Are all Uber drivers more interesting than the rest of us, or just my Uber drivers? I guess I shouldn’t speak for the rest of humanity, but Uber drivers are certainly more interesting than I am. I’ve always wondered whether wannabe Uber drivers have to pass a series of exams that assess the extraordinariness of their life experiences, their story-telling talents (so they can dramatically reveal those experiences to passengers), and conversational acumen (so they know which stories to tell to each passenger, and when to tell them).
I was late to the Uber experience. This is a result of three independent, and admittedly idiosyncratic, factors: not owning a smart phone, an inexplicable sense of loyalty to taxi drivers who were losing business to Uber, and a preference for the presumed freedom that having my own rental car affords while traveling. But these factors are, as we say, ancient history, even if their reversals all occurred within the past year.
Let’s take the latter first. My unbridled enthusiasm for car rentals was extinguished on a recent trip to San Francisco with Eliel for a tournament. The car rental agency was located five miles outside of the airport, but it was cheap so this slight inconvenience seemed worth it. We arrived at the agency around mid-afternoon and were greeted with another slight inconvenience: a long line of customers who were preventing our immediate access to the only service agent in sight. We waited patiently, smiling and staring at the others in line, who, if my anthropological observational skills were not failing me, seemed as grumpy as I was becoming with each passing minute. Minutes continued to pass—40 of them actually—until we finally reached the lone service agent. She smiled at us, perfunctorily I thought. It wasn’t the smile of shared suffering that was being exchanged among the disgruntled costumers, rather, I would soon realize, it was the survival strategy of an employee trying to make the best of an impossible situation.
“How can I help you?” she asked politely.
I wasn’t feeling polite, as it had already been a long day of traveling from the East coast, and I wanted to respond “We’ll have two falafels, an order of fries, and a milkshake to go.” But I kept my juvenile sarcasm in check and continued with the more appropriate, albeit obvious, “We are here to pick up our car.”
“I’m sorry, we have no more cars today,” she responded unexpectedly, although her smile and politeness were still evident.
“What?” I instinctively responded. “But I have a reservation,” I confidently informed her.
“Yes, but we usually run out of cars by 2:00. And today they were all gone by 1:30, if you can believe it.”
“I have no reason not to believe it,” unable to restrain a bit of sarcasm. “But I have a reservation,” I less confidently repeated.
She smiled, but was unresponsive, so I continued. “My flight didn’t get in until 2:30. And my expected time of arrival is on my reservation, so I clearly wouldn’t be getting here until after 2:00.”
“Yes, we usually run out of cars by 2:00.”
Hmmm. Had AI advanced so far that I was no longer able to detect whether or not I was engaging with a fellow human being? To be stumped like this after years of training in anthropology was only adding insult to injury. This life form, whether organic or not, was still wearing her smile, which was apparently part of this company’s strategy to disarm the regular stream of frustrated customers who arrived after 2:00 p.m. every day.
“I’d like to speak to your manager,” I persisted, less politely than I had been.
“I’m sorry, I’m the only person working now. All my coworkers got to leave when we rented the last car,” she lamented, with unrestrained jealousy in her voice. “That was at 1:30 you know. Busy day.”
I was at a loss for words. I looked at Eliel, my tether to reality, but he was speechless as well. At that moment I swore two things to myself. First, I swore I would never complain again about companies that rely on AI chatbots rather than humans for their service care. I had concluded that this employee, was definitely human, and I was realizing that humans, when working for crooked companies, could be even more annoying than their artificial offspring. Second, I swore I would never rent a car again. I’ve kept the latter of those promises.
I was tired and I realized arguing was pointless. Without options I asked her what I was supposed to do now.
“I would order an Uber if I were you.” Brilliant. I thought about telling her that such advice should be offered on the agency’s website to anyone whose flight lands after 2:00 p.m., but I held my tongue. Nonetheless, I have taken her advice to heart ever since. I now skip the perils of renting a car and I go straight to Uber when I am without my own vehicle. You may be wondering why Uber rather than a taxi, but I’ll get to that in time. For the moment, I need to mention that one of my children, upon reading this story, remarked “You sound unnecessarily mean. I would cut it out.”
I responded, “I thought it was obvious that I’m grumpy. And anyway, even when I’m not grumpy you know I’m not that nice, right?”
“Well, even if that was true, which I don’t think is the case, you wouldn’t want your readers to know that!”
