I am Uber Blue, meaning I’m a newbie. It could also mean that I accept fewer than the desired number of trips and that I don’t work enough every day, but I’m going to say it’s because I’m new.

I have never had a job before that lines up profit and work so accordingly. I do a ride, and instead of seeing some vague potential future paycehck that might get docked if I fuck up, I see the money flow into my earnings tab, to be dispersed even immediately if I so wish it.

I don’t wish it. I refuse to give uber 85 of my hard earned cents. I will get it Monday, and it will be great.

Mostly the job is driving people around. I worked the work-ends, a phrase I made up that probably someone else has made up to describe working the hours folks are late for their jobs and need an uber, as well as the hours when they are super fucking done with work and ready to get home not-on-a-bus. It’s mostly not-being-a-bus.

I like giving people rides more than doing deliveries because I don’t have to get out of the car.

My first ride was a mother and two kids who were perfectly trained to be prim and proper in the car, yet screamed before and after being in the car itself. Their mother seemed so relieved to just sit there, her children staring daggers at me in the mirror, this is your fault you fucker for driving us, it’s your fault we have to be quiet. Being a parent myself I smiled knowingly at Mom, and then grinned at the kids with my gap tooth smile. Yes, fuckers. I know it’s my fault. I know!

My last wasn’t even a ride. These two kids jumped in the car, one around eight, one that couldn’t have been any older than six. It was an expensive ride I’d grabbed, so I was looking forward to making money, yet nothing could’ve compelled me to drive when eight year old shouted “ok, DRIVE!” after slamming the car door with effort. Six year old was fumbling with his seatbelt, looking straight-up like he was about to start sobbing.

I stared at them. “What,” I said, “no, what?”

Then, from outside, “WHAT THE FUCK DO Y’ALL THINK YOU’RE DOING!”

Mom, clearly the Mom I had been missing, was running out of the house in her sweats looking like she was about to commit murder. Six year old really did start balling, then. Eight year old started jumping up and down in his seat screaming, “Drive, drive, drive!”

I rolled down my window. “Do these belong to you?” I called up at her.

In a flash she was at the car, yanking eight year old out by the collar and six year old followed in a blip. A pink phone clattered to the ground. “GET the fuck inside,” her shout turning into the familiar parenting snarl of ‘you’re blessed I don’t hit my kids cuz now would be the time.’ The kids scattered, and she leaned down and picked up the phone.

“Uh,” I said.

“Sorry,” she said, “they stole my phone. Peace.”

I still got $14 for that trip. Checking the map before she canceled, I saw they were trying to go to some South Philly mall. Classic kid.