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…
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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