I’m Sheila. I’m 56, and I drive for a rideshare app. I’ve dealt with plenty of rude passengers, but the two who got in my car that Friday night crossed a line I didn’t know existed.
I stayed quiet through their insults until a cop pulled us over and everything changed in a way none of us expected.
Since my husband’s hardware store closed during the pandemic, I’ve been doing rideshare full-time.
We lost the business, burned through half our savings, and almost lost the house twice. But I still had my car and a clean driving record, so I figured I’d make it work.
It’s not glamorous work.
Most nights I get tired commuters, drunk college students, or the occasional professionals who tip well. Sometimes I get a single mom heading to her second shift, and we’ll talk about our kids.
Those rides remind me why I keep doing this.
Connection, even brief, matters.
But last Friday, I picked up two people who seemed determined to make me feel worthless.
It was just after 9:00 p.m. downtown when they climbed into my backseat. The guy had slicked-back hair and wore a fitted blazer that probably cost more than my car payment.
His girlfriend was tall and polished, wearing perfume I couldn’t have afforded even when we owned the store.
They didn’t say hello.
Didn’t acknowledge me at all. Just got in like I was part of the car’s upholstery.
I tried anyway.
“Evening, folks. Heading to Broadway?”
Nothing.
Not even a nod.
The guy barely looked at me before scoffing loud enough for half the block to hear.
“Seriously? This is supposed to be premium?”
I kept my professional smile in place. “Please buckle up.”
He smirked at his girlfriend, that slow, deliberate kind of smile people use when they’ve decided you’re beneath them.
They started laughing.
Not friendly laughter.
It was the pointed kind meant to cut. The girl leaned over and whispered something, and he snorted like she’d just made the joke of the century.
“Bet she drives slow so she doesn’t spill her prune juice,” he said.
My hands tightened on the wheel.
I’ve heard worse over the years, but something about the way he said it felt calculated. Like they were just warming up.
“Oh my God,” the girl added, touching my seat cover.
“She has a crocheted seat cover.
My grandma had one exactly like this. No offense.”
There it was. “No offense.” The universal disclaimer people use right after saying something offensive…
like it magically erases the insult.
I told myself to breathe.
“Ten minutes. Just get through 10 minutes and drop them off without incident, Sheila.”
Then the guy leaned forward.
“Can you avoid the highway? My girlfriend gets carsick.”
I wanted to say something sharp but swallowed it.
“Of course.
No problem.”
He sighed dramatically. “God, people will do anything for five stars these days.”
I caught his eyes in the rearview mirror. He was smirking.
I held his gaze for a second longer than usual, and something in me refused to look away first.
His expression changed.
“WHAT? Don’t give me that look.
I don’t feel bad for you. People like YOU choose this life!”
That sentence landed differently than the others.
It wasn’t just rude.
It was deliberately cruel. Like he’d been waiting to say it. And it gave him some kind of satisfaction.
“People like me,” I said quietly.
“Right.”
He didn’t even blink.
The girl giggled.
“Maybe you should’ve made better choices.”
I gripped the wheel tightly and focused on the road. Better choices.
As if I’d chosen for the pandemic to destroy our business or decided working nights to keep the lights on sounded fun.
We were about four blocks from their destination when red and blue lights flashed in my rearview mirror.
My stomach dropped. A speeding ticket was the last thing I needed on top of this miserable ride.
The girl sighed like the police lights had personally inconvenienced her evening.
The guy muttered something I couldn’t quite hear, probably another comment about my driving.
I pulled over carefully, heart pounding.
The cruiser stopped behind me. The couple in the backseat shifted, looking mildly annoyed.
“Now what?” the guy hissed. “Does this woman even know how to drive?”
The officer got out and approached my window.
He was wearing a pale-blue surgical mask.
“Getting over the flu,” he said as he leaned down slightly, his eyes scanning the car.
“Evening. Is everything alright here?”
His voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
Before I could respond, the guy in the backseat spoke up.
“Yeah, officer, we’re fine. Just trying to get to the club.
Maybe tell Grandma here that the speed limit isn’t optional.”
He laughed at his own joke.
The girl giggled like it was the funniest thing she’d heard all night. The sound hit me right in the chest. I wanted to disappear into the seat.
The officer didn’t react.
Not even a hint of amusement.
He looked at me again. “Ma’am, you’re the driver?”
I nodded, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Yes, sir. I’m working.
Just taking these two to Broadway.
My license and registration are current.”
“I’ve been driving fine, officer,” I heard myself add, though my voice wavered slightly.
The guy rolled his eyes and leaned toward the girl, his voice loud enough to carry. “Lucky us. Maybe she’ll hand out tissues when she retires.”
That one hurt more than I wanted to admit.
The officer’s posture changed as he took a step closer to the car.
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