“But I’m being honest in my writing.”
“Honesty isn’t as important as being a good person.”
Well, that was food for thought. My kids are usually right, or at least they are right much more often than I am, but in this case I’ve stubbornly ignored their sound advice. Hopefully the world will not judge me too harshly. Although I can hear my kids saying, “You mean you want your readers to judge you more favorably than you judged that poor employee?” Yep, that’s exactly what I’m hoping for.
Let me return to my fascination with Uber drivers. And yes, my fascination is justified. Eliel and I have done most of our Uber riding in Las Vegas, where the US Table Tennis Nationals have been held, until recently, for decades. And I guess I should add for clarity, although I did not possess a smartphone during any of these trips, Eliel did; he was thus responsible for arranging our transport needs. So, who were these fascinating drivers? One was a professional boxer. His vocation led to an intriguing discussion comparing boxing and table tennis; two sports that had captured the hearts and imagination of earlier generations of Americans, but no longer held the prominence they once did. Yes, by the way, table tennis had its heyday in the US, but I’ll tell that story another time. On another trip we met a retired CEO of a multimillion-dollar corporation who simply used Uber driving as an outlet for his extraversion. And since Uber drivers often take us to kosher restaurants for dinner after a day of tournament competition, we have met countless drivers who nostalgically reminisced about their Jewish upbringing. These drivers invariably related their unique and curious journeys away from the tradition with which they obviously still deeply identified. These encounters often made me feel like a rabbi masquerading as a Catholic priest in a confessional booth on wheels. We have also met dancers, singers, and comedians who have performed at the countless hotels in Vegas. One comedian literally did his act for us, unrequested, while he was driving. We tried to be a polite audience and occasionally laugh, but it was obvious why he was driving for Uber. One of my favorite Uber drivers was a professional jazz pianist, who on our ride was playing a CD from a swinging jazz quartet. I complimented his choice in music, unaware that not only was he a musician, but we were listening to his quartet. At the end of our drive, after an engaging discussion about our favorite jazz artists, he ejected the CD we were listening to and gave it to me. I tried to decline his kind gesture, but he insisted. Humans are capable of such beautiful acts of generosity.
My most recent encounter with a generous—albeit with stories, rather than music—and interesting Uber driver was in Fort Worth, Texas. I was there to attend the US Table Tennis Nationals. It was the second year in a row this event was held at the Fort Worth Convention Center, breaking the decades-long tradition of holding the annual competition in Las Vegas. Whether it is fair or not, I judge places by the quality of their bookstores, so despite the countless entertaining Uber drivers offering their services in Vegas, Fort Worth gets my nod. And as it turns out, Fort Worth has interesting Uber drivers as well, but more on that in a moment. First, a comment about used bookstores, as neither Las Vegas nor Fort Worth are known for their literary scenes. At last year’s Nationals I had in fact mistakenly judged Fort Worth to be a bibliophile’s perdition. Somehow, I had failed to notice Barber’s Bookstore, a used bookstore located several blocks from the Fort Worth Convention Center. This was particularly odd, because I can usually smell such stores, or so my kids believe. This year, I guess, the winds blew the musty book scent in my direction, much to my delight. While browsing through the meandering aisles of this eclectic store it didn’t take long to realize I was in Texas. The shelf that elsewhere would have been designated as the hunting section, was labeled “Shooting Bambi.” The shelf below it, reserved for books about taxidermy, was labeled “Stuffing Bambi.” I like nearly all bookstores, but a bookstore with a sense of humor, even distasteful humor, is a true gift. And indeed, although as a vegetarian I wasn’t looking for books on either of those shelves, I found a few rare anthropological gems that I happily purchased.
This was the first year, since 2016, that I attended the US Nationals without Eliel. So, you may be wondering, why was I there? That was indeed the question that everyone I spoke to invariably asked. The path to that inevitable question was as follows:
“Hi Eliel’s dad! Where’s Eliel?” I should note, ‘Eliel’s dad’ seems to be my official moniker for anyone under 50 years old; those over 50 are more likely to remember me when I was a player and they use the name my parents provided at birth.
“He couldn’t make it because of work.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. So you are competing again?”
“No, I’m out of practice.”
And here is where we would arrive at the inevitable question.
I was there, on the suggestion of my publisher, to promote my forthcoming book, The Ping Pong Player and the Professor. When conversations arrived at the inevitable question I pulled out an Advanced Reader Copy of the book from my backpack and told them about the book, which will be coming out in the fall. The responses were unwaveringly supportive, which was genuinely heartwarming.
