This column originally appeared in the Chicago Tribune Dec. 11, 2018
The Lyft vehicle, a gold and therefore easily recognizable SUV, pulled up to my hotel in suburban Virginia last week. Luggage in my right hand, I rose my left, signaling that, yes, I was the customer.
While I use ride sharing services frequently, I’ll admit there’s something nice about hailing a random taxi as opposed to searching for a specific vehicle in a sea of traffic, particularly during inclement weather. Luckily, the day was bright and sunny.
The driver, whom I’ll call Cassandra, because a proud woman like her would be mortified seeing her story and her real name in print, rolled down the passenger seat window.
“I’m sorry, Greg,” she said.
I didn’t know what she was apologizing for. She was prompt, and my flight didn’t leave for three hours. I was neither angry nor frustrated. I retreated to her vehicle’s rear and opened the hatch. It was packed to the gills with clothing, household items and a baby stroller.
“Sorry about that,” I heard Cassandra say from the front seat.
“Uh, no worries,” I said. “I’ll just put my luggage in the back seat.”
I opened the rear passenger door and, for the first time, saw the stroller’s occupant, a 2-year-old strapped into a car seat, intrigued by whatever was on her electronic tablet.
“Oh, hello,” I said, realizing Cassandra was taking this ride SHARE thing literally. A toddler in a Lyft vehicle? It was the kind of scene you read about in a Twitter rant: “Yo @Lyft, there’s a baby in the backseat of my ride. Just thought you should know.”
Comedian Sebastian Maniscalco joked about that very scenario in a viral YouTube bit about Lyft’s chief competitor, Uber. “God knows what’s gonna pick you up tonight,” he said as the audience howled. “Some guy in a Ford Festiva? Groceries in the back? Baby stroller next to you? With a baby?”
I am also a professional comedian and had just completed a performance at the hotel I was now leaving. But I saw nothing funny about Cassandra’s predicament. I tossed my suitcase in the open seat behind Cassandra and climbed into the front passenger seat. The toddler was singing.
“Again, I am so sorry,” Cassandra said.
“Don’t be,” I said, unsure what else to say.
As we pulled into traffic, I asked Cassandra if driving for Lyft was her full-time occupation. She explained she was a former home health care worker but had been laid off last February and had been unable to find another job in that field. She began driving for Lyft two months ago.
“I had to find something,” she said.
“And your ‘associate’ keeps you company all day?” I asked, gesturing to Cassandra’s daughter.
Cassandra said she tried putting her daughter in day care but removed her after two days when she noticed blisters on the girl’s fingers. Blisters the day care staff could not explain.
As we approached the airport, I told her today would have been my Dad’s 86th birthday. With him gone nearly five years, I remembered how his face lit up when his home health care worker would arrive, assisting him with tasks he could no longer master due to his cancer. She nodded as I praised the merits of an industry whose workers are so vital, yet so underpaid.
I am fortunate to have a career that allows me to put smiles on faces. Moments before meeting Cassandra, I had done just that for an audience of 400 people. Cassandra, I could tell, was longing to return to a vocation that would allow her to do the same, despite the long hours and low pay. Until then, she was chauffeuring strangers around in her own vehicle, trying to keep her daughter entertained and, all the while, apologizing. It didn’t seem right.
I reached into my wallet and laid a $100 bill on her dashboard. “Merry Christmas to you and your little girl,” I said, as we pulled up to the terminal. I expected a smile. Instead, there were tears.
“Thank you so much,” she said quietly.
“No,” I said, tearing up myself. “Thank you.”
May everyone vow to spend 2019 putting a smile on a stranger’s face, using whatever skills you have. It would be the best Christmas gift for this country right now.
