I’m Jayden, and at fifty-two, I’ve been driving for a rideshare app for about four years now. I started doing it after my divorce, at first just to fill my time, then because I realized I actually enjoyed the freedom of it. I’ve met all kinds of people during my late-night drives around the city: chatty college kids, tired business travelers, couples arguing in the backseat, and the occasional drunk who mistakes my car for therapy on wheels.
Most of the time, I let things slide. I’ve learned that people can be careless with their words when they think they’re invisible behind tinted windows. But that Friday night, the one I’ll never forget, two passengers crossed a line I didn’t even know existed.
It was a little after eleven, and I had just finished a long trip from the airport. I was thinking about calling it a night when another request popped up. The pickup location was a trendy downtown bar, one of those places where the music leaks out onto the sidewalk and the line outside is full of people pretending not to shiver in their party clothes.
The ride request showed two passengers headed to the north side, about a twenty-five-minute drive. I figured I’d do this one last trip before heading home. I pulled up, turned on my hazards, and sent the usual text: Hey, I’m out front in a gray Honda Civic.
Two young people came stumbling out of the bar, a guy and a girl, both maybe in their mid-twenties. The guy had that slick, self-assured look that screamed “trust fund baby”: designer jacket, perfect hair, a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. The girl was dressed up too, holding her heels in one hand and her phone in the other, laughing like she was trying to prove how much fun she was having.
“Jayden?” the guy asked as they reached my car.
“Yep, that’s me,” I said, unlocking the doors.
They climbed in, the smell of expensive perfume and alcohol filling the car immediately. The guy sat behind me, and the girl took the passenger seat.
The moment I started driving, I knew it was going to be one of those rides.
“So,” the guy started, leaning forward, “how’s the glamorous life of being a rideshare driver, huh? You get to drive strangers around all night? That must be… fulfilling.”
The girl giggled. “Be nice, Trevor,” she said, but she didn’t sound like she meant it.
I gave a polite smile through the rearview mirror. “Pays the bills,” I said simply.
“Oh come on,” he pressed. “You can’t actually like this. What did you do before this? Lose your job? Or is this like a retirement hobby?”
I kept my eyes on the road, choosing silence. It wasn’t worth engaging. People like him wanted a reaction — and I wasn’t giving him the satisfaction.
He chuckled, clearly taking my quiet as an invitation to keep going. “You know, I read somewhere that rideshare drivers make, what, like fifteen bucks an hour after expenses? That’s barely enough for gas, man. Rough life.”
The girl laughed again, sipping from a cup she’d somehow smuggled out of the bar. “Trevor, stop,” she said half-heartedly. “He’s just trying to do his job.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “I’m just curious how someone ends up doing this job at his age. Like, dude, aren’t you embarrassed driving people our age around?”
That one stung a little. I’m not a prideful man, but I’ve worked hard all my life in construction for twenty-five years, until my knees gave out and the company downsized. Driving wasn’t what I imagined I’d be doing in my fifties, but I took it on with dignity. I was providing a service, earning my keep, and doing it honestly.
Still, their laughter grated on me.
I said quietly, “Everyone’s got their story, kid.”
“Oh, we’d love to hear yours!” he said mockingly. “Tell us midlife crisis? Divorce? Gambling debts?”
The girl laughed so hard she spilled some of her drink. “Stop it, Trevor!” she said between giggles. “You’re being awful.”
He leaned back, smug. “I’m just having fun. Lighten up, old man.”
I bit my tongue. My hands tightened on the steering wheel, but I focused on the road ahead. The sooner I drop them off, the better.
The car grew quiet for a moment. Then the girl turned on the radio and started scrolling through the stations. She stopped on a pop song, something loud and shallow, and started singing along, off-key.
I sighed internally. I could endure fifteen more minutes.
But then, as we drove past a rougher part of town, Trevor started making comments about the people walking on the sidewalks, mocking their clothes, their cars, their faces.
“Man, look at that guy,” he laughed. “Bet he drives rideshare too.”
Something inside me twisted. I wanted to tell him that the world didn’t revolve around him, that not everyone was born into privilege or given every opportunity. But before I could even open my mouth, flashing blue and red lights appeared in my rearview mirror.
A police car.
I glanced at my speedometer, and I was going five under the limit. Everything was fine with my taillights, too. I had no idea why I was being pulled over.
“Whoa,” Trevor said. “Guess Grandpa here’s getting arrested!”
The girl giggled nervously. “Oh my God, what did he do?”
I eased the car to the side of the road and rolled down my window as the officer approached. He was tall, probably in his forties, and his flashlight cut through the darkness as he leaned slightly toward my window.
“Good evening, sir,” he said. “License and registration, please.”
I handed them over, trying to stay calm. “Is there a problem, officer?”
“I’ll explain in a moment,” he said, glancing toward the back seat. His eyes flicked briefly toward Trevor, who was smirking. “You’ve got passengers tonight?”
