As usual, I missed the bus. This was probably a good thing because the bus takes at least one hour to get anywhere from where I live in Los Angeles’ Highland Park neighborhood to the other side of the Interstate 5. By car it’s only 15-20 minutes. Lately I’ve been switching up Uber adventures with Lyft because the men who drive for it seem to have better boundaries with their young female passengers, like me. And with the new Lyft option of saving money by opting to “wait 10 minutes for a driver” rather than the faster one-minute wait norm, it’s easy to rationalize a Lyft over a long bus ride.
I decided to try out the “wait 10 minutes” option on a Sunday morning. I was headed to Silver Lake to meet up with a friend. I requested a 10-minute Lyft but no one was biting, so I gave up on my money-saving plan and switched to the one-minute option.
Michael’s Lyft screen said he would be there in three minutes, but for three minutes I stared at the screen, observing that his car was in fact not moving to the other side of Highland Park where I waited.
And I was paying three dollars extra for this? Apparently, I was.
I called Michael and asked him what was going on, and told him that I could see that his car was not moving; he quickly explained that he was on his way and he’d be there in three minutes. Finally, the Lyft screen and Michael synced up.
I already knew from his Lyft driver profile that Michael was a standup comedian. He arrived looking less professional than his profile picture; on that Sunday, he was wearing black basketball shorts and a gray t-shirt, looking like he’d just hit the gym. Actually, he’d just gotten started for the day, he told me. He didn’t ask me for directions; he followed Waze. He did politely offer me water, which he’d stocked in his car.
We drove and talked, mostly about nutrition and then, the inevitable career question. I decided to turn it on him. He told me that he moved here from Philly to do standup. He worked seven days a week, 12-hour shifts at a Chinese restaurant for six months in order to save up enough money to buy a car and move here. That was admirable, I thought to myself; if nothing else, he was determined. As usual I managed to not say that much about myself; I didn’t want to talk. We rolled up to my destination, parted ways. I wished him the best of luck.
That was my first time in the front seat. Different stories happen when sitting in the back seat.
For a brief two days, I was in a long-distance relationship with Bastion, an Uber driver I met the other week. After a pleasant Uber drive back to Highland Park with a friend, I realized I’d left my coat in the backseat. Multiple Uber ‘support’ requests and an entire day later, I gave up hope on ever seeing that cute black jacket again.
Then I received a text from an unknown number — it was Bastion, our driver! He apologized for the delay and let me know that he’d found my coat. We texted all morning and afternoon, trying to coordinate a meeting place. Uber-ing is unreliable, he confessed to me in one text mid-afternoon as I began to express frustration about how hard it was to meet up. He explained that he has to go where he’s needed, not where he wants.
He’s doing his best, I thought. Fine.
We made a tentative plan to meet in Atwater Village — but again, Bastion said he couldn’t make any promises. Fifteen minutes before the time we were hoping to meet, he texted to let me know he was headed to the West Side, so he wouldn’t be back for awhile but he promised he’d try again the next day.
Could I be patient and wait? he asked, condescendingly.
Sure, I could do that, but it is hard to wait for something that you really want.
Bastion unexpectedly ended up back in Highland Park that same evening after his long drive to the West Side. He offered to drop off the coat at the cafe I had mentioned before. I told him that the cafe was closed but he could swing by my place.
I met him outside my house; he opened the trunk and took out my coat.
“It’s not often that I see one of my Uber riders again,” he said, smiling.
I agreed. In this Uber world, it’s usually one-and-done. It was nice to see him again. I asked him how his drive to the West Side went, and he said it was fine, you know, a drive. He handed me my coat and I thanked him. We didn’t even shake hands though I wondered about that. Should we have hugged? I felt close to him, but it was only because I forgot something, and he had found it.
Instead, I thanked him again, telling him this was my favorite coat and I missed it so much, although the truth is that it wasn’t really my favorite coat, but I would’ve been pissed if I had not gotten it back. Then our exchange ended.
And I sort of hoped I would see him again.
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Crystal Paradise is a weekly column published every Tuesday by Los Angeles-based writer Alicia Eler that navigates the naturally occurring weirdnesses that spark at the intersection of art, technology and travel.
