And while I'm doing it, I would really like to hear from other people about rideshare trips gone terribly wrong. I didn't realize before Sunday how very, very vulnerable we are in these cars with strangers. But we are. And I'm not sure the convenience is worth it.
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On Sunday evening, May 5, I arrived at the Houston airport. I wasn't in a huge hurry to get to my hotel, so I actually first checked to see how long it would take for a public transportation trip. (Too long. Two and a half hours. What the heck, Houston? Fix yr public transport)
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I hailed a Lyft. The driver arrived at 7:34. He was a personable fellow - youngish, handsome, smiled easily - and I didn't feel uncomfortable at all getting into his car.
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The first thing he did was complain that the directions that the app gives him were "not the best way". I told him I have had similar gripes with google maps - always favoring packed freeways over zippy, pretty parkways. I ignore it a lot.
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I didn't realize that he was actually telling me that he was intending to go off-route. I didn't realize that he was actually telling me that he was intending to turn the app off. But he did do both of those things. He asked if he could stop for gas. "Fine," I said, and meant it.
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As we left the gas station, I peeked at the app. It said we would arrive at the hotel at 8:11. We chatted about his family, what brought him to Houston, his other jobs. He told me I had pretty eyes. "Thanks," I said, and changed the subject. He said it again. I clammed up.
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I decided to do email tasks on my phone. I noticed that the app now said that we would arrive at 8:15. Then, quickly 8:20. And then again, 8:25. "Are we going the right way?" I asked. It didn't look like it. "Yes," he said. "Houston traffic is terrible. We'll miss it"
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He told me my eyes were pretty again. I pretended I didn't hear.
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It was getting dark. I didn't realize that we were headed in the opposite direction of the city. It was getting darker. I wasn't paying attention, focusing on trying to sound smart in an email using the tiny keyboard on my phone. I kept my eyes down.
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Finally, I finished my email and hit send. But it didn't send. I checked the app. It said that it couldn't find service. I tried calling my husband, but my cell was out of range. Outside, I could see no city lights, no buildings, no nothing. Just an empty sweep of land and cows.
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"Are we going the right way?" I asked. "Just relax," he said. "I know what I'm doing." "Oh," I said. We were travelling at around ninety miles an hour. "Houston traffic?" I said. "Yes. Houston traffic."
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According to Lyft's website, what one is supposed to do in these situations is demand to be let off. (Apparently, there is a call for help button too, but that doesn't help you if your phone doesn't work. And I can't see how it would help while going 90 on a lonely Texas road).
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Like probably half of you, I was raised a girl. And one of the things we learn while being raised a girl is how to keep the peace. How to keep the tone light and airy even if our hearts are pounding. How to keep the man in your presence from getting angry, or escalating.
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So I made pleasant conversation. I talked about my kids. I talked about how much I do for them. How much they need me. I did this in an unemotional way. I did this to humanize myself. I did this because I was scared out of my mind that I didn't know where this man was taking me.
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And then, because, hell. I'm a writer. I MAKE SHIT UP FOR A LIVING. I have been doing this for FIFTEEN YEARS. Longer, actually. There was a voice in my head that said, "COME ON. Tell a frickin story." So I did.
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I shifted the conversation to ridiculous annoyances at work. I complained about my own employer - a transnational security firm. I'm a low level employee, obviously. I work in corporate communications and my job largely entails preventing my bosses from sounding like idiots.
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I made shit up telling funny stories about made-up co-workers. My ex-green-beret boss. My co-worker who was in special forces who has a neck so big I think it's circumference is bigger than my hips. The guy with the Russian accent who swears he was born in Vermont.
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I complained about my fancy Pixel phone (it's not fancy. it's first gen and I bought it for fifty bucks from a friend who got it for free through his job at Adobe). I said it was nice and all to get it from my employer but all these security features are SO ANNOYING.
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I told him that my boss literally knows where I am at all times. I told him that it meant that I never have a moment's peace. I told him that he knows when I'm running late and calls me to chew me out. And that I'm pretty sure my phone is listening and recording me all the time.
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He told me that the traffic was probably low enough by now to take the freeway, and we made a hard turn. I have no idea where we were. All I know is that it was 8:40 by this time. I had been in the car for over an hour.
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At 8:45 I had bars. I called my husband. I pretended he was my boss. I told him I'd be back at the hotel at - I asked the driver what time. "Nine", he said. "Nine," I said to my husband. "I will skype you at nine. I promise I won't be late." I forced the shake out of my voice.
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(My poor baby was SO CONFUSED. "Okay?" he said. He told me later that he wanted to call me a weirdo, but when he realized what was going on, now it makes him cry.)
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I know I should have called the police. The ONLY THING I wanted was to get out of that car. The ONLY THING I wanted was to prevent the situation from escalating. I was in full hostess mode. Anticipating reactions. Smoothing wrinkles. Keeping the edges neat.
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We arrived. "Thank you," I said. "Thank you so much." My hands shook. I dropped my phone. My legs wobbled. I turned around and went into the hotel and did not look back.
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Finally, I checked my phone. I opened the lyft app to look for instructions to report the driver. Instead there was a reciept. The ride that was supposed to cost 30 bucks cost me 94. In some ways, this was a good thing: fear could now be replaced with anger. Anger is useful.
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Now, there are two possibilities: Either I was in the car for ninety minutes with a predator and it's a miracle I got out of there unscathed. OR. I was in the car for ninety minutes with a criminal knucklehead who wanted to bilk me into paying the higher fare.
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The second option may well be true. All that "pretty eyes" nonsense could well be a hamhanded way of distracting the forty-something, not realizing that in the real world THAT SHIT IS CREEPY. The thing is? I have no way of knowing. And the thing is, both options are ATROCIOUS.
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I called Lyft that night. They REFUNDED THE DIFFERENCE. So I still had to pay thirty bucks to be terrified out of my mind for ninety minutes. Thanks Lyft!
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My conversation was on Sunday. As of this writing on Thursday, THEY HAVE NOT YET REACHED OUT. The only message was a canned bot message from a helpful AI named Max. No last name. No phone calls. Nothing.
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