowbanked streets. The bars had just emptied. Now, it seems as if each person on the street is looking at their phone, trying to find their Uber ride home. Likewise, bunches of us Ubers are stopped, blocking traffic, trying to find our passengers. And every single one of us, Ubers and passengers alike, are ignoring the police, honking their siren, trying to get us to move. 

My passenger, Jennifer, didn't respond to my text messages. To be fair, drunk or not, few passengers ever actually respond to text messages from their Uber driver. But I’ve been parked here for 5-minutes and I have just a few minutes left before the ride cancels. I need to get this ride started. So I call instead. Surprisingly she answers, yelling because her ears haven’t adjusted to the absense of music.

Are you my Uber!? 

Let's pause here for a second. How should an Uber driver respond to such obvioius questions? I want to say, hey dummy, yes I’m your Uber. I’m at the spot you told me to be. Even if I say I'm out front of the bar and give a specific address, most passengers won’t understand anyway. And this girl, she's drunk, there are dozens of cars, and any of them could be me. Yes, I know, she has my car description, my license plate, and even a picture of me. But no amount of describing helps. Worse, all I know, all any driver knows, is I'm picking up someone named Jennifer, who may actually be Bob and his three buds. I look at this street, there might be 500 Jennifers. 

This day I started driving 12 hours and 300 semiodd miles earlier. I’m tired. But I signed up for this weekly Uber driver bonus. Uber calls it a Quest. An Uber quest is where if I complete 50 trips on a weekend I get $100. 49 trips pays $0. Each week is a different quest, sometimes $200 for 40 trips or sometimes we don’t get a trip.

This girl, Jennifer, she’s trip number 49. Once she’s in the car Uber will most likely give me my 50th trip and I get my $100. The thing is that the state of New York only allows Uber drivers to be online for 12-hours. Like Cincerella, when the timer hits 12 hours, Uber turns my car, well, back into car. The clock is ticking. Despite how cold it is, I unbuckle and open my door, and stand on the door frame yelling her name. I think I see her—a college girl looking at her phone—stumbling across the street toward my car. 

Are you going to be okay?

That's what her friends shout to her while also telling her to watch out for that car. But drunk friends aren't reliable or smart friends. She's in no condition to travel alone. The answer is no. The answer is always no! No, she's not going to be okay. I should've canceled. But she was right there. She's someone's daughter, too drunk to notice she was freezing. She must return safely to her dorm; I need that $100 bonus.

As we pull away, I hear the back window roll down. 

Hey! It's negative fifteen!

She didn't answer, and it's silent ones that puke. I turn around to see her sagged in the seat, eyes closed, and head bouncing on the window.  So I stopped and quickly jumped out to open her door. Seated, she leaned out of the car with her head slumped, arms spread, holding the door with her right hand and the car's frame with her left hand. Face to the pavements, she empties the night's fun onto the street.

I back away standing in the middle of the street, gawking, shivering at the sight and cold, while she threw up and cried. They always cry, professing they never throw up. She continued puke more and apologizee more. Pathetically, she looked at me, vomiting like glue, holding her hair to her face.

Can you hold my hair?

I entered the splash zone and held her hair back while she dry-heaved. After a few minutes, I gave her a towel. She said 

However, when I started driving again, she rolled the window down again. This time, I wasn't quick enough to pull over, so she threw up out the window and down the side of my car.

I'm sorry.

It's okay.

This time, I was too late, and the damage was done. I didn't stop. There was nothing I could do. We're only a block away from her place, and she's making an icy vomit mural that is frozen down the side of my new Prius. And it's not like I can clean it anyway; there are no open car washes when it's negative 15 degrees at 1 a.m. Even the hose at my house won't work. Her sickness on the side of my car is a problem for tomorrow morning. My night was over. No bonus.

I'm so sorry. I'm a nutrition student.

Always tears and apologies. She even tried to use my rag to wipe her vomit off the side of the car.

I'm sorry. I'll tip you in the app.

Even though she's out of the car, I always worry. I've heard stories of drunks slipping on ice and freezing to Death. So I stayed there parked until she was inside for her dorm, which was a problem for RA to deal with.

She kept her promise with a $5 tip, which I appreciated, along with the $150 cleaning fee.