For a month last year, I drove for Lyft in the Denver area. These are my stories. It’s 10:03PM. I pull up to the one-story house, and wait four minutes in the darkness. The passenger is nowhere to be seen. But then, I see a young, mid-20s woman emerge from the front door. Whispering, she asks, “Can I fit some boxes in your car?”“Sure, are you going to the airport?”“No, my boyfriend broke up with me and I have all my stuff here and, and…” Tears stream down her face and her voice cracks. “No problem!” I quickly respond. “Take as long as you need! Let me know if you need help!” The Lyft app notifies me the waiting time has expired and I must move on, but I ignore it. After another ten minutes, I see boxes piling up on the front porch. We move her life’s possessions to my now completely full trunk. Meanwhile, a few people step out of the house to watch. A tall lanky man in a wifebeater helps her move the luggage, apologetically. Two children watch from the cracked four-paned window. As we hit the road, she calls someone for a few minutes and half-speaks half-wails in a foreign language. I offer a couple platitudes, out of a loss of what to say, and she nods. Silence for the rest of the ride. We arrive, and I help move her boxes inside the house, to what looks like her family. As I depart she says, “Thank you.”
