Welcome, reader! It is I, los with the most. I am the asphalt asskicker, purveyor of pavement, kaiser of concrete, the car czar, the Lyftkeeper, to relay Tales from the Lyft!
The following has been plucked from the backseat of the Millennium Subaru. The only detail(s) changed are the names of the people.
Sit back, chillax, and read with delight.
I’ve been driving for Lyft since May 2023. It’s the perfect side hustle for me! I love the driving experience, I listen to my tunes, learn the streets of the Phoenix metroplex, converse with riders, all while being paid to do it!
I eluded to this story in my post, Tales from the Lyft | Eyes Wide Shut. The following is easily the craziest story thus far in my driving history
Ride #32 – Knight and Day
I picked up Rodney* from his home in the Phoenix area. He asked politely if we could load up his bicycle. I didn’t hesitate to say yes. We quietly loaded up the bicycle frame, the 2 tires, and finally the chain. It was in pieces. Once we were on our way, I asked, “We are driving somewhere fun?”
A Cheshire cat grin spread across his face, “Depends on what you define as fun.”
My eyebrows arched. I peered down at the mounted phone and the displayed address: Knights Inn. “Oh really? Room parties are fun.” My mind drifted off to the NORWESCON room parties at the DoubleTree by Hilton SeaTac.
Rodney quipped, “Especially during a snow storm.”
Immediately, I was transported to the Barcelona Night Club in Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada for New Year’s Eve 2012. There was a room there for skiers, and snowboarders only. “Cool, cool, homie,” I replied.
“You can buy a heater where we’re going,” he casually mentioned. “I could hook you up.”
My street smarts, Napkin Nights persona took over. “I’m straight good.”
“Bet,” he smiled. “How about some honey? Park your whip for a hot minute,” he invited.
“I appreciate the offer, but this is my hustle for those dead presidents,” I answered. I actively willed this ride to end soon.
We parked at the Knights Inn Motel Phoenix. A few females were standing on the catwalk overlooking the parking lot and connecting the upper level floors. The shorter, more rotund, woman in lingerie approached Rodney as if she knew him. I helped Rodney retrieve his bicycle parts. We dapped, he thanked me again for the bottled water.
[the next ride later]
I zoomed off to the next rider, as I was eager to put this outta my memory. The name on the account was Jasmine. I arrived at a Mexican food eatery place nearby. The brown skined fella was dressed in red basketball shorts, white T-shirt and matching red baseball cap backwards. He hopped in.
“Eh, yo, vato! Who’s phone is this,” he held up a black rectangle shaped phone.
My heart sunk. It was Rodney’s. I mentally sighed. Why me? Why today?
“It must be the previous rider’s,” I grumbled. I quickly strategized. “Hey homie, you in a hurry to get home? Or wherever we’re going?”
“Nah,” he leaned back, and adjusted his baseball cap. “It’s gonna be Netflix and chill. Let’s go.”
“It’s nearby, my guy,” I advised as I put the vehicle into drive.
[8 minutes later]
I parked, left the keys in so the air conditioning will stay on, also left my iPhone mounted, and wallet out of sight of not-Jasmine. No one is outside. I charged up the stairs to the catwalk, I called out for Rodney. The portly woman opened a door, and stepped out to greet me.
“Who you looking for?” she angrily asked.
“Rodney,” I retorted flatly. “He left his phone in my car. I was his Lyft driver. All I wanna do is return it.”
She sized me up from head to toe even though I stood a foot taller than her. Like a concerned pimp, or dominatrix, she nodded down the path. “Room 252.”
I strutted to the numbered door. I rapped on it loudly to compete with the music I could hear from outside.
“Who DAT!” from the other side of the door.
“Rodney. I need Rodney. I got his phone,” I yelled back. A doorman, per se, opened it. I was greeted with marijuna smoke, and a party scene worth of The Hangover. Half naked women sprawled out on beds getting the business, drug paraphernalia scattered around the room, and Rodney cradling 4 phones in his crossed arms.
“YO, BRUH. That’s my phone!” he snatched it outta my outstretched hand, while letting the phones fall to the tile. “I owe you, mang.” He turned and announced, “This playa is hella cool. Carlos did me a solid today, we’re gonna remember that.”
He faced me again, and gave me a man’s half-hug. “Bet,” was all I could’ve mustered as acknowledgment. Kinda wish they all forgot my name, and face. I shut the door in the hopes of stopping the recording of the scene in front of me.
It didn’t work.
I returned to the Millennium Subaru still there, not-Jasmine in the back seat. I buckled myself in. That was such a Knight and Day experience. I looked into the rearview mirror. “Now that is done, let’s get you home so you can Netflix and chill.”
“Bet.”
*name changed for anonymity
los, Fil-Am Renaissance Man 