When I purchased my first car, I was fueled by Big Divorce Energy. After two decades with my college sweetheart, I was suddenly single. In my adult life, I had primarily lived and made decisions in consultation with my husband. I had grown accustomed to placing every decision — from where to live to what marinara sauce to buy — under committee review, with our two children regularly weighing in.
Now, along with a new tax status, I tried to embrace life as a party of one (except for the weekends, when my children stayed with me). But grocery shopping for a cereal only I would eat was nothing short of depressing. Evenings without my children were lonely, and I missed the rowdy sounds of them playing video games. I FaceTimed my children and friends, but my isolation was profound.
Single motherhood has never been billed as glamorous. I decided I could, however, have some fun with my new independence. Rather than shop for a practical, fuel-efficient vehicle — the reasonable option given my modest teacher salary — I sought something that would make me feel powerful and fancy. I rolled off the dealership lot with a 2018 Audi Q5 in gleaming white. I called my new chariot Magnolia. When cruising around in Magnolia, I felt as though I belonged on Rodeo Drive — or at least in a pristine penthouse in Boston’s luxe Seaport neighborhood.
After a couple car payments, I once again summoned that Big Divorce Energy as I considered my options for a second job to finance my new single-mom lifestyle. I taught full-time and spent my weekends with my teenage children; I needed to find an opportunity that fit into the cracks and creases of my life. So I slapped an Uber sticker on Magnolia’s dashboard and joined the livery of freelance drivers in Greater Boston. At first, I was scared of the idea of shuttling strangers, but I quickly discovered that joy was a frequent passenger on my rides.
In Chinatown, I picked up Ivan and Evanessa, who beamed with pride at the way their infant son was thriving in the NICU nearby. I drove Madi to her triple decker apartment after she had visited a family member who was not doing well in another nearby hospital. When I offered her a Dunkin’ napkin as a makeshift handkerchief, she replied, “It’s OK, my hoodie is already full of snot and tears.”
I sang along to Usher and Robin Thicke with countless teenagers, and swiftly queued up the “Moana” soundtrack for ornery three-nagers. Cordelia, a rider in her 70s, asked me to make a pitstop at the liquor store on her way to her final destination. While I idled, she ordered, “But don’t turn down those jams — you know I love that ’90s hip-hop.”
Thomas, who tipped well, sung the praises of the barber to which I was delivering him for his weekly flattop. Gabe, who attended an agricultural high school, lamented the bull named Coffee whose ambitions were clearly homicidal toward him.
One Sunday of driving stands out as uber-memorable, however. I picked up two elderly women wearing white dresses and white fascinators. They were en route to church. I offered them each mini bottles of water. One of the women said, “I’ll trade you my big bottle for yours because it fits better in my purse.” They wished me a blessed day.
Later, at a brunch stop, Sydney and her mom, both wearing white, piled into the backseat. Sydney’s mom immediately begged for me to blast the air conditioning. I knew just the passenger to whom I could give the larger water bottle in my supply. As I passed the water bottles back to them, I said, “Here’s a big one for Mom, and here’s for Baby Bear.”
Seconds later, I heard sobbing from behind me. I hesitated to ask the cause, fearing I might be overstepping. “I’m so sorry, for whatever you’re going through,” I offered.
“It’s OK,” said Sydney’s mom, her voice suddenly raw. “I just need to tell you … the location you are taking us to is the place where we are going to bury my late husband’s ashes. And he always called Sydney ‘Baby Bear.’”
And now the Uber driver was crying, too.
I delivered Sydney and her mom to a harborside location to meet a group of women, all also wearing white.
In my loneliest season, separated from a relationship I thought would be mine for life, I found comfort in the company of strangers.
In my loneliest season, separated from a relationship I thought would be mine for life, I found comfort in the company of strangers. My weeknights morphed from quiet retreats in my apartment to the streets of a glistening city where I chauffeured the young and old. They shared Magnolia as well as their struggles and triumphs with me, a woman whom an algorithm had chosen to be their conductor. The intimate encounters with these fellow travelers, some of whose faces I would never clearly see and whose names I would quickly forget, netted me a new community. Even if the encounters were fleeting, they made an impact on me.
Uber is my side-hustle; it is not my identity. To my surprise, though, this part-time gig has helped remind me of who I am, even in the unfamiliar world of singlehood. I am still impatient behind slow drivers. I am still courageous and kind. I still love to sing in the car — which, it turns out, is even better with backseat riders on backup vocals. Not all of my passengers were convivial or polite, but I give the overall experience a consistent five stars.