Phillips - Diary of an Uber Driver

Over the past twenty-seven years I have found myself in many truly bizarre situations. However, if you had sat me down when I finished high school and said, Listen, in ten years time you will be broke, have grey hairs in your beard and be driving for a modern-style taxi service called Uber, I wouldnt have believed you. In fact, I would have been rather offended. I was supposed to be retired by now and drinking pina coladas on a beach in the Bahamas, not ferrying around abusive drunkards on a Saturday night and sculling cans of energy drink to stay awake.

My seventeen-year-old self envisioned a tall, bronzed statue of a man with perfect white teeth and a full head of hair. I am still tall, but pale, and far from statuesque. I am not overweight but have a midsection like a plastic bag full of warm custard. Im by no means bald, but my hair is slowly running away from my translucent face. My teeth arent white, straight or close to perfect. They are more of a McDonalds-fries yellow, slightly chipped and in need of attention. Dentists are expensive and my bank account is as empty as a schooner glass on ANZAC day. By now I was supposed to be a man who could speak several languages. I am fluent in English and Australian slang.

I havent travelled, not really: England for two months before flying home to a girl I thought I loved doesnt count so my friends like to remind me. And maybe thats my problem. The reason why I havent made it to the Bahamas. Fuck, I havent even made it to Fraser Island.

I had just quit another sales job when a close friend suggested I drive for Uber. He said it would be the perfect temporary job while I worked out the next career move or business venture I was inevitably going to wade into like a Labrador puppy chasing waves at the beach. A feeling of relief instantly washed over me as I imagined a life with no boss, no inbox overflowing with emails and no real responsibilities, besides driving my passengers to their destination safely, of course. Yes, I was going to be an Uber driver. The decision wouldnt get me to the Bahamas any time soon, but strangely, freeing myself from self-imposed expectations, if only temporarily, felt like a holiday to me. I couldnt afford a gap year to Europe to find myself, so I would hit the streets of Sydney instead.

The idea met staunch opposition from my mum, who was convinced I was going to be kidnapped by a rogue passenger, never to be seen again. She also doubted I would ever get paid by some fancy tech-business operating out of San Francisco. I watched her face turn from white to red to scarlet as she shook her head and pursed her lips, desperately trying to conjure her best argument to convince me not to drive for Uber. Well... you, you, youre not a bloody taxi driver, alright! she finally managed to yell, her face changing back to its original colour. We both burst out laughing at her outburst.

My reasons for driving for Uber were simple. I wanted some breathing space, free from the pressure and stresses of a full-time job, to work out exactly what I wanted from life. I didnt want my judgement to be clouded by sales targets and deadlines or a boss constantly asking how many meetings I had in my diary for the week. Uber could give me this freedom, so I signed up and started to drive.

Any half-formed plans I had for career moves quickly evaporated as I became more interested in listening to my passengers than the constant, tiresome self-critical rhetoric playing on loop inside my mind. I was thoroughly enjoying the new world I had entered. In a single day I would meet inventors, successful business owners, cancer researchers, budding actors and musicians. I would be introduced to new ideas, new information and new perspectives from people I would never ordinarily have had the chance to meet. For the first time in an age I would leave work inspired and excited for my next shift.

When people asked me what I had been up to lately I could finally replace my usual stock-standard answer of Not much with countless stories about the intriguing people I had met. My friends and family, it became obvious, werent so interested in stories about the well-adjusted, successful citizens of Sydney. They were becoming obsessed with my tales about Sydneys more colourful characters. They desperately wanted to know more sordid details about the young woman scorned after a first date gone wrong, or the male prostitute I was taking to a call-out, or the passenger with so much cocaine up his arse Im surprised sniffer dogs in New Zealand werent picking up the scent. I was now constantly being asked if I had any more good Uber stories to tell, and I did.

Late on a Friday or Saturday night, I would park beneath the street-lights and type notes into my phone. I began keeping a detailed log of the more outrageous passengers I was encountering. It wasnt just friends and family who were interested in my stories either. A regular question from my passengers was, Do you have any cool stories about crazy passengers in your car?

I had always enjoyed writing so I decided to start a Wordpress blog titled, Diary of an Uber Driver. To protect the identities of my passengers I changed their names and locations. Otherwise I stayed as true to the rest of the details as possible.

Following my fourth entry, which was about passengers attending the raucous celebrations at the Woollahra Rugby Club in Rose Bay, I was approached by the Daily Mail for an interview about my online diary. Shortly after the article was published, the number of visitors to my blog sky-rocketed; I found I was being written about by countless online news outlets. In just three months more than 100,000 people across the world had logged on to read my stories. I was completely overwhelmed and humbled by the response. My blog was ranking just beneath Diary of Anne Frank in Google.

I could never have foreseen that taking what I thought was a backwards step would lead me to where I am now. I am grateful to be given the opportunity to share my stories with you and equally as grateful to the wonderful, vibrant people of Sydney for providing me with fodder to share.

It doesnt matter that youre ugly and you have a small dick. Youll still have women throwing themselves at you! Wont you! hissed the drunken Medusa as she glared at me from the passenger seat.

No, this isnt a scene from a blind date gone wrong. This is where the conversation ended up on my first job as an Uber driver.

I will take you back to where it all started.

My palms were sweaty, knuckles white, as I clenched the steering wheel with both hands. I jerked my head to the side, winced and bit my bottom lip. I was in a fierce argument with myself: whether or not to drive home and lock this crazy idea away in the bottomless pit of pipe dreams and failed schemes of years past. My empty wallet and growling stomach won this round. I spent my last eighty dollars on a full tank of petrol and a nifty black iPhone holder that sticks to my windscreen... sometimes. I needed to do this.

It was 10 p.m. on a cool winters night and I knew it was coming soon. My stomach jumped at every Facebook notification and Viber message beeping away on my screen. Im unsure why I was so nervous. I know how to drive a car; in fact, Im a rather good driver. Id just never done anything like this before.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

My phone suddenly lit up with an image of a flashing map and a countdown timer which started at ten seconds. Would I accept my first mission? Nine, eight, seven, six... I pressed my pointer finger firmly into the screen and the beeping stopped. I took a deep breath and read the instructions on the phone.