On a recent cross-country trip, I hired a Lyft ride to pick me up from the airport in Jacksonville, Florida and to take me to my hotel. I was meeting family members for a life celebration, and taxis were in short supply.
My Lyft operator was a cheerful and outgoing woman I judged to be in her late-30’s. She drove a white, non-descript American-made car. The Lyft app made it clear that I was required to wear a mask while in the vehicle, which suited me just fine. That the driver wore hers under her chin struck me as ironic. But I was not going to make a fuss; I had read that it was hard to get ride shares in Florida, due to the age of the population and the fact that they like to drive their own cars.
I prefer to be silent when I am on ride-hailing trips, but I am polite if the motorist wants to talk. There is usually something to learn about the local community, and I always find something complimentary to say about the town. In addition, riders are rated by the drivers, and I do not want to get a bad rating for seeming aloof. This driver was particularly bubbly and, I thought, very interesting. She told me that she owned a small ranch in a rural part of South America and that she was working in the United States to earn enough money to live there full-time.
The conversation got a little odd when she told me that she had seven children and that she was in the process of adopting two more. Though I would ordinarily be taken by her generosity, I wondered how she could support nine children on a ride-share operator’s earnings. I reminded myself to tip her lavishly as a tribute to her altruistic heart. She also related that she was retired from a career in the intelligence industry; I purposely did not ask her any questions about that occupation.
Then she mentioned that she was divorced from a man who had cheated on her throughout her marriage. The alarms in my head that I had silenced for most of the journey burst out loudly like ambulance sirens. The last thing I wanted was to hear horrifying, intimate details of someone’s demised marriage. I murmured sympathetic words and wished that the highway congestion would clear quickly. I just wanted the ride to be over.
I was relieved when the mostly one-sided conversation turned to the subject of cars. She asked me what kind of car I drove, and I remarked that I gone all-electric with the purchase of a 2021 Mini Cooper. She expressed surprise and asked how I liked it. I responded with polite and restrained enthusiasm that I loved not going to gas stations anymore, and that so far, the mileage limitation had not posed a problem. My driver surmised that all-electric would probably not be workable for her as a Lyft driver, and I hastily agreed with her.
As I had hoped, the dialog started to wane. The traffic was now flowing smoothly, and my driver’s car-handling skills seemed steady and predictable – unlike the erratic conversational turns. I had a growing sense that the rest of the ride would progress uneventfully.
Then the driver turned her head towards me slightly, and said that she wondered why electric vehicles were created. You know, she said, I think it is the government’s way of controlling how far we can drive. She preferred gas-powered automobiles, so that she could fill up her tank anytime she wanted and drive as far as she desired. She implied that the government could deliberately limit the installation of public charging stations, thereby restricting wide-range travel.
I thought momentarily about her statement, my passenger rating, and the fact that she might be a lunatic conspiracy theorist. As we were pulling up to the hotel, I said quietly and gently that I thought it had more to do with decreasing green house gases and the nation’s dependence on foreign oil. When the car stopped, I hopped out quickly to avoid further dialog. I pulled my bag from the trunk and said goodbye.
I hope that my next driver will simply play intolerably loud and unappealing music on the radio, making conversation impossible.