It’s Monday morning. While the rest of the world is waking up and getting ready to go to work, I’m drinking vodka and eating leftover red beans and rice, thanks to Ben, who took it upon himself to feed me before I started my shift yesterday.
I don’t usually drive on Sundays. But at the barbecue the night before, Ben and several other drivers assured me the third day of Outside Lands would be the most profitable night of the festival.
Even though I really need the money, I waffled a bit. I was still exhausted from the previous two days of Outside Lands. I wasn’t even sure
I’d have the wherewithal to drive a fourth shift that week. But Late Night Larry made it official.
“You’re working Sunday!” he snarled. “And that’s final!”
Ben picked me up at 4 p.m. On the way to the yard, we stopped at Hard Knox for lunch. I had a few bites of my vegetable plate and saved the rest for later. I was ready to hit the streets.
After doing the tourist trade for a couple hours, I head to the park. Since I did Outside Lands last year with Uber and Lyft, I know it’s a strategic nightmare to match drivers with riders, and all the major thoroughfares get clogged with lost and confused drivers from out of town.
A perfect scenario for street hails.
Each night, as the headliners take the stage, people begin to leave the park and wander through the avenues and the streets in a frenzy, desperate for a way out. There are so many exiting festival-goers clamoring to get in my cab, I could institute my own twist on surge pricing and auction off seats to the highest bidders. But that would be unethical, right?
After I drop off a fare, I deadhead — i.e. ,drive empty — back to the park. The demand for cars is insatiable. Strangers share rides and get to know each other in the backseat. One fare has three stops, the last one in Ingleside Heights. When I stop the meter, it reads $45. With a $10 tip, that’s an inside-the-park home run.
It’s obvious most of my fares are regular Lyft and Uber users. They approach my window and ask permission to get into my cab.
Like this young couple at 25th and Cabrillo.
“C-c-c-an you take us to the Caltrain?” the girl asks timidly from the curb.
“I drive a taxi,” I say, feigning joviality. “That’s what I do.”
They need to catch the last train to San Jose that leaves at 9:15 p.m.
It’s 8:50 p.m.
“I don’t know if we’ll make it in this traffic,” I warn them, thinking about their options if they miss the train. A cab ride to San Jose is around $200, and that’s still cheaper than a hotel room.
“You’d be our hero if we do.”
Always up for a challenge, I take off down Cabrillo, head up to Turk and race over the hill and down to Golden Gate. I start hitting lights in Civic Center so I make a right on Polk and cross Market onto 10th. I head down Folsom to 8th. I take a left on Brannan, a right on 5th, through the sign onto Townsend and come to a dramatic stop in front of Caltrain with five minutes to spare.
“I may have just broken a record,” I gasp.
The meter reads $22. The guy gives me $25. I’m so shocked I forget to say thanks as they get out. A $3 tip on a run like that? Is that how you reward a hero? I even yelled at this poor pizza delivery guy for making me miss the light at Masonic.
Feeling less like a hero and more like a chump, I get on the Central Freeway and work the park for the rest of the evening. It’s early. There’s still a long road ahead of me before I get back to my red beans and rice.