Okay, back to the main point (if there is one) of these ramblings: Uber drivers. After the tournament, on the evening before my departure for home I preordered an Uber ride to the Dallas-Fort Worth airport. The next morning the driver arrived at my hotel early, in a large black sedan. The driver and I had similar amounts of hair (lack thereof would be more accurate) and as it turns out, we had similar initials, but our similarities ended there. He was short, stout, and sporting a smart-looking vest and black slacks, both diminished by a bowtie, an article of clothing that should only exist as an artifact in archaeological collections as evidence of humanity’s sartorial progress. When I emerged from the hotel at the scheduled pickup time he was standing erect by the passenger door, waiting patiently for me, while I wondered whether I had accidentally ordered limo service to the airport. I’m terrible at starting conversations, and I’m not very good once I’m in the midst of them either, but I’ve discovered that when in a vehicle with a driver, asking where the driver is from often sets the conversation in motion. Bowtie Reggie was a retired postal worker who had spent his life in Texas, never venturing much beyond the Dallas-Fort Worth area. After a bit, Reggie inquired about the purpose of my visit to his beloved state, and I told him about the US Nationals. He was a ping pong enthusiast, he claimed, but he had no idea that the Nationals were being held in his hometown. Unsolicited, as though he was participating in an ethnographic interview by an anthropologist, he proceeded to tell me how he learned to play ping pong, who he’d beaten over the years—despite the fact that his victims were obviously all unknown to me, and all about how he volunteers at the local high school to help with their “ping pong” program.
I asked whether he was able to pass his passion for table tennis to his children—we had already established that we were both dads—and he said no, but he was successfully teaching one of his grandchildren to play. Well, he wasn’t exactly teaching him table tennis, per se. Rather, they played a variant my driver dubbed “Reggie’s Rules.” I don’t know if Texans are on a first name basis with their grandparents, but as you might expect (see the title of my forthcoming book), I approve of the alliteration. In Reggie’s Rules, Grandpa “Bowtie” Reggie has to hit the ball out of the air, before it bounces, whereas his seven-year-old grandson simply has to hit the ball over the net. If his grandson’s shot goes over the net but is not hit out of the air on the return—in other words, if it hits the table, floor, or even a wall before being struck—it is the grandson’s point. If the grandson’s shot does not make it over the net, or is missed entirely, it is Grandpa Reggie’s point. Reggie needed to explain these rules twice before I fully understood how to play, but I could relate to creating table tennis variants. When Eliel was learning how to play—four years older than Reggie’s grandson—I also devised various games to make matches with Eliel competitive, but I was less imaginative than Reggie. My games had me spotting Eliel points or playing with my weaker hand or playing on my knees, or initially all three.
My conversation with Reggie got me thinking about the nature of sports, especially the arbitrariness of their rules. In established sports the rules evolve over time, reflecting changes in technology, economics, and social realities. But as anthropologist Michael Jackson (yes, his real name*) points out in his book Life Within Limits (2011, pp. 143-44), our sports give us a simplified framework upon which to experience life, which is otherwise messy, unimaginably complex, and often rather unmanageable. The rules of sport, and games for that matter, provide an arena in which goals are clear and attainable. As such, the moments we spend in these arenas of play help us reorient ourselves amidst the vagaries of life.
That’s enough anthropological pondering for the moment. I promised I would eventually explain why I am no longer steadfast in my commitment to the overpriced taxi industry, one of the factors that had delayed my use of Uber. So, let me fulfill my promise. The event that sealed the deal actually occurred at the other end of my Fort Worth trip, that is, the beginning of my trip to the Nationals. I had an early flight out of Boston and I didn’t want to use Uber for a 4:00 a.m. pickup in case the driver overslept. I reasoned, logically I thought, that if a cab driver overslept at least I would be able to call the company the driver worked for. After a brief evening nap, I was ready for my 4:00 a.m. pickup, but at 4:00 a.m. my driver was nowhere in sight. Okay, it was still dark of course, so nothing was in sight, but my cab had clearly not yet arrived. I waited a few minutes and called the cab company to find out if my driver was on the way. No answer. I called again. No answer. Now, I don’t know whether it is my naivete, stupidity, or that my blind faith in humanity is impervious to my life experiences, but I suspect most readers are unsurprised that nobody was answering the phone at 4:00 a.m. at the cab company. Yet, I was. Indeed, I (incorrectly) assumed I was paying more for a cab than I would for an Uber precisely for such service and peace of mind. But my calls over the next 20 minutes remained unanswered. I did, however, finally receive a phone call from the driver who was evidently on my street but unable to find my house. I told him that the street is short—just drive down it and I will head outside and I will see him. Well, I did see him, as he sped right past me. I ran down the block and caught up with him when he slowed down to turn the corner. Within a few minutes, after collecting my bags, we were on our way to the airport, a half hour later than I had anticipated. I should mention that my driver likely missed me because, in addition to the fact that it was dark outside, it was pouring.