“Yes, sir. Rideshare pickup from downtown.”
The officer nodded slowly. “Alright, hang tight.” He walked back to his cruiser.
Trevor immediately burst out laughing. “Oh man, this is gold. Imagine if he finds something sketchy in your car. You’re toast, old man.”
“Trevor,” the girl said, rolling her eyes, “stop being such a jerk. He didn’t do anything.”
“Relax, we’re just having fun,” he said, still grinning. “Maybe this’ll teach him to pick up better clients next time.”
I sat there, silent, heat rising in my chest. The humiliation was thick in the air — the way Trevor was talking, like I was some lowlife who didn’t deserve respect.
After a few minutes, the officer came back. He leaned down again, speaking directly to me — but this time, his tone was softer.
“Sir, one of your taillights is flickering. Not completely out, but it’s dim. Thought I’d give you a heads-up before it becomes a problem.”
“Thank you, officer,” I said, relieved. “I’ll get it fixed tomorrow.”
He nodded. “You’ve got everything else in order. Drive safely.”
Then, as he started to step away, Trevor muttered loudly, “Guess you got lucky this time, huh? Maybe he felt bad for you.”
The officer froze. Then he turned around slowly.
“Excuse me?” he said, looking directly at Trevor through the window.
Trevor blinked, clearly not expecting to be heard. “Uh, nothing, officer. Just joking.”
The officer walked around to the passenger side, motioning for me to lower the window. I did. He crouched down slightly to face Trevor.
“Joking, huh?” he said evenly. “Mind if I ask what’s so funny?”
Trevor shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not a big deal, man. Just — you know, small talk.”
The officer’s eyes were sharp. “Son, you been drinking tonight?”
Trevor hesitated. “A little.”
“More than a little, I’d say,” the officer replied, catching the scent of alcohol in the car. “And you,” he said, turning to the girl, “you drinking too?”
She nodded timidly. “Yes, sir.”
He looked back at me. “Sir, are they your passengers?”
“Yes, sir,” I said quietly. “They requested a ride home from a bar.”
The officer’s jaw tightened. “Good thing they did. Because if either of them had gotten behind the wheel tonight, I’d be hauling them off for DUI.”
Trevor laughed nervously. “Come on, man, we’re not driving.”
“No,” the officer said, “but that doesn’t mean you get to disrespect the person keeping you safe right now.”
The tone of his voice made even me sit straighter.
He looked at me again. “Mind stepping out of the car for a moment, sir?”
My heart skipped. “Of course,” I said, stepping out.
He motioned for me to stand near his cruiser while he leaned into my open door to speak to the passengers. I couldn’t hear everything, but I caught bits and pieces.
“…you think this man owes you something?”
“…he’s working to make a living, while you’re mocking him?”
“…if you were my kids, I’d be ashamed.”
Trevor tried to laugh it off, but his voice cracked. The officer didn’t raise his voice, but his words carried a weight that silenced them both.
After a moment, the officer called me back. “Sir,” he said, “you’re free to go. But I’d like to ask — would you feel comfortable continuing the ride with them?”
I hesitated. I looked at Trevor, whose smirk was gone, and at the girl, who stared down at her lap, red-faced.
“Yes,” I said finally. “It’s fine. I’ll finish the trip.”
The officer nodded, giving me a respectful look. “Alright then. Drive safe — and thank you for doing what you do. You’re keeping people like them off the road tonight.”
“Thank you, officer,” I said sincerely.
When I got back in the car, the silence was deafening. Trevor didn’t say a word. Neither did the girl.
We drove the remaining ten minutes without any music, any laughter, any comments. Just the sound of tires on pavement and the quiet hum of the engine.
When we pulled up in front of their building, the girl spoke first.
“I’m… really sorry,” she said softly. “He was drunk and being stupid. You didn’t deserve that.”
I gave her a small nod. “Thank you.”
Trevor didn’t look up. He just mumbled, “Yeah… sorry, man,” before stumbling out of the car.
I watched them walk inside, then sat there for a long moment, letting out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
That night, as I drove home, I thought about what the officer had said. About how people like me — the ones working odd hours, driving strangers around, doing what we can to stay afloat — often go unseen until someone forces others to notice.
I wasn’t angry anymore. Just grateful. Grateful that someone had spoken up when I couldn’t. Grateful that respect still existed somewhere in the world.
The next morning, I got my taillight fixed, treated myself to a coffee and a breakfast sandwich, and logged back into the app.
Because, despite everything, I still liked the job. I liked the conversations, the quiet moments, the stories unfolding in the backseat.
And maybe — just maybe — I liked knowing that every once in a while, the universe, or a passing cop, reminded people like Trevor that dignity isn’t tied to what you do for a living. It’s tied to how you treat the people who help you get where you’re going.