We were running late, but my driver seemed intent on making up for lost time. Indeed, while navigating the curvy one-lane roads in my New England town he tailgated anyone in our way, which accomplished absolutely nothing. Once on the highway we hit a cruising speed of 90 mph. I did not feel safe, but I was genuinely worried about catching my 6:00 a.m. flight and I reasoned that he was a professional so he surely knows what he is doing. I should have realized by this point in the morning that my reasoning skills were suspect on this trip. At one point on the drive I finally couldn’t contain myself any longer and I told the driver to slow down. But before I had finished my warning we had slammed into the median, only to bounce off it and slam back into it again. Thankfully, we didn’t hit another car and we were still moving down the highway. However, as we drove on it was clear that both left-side tires were flat and there was no way we could continue. I expressed my concern about making my flight and he said he thought he could make it to the bus station in downtown Boston. Cabs would be waiting there that could take me the rest of the way to the airport.
We limped, wobbled, and sputtered along to the bus station, ultimately making it, but there was only one cab on the otherwise deserted street—it was 5:00 a.m. I hopped out of the car and went to the cab. The driver was asleep and it looked as though he was living in the cab. I knocked on the window but there was no response. I knocked again, and again. Finally, there was movement, but he did not roll down his window. When I explained that I needed a ride to the airport he flatly refused.
“But we are only five miles away and my flight leaves soon.”
“No,” and he promptly closed his eyes, attempting to return to his presumably pleasant dreams.
I knocked on his window again and begged, but he was adamant in his refusal. He said he had been working since 7:00 a.m. the previous morning and the only place he was going was back to sleep. My driver came over and pleaded, as a personal favor between fellow drivers, to take me. There simply weren’t other options. There were no other cabs (or even humans) in sight and as my driver explained, he had two flat tires. But this overworked cabbie was unmoved. My original driver walked away in disgust and I continued to pester the cabbie, who wanted nothing more than to sleep.
Finally, the cabbie, realizing that he wasn’t going to get any sleep until he got rid of me, asked “How much are you willing to pay?” I offered, appropriately I thought, twenty dollars.
“No.”
“Thirty dollars?”
“No.”
“Forty dollars?”
“Upfront in cash.”
“Deal.”
I grabbed my luggage, hopped in before he changed his mind, and off we went to the airport. I did make my flight, but like car rental agencies, I don’t expect to be using taxi services anytime soon.
I’ll wrap up these scattered thoughts by noting that traveling to the US Table Tennis Nationals has come a long way over the years. In the 1930s, players and fans were known to hitchhike to the playing hall. To attend the 1938 Nationals in Philadelphia, Carl Heyl “traveled 996 miles…by route of thumb; 27 rides, 47 hours, 46 cents transportation expense” (see Tim Boggan’s History of U.S. Table Tennis, vol. 1, p. 299). And Mr. Heyl was not exceptional. Superfan David Doll, for example, hitchhiked the 800 miles from Chicago to New York for the 1933 Nationals. As he explained to a reporter after his arrival in the Big Apple, “Had to get there, just had to.” Evidently, table tennis addiction is at least 90 years old. Mr. Doll advised fellow hitchhikers that nighttime drivers are more generous than those in the daytime. Upon hearing about his lengthy journey, the players took up a collection to send him home after the tournament, via train (ibid., p. 50). I love trains, and when I was younger I covered a lot of miles hitchhiking across the country, but thank God for Uber-drivers: punctual, safe, humane, often well-dressed, and generous both day and night. And endlessly interesting too.
*If you are curious about what it is like going through life with the name of a pop icon, see Jackson’s article “What’s in a Name? An Essay on the Power of Words.”
Richard Sosis 