Undercover Uber and a Fuzzy Monkey

 We live in a world where everything has become a side hustle. People have "missions" now, not just jobs. Jobs don't cut it. Unless they're butchers. Or provide circumcisions. 

Your accountant is secretly a weekend beekeeper and sells honey door to door. The dentist runs a TikTok that rates hotel pillows. And Uber drivers? Let's just say some of those barbarians of the road act like they're on an assignment for the CIA.

This came true for me a week ago when I found myself in the backseat of a 1994 Toyota Corolla doing 126 in a 40 zone driven by what can only be described as a hairy, deranged lunatic who considered himself the best of the best of Undercover Ubers. And he smelled of canned cheese. The kind with a spray nozzle.

Operation: Ride Share

It started off like any other ride request. I tapped the app and began watching the little digital car zigzag toward me on the map. I waited. A nondescript sedan showed up. How nondescript? It was the kind of car that gets lost in crowds, like it spent the last decade in witness protection.

When I opened the door, I was immediately struck by an atmosphere that practically yelled "This ain't no ride. It's a mission, Dave!" 

I wasn't even with Dave.

The only music that played from the factory original radio/cd player was the opening credits from Mission: Impossible played in a loop. Despite it being nearly 10pm the driver wore dark aviator sunglasses as if the one overhead street lamp that worked had a personal vendetta against his corneas.

He glanced at me in the rearview as I got in and asked in a low voice:

"You Thompson?"

I nodded.

After that, no "welcome" or "good evening." Pressing a button made of cardboard, duct tape, and a solitary macaroni noodle on the dash, he whispered, "Passenger secured. Proceeding to extraction point," and hit the gas. We soon hit speeds that would make the Starship Enterprise blush.

I came to the sickening realization that I hadn't called for a ride. I'd accidentally summoned Jason Bourne in a red Toyota Corolla.

What Does a Fluffy Monkey Have to do With Any of This?

Normally, the answer would be nothing. But you've been around long enough to know by now that ain't happenin'.

Don't fret. It arrived at the next stop.

Because this was no longer just my ride. Uber had decided, with the same kind of wisdom that prompted the use of targets on stores as advertising in Alabama, to pool me with another passenger.

I never choose this option for this very reason. I hate awkward small talk. And, let's be frank, in this town this wasn't the first time I'd gotten a driver who thought he was in Fast and Furious 29.

A dimly lit street corner was where we found our next rider: a woman clutching a stuffed animal the size of a small child. A monkey. Extra fuzzy. It was well-loved, and had an eye half-dangling from it's socket. She climbed in, and strapped the monkey into the middle seat with more care and tenderness than most moms show a toddler. She had a warm smile. The monkey's was strange, like a constipated Sharpie had tried to draw a half-moon on its face.

She told me his name was Mr. Bananas. Shocking. I had no words.

Our driver didn't miss a beat. He smashed, mashed and mangled the macaroni button again, nodded to nobody we could see, and reported "Target acquired."

Believe It or Not, the Mission Got Weird

By this point, I was wondering if I had gotten myself into some kind of cosplay, an underground society of escapees from the hinky house playing international spy.

A role playing game where Uber drivers were control agents.

"Passengers" were field officers with plush animal informants.

Real passengers became unsuspecting pawns in a game of You've Just Defected, What Will You Do Next? that they never wanted to play.

My driver kept making sharp turns like he was trying to evade surveillance. Occasionally, he'd touch a forefinger to his ear and mutter, "We have a tail," even though the only other vehicle that had ever been behind us was a minivan plastered with Baby on Board stickers.

The soccer-mom assassin, no doubt, Mr. Bond?

Meanwhile, the woman next to me kept stroking the monkey's fur like that villain in the movies whose face keeps changing but always has the same white cat. Every so often, she would whisper in its round ear.

I'm not sure what was said, but I'm 95% sure it was classified.

And me? I sat there trying to look cool and casual, even though in my mind I was wondering if survival was an option, could this actually be happening, and why the heck the Bee Gees wrote Islands in the Stream.

The Spy vs. Reality Gap

But here's a truth-bomb: There's actually something relatable about that Uber driver's undercover mental misalignment. We all pretend (at least I do) in small ways that we're more exciting than we are.

I don't just "mow the lawn." I "tame the wild."

I didn't just "drain boiled noodles" for my wife, I helped "craft an Italian masterpiece." In real life, I forgot to use a colander and superglued the noodles to the bottom of the sink.

For that Uber driver, the gig wasn't just about giving strangers a ride in exchange for gas money. He transformed the mundane into a covert operation: Pick up passenger. Deliver to safety. Evade hostile minivans. Ignore monkey.

You kinda have to respect the commitment.

Gig Economy, or Spy Academy?

Driving for Uber must get monotonous. It's always the same streets, same passengers. Always asking to be dropped off one block before the pin for "anonymity" or "to surprise myself." 

While both driver and passenger are praying that the other doesn't start, get smart, or fart anything to do with cryptocurrency.

So I can see a need to spice things up. I mean, pretending you're on a top-secret assignment might be the only way to survive an evening spent chauffeuring around half-asleep office workers and slightly to moderately inebriated survivors of the wild karaoke.

In my mind, this raises a fundamental question: how many other side hustles could benefit from a 007 reboot?

• DoorDash: Every delivery is a dead-drop. Your burrito becomes "the package" and must be delivered to the precise coordinates of the doormat. Fail, and the mission collapses. Succeed, and after a short time the confirmation butt-buzzer will be heard. Codename: Horton hears a poo.
• Dog Walking: New neighbourhood surveillance patrol with a furry partner. Squirrels are the enemy agents, watch out for them dropping their nuts.
• Freelance Writing: Covert intelligence dossiers disguised as blog posts. This may or may not be one; I can neither confirm nor deny. Well, I could, but then I may or may not have to lie to you.

What Happened With Mr. Bananas

We eventually reached my destination. The driver slowed to a crawl and scanned the street for 10 year-olds delivering papers. Or snipers. He pulled over and said, "Drop complete. Stay safe."

When I glanced back on my sidewalk journey to the front door, I saw the woman still whispering to the cabbie in what I assume was the voice of the fluffy monkey. The driver gave a curt nod, and drove off into the night, headlights cutting through the darkness like a nuclear submarine slipping into the depths.

It was absurd. It was surreal. It was kinda concerning. And without a doubt, the most entertaining ride of my life.

Mission Debrief

I don't know for sure if my Uber driver ever broke character.

For all I know, he goes home and hangs up his sunglasses and keys. And once again becomes the simple man known only as Antonio Rodrigo Phillipiano Santa Anna De La Vega Montez Delgado. 

"Bob" to his friends.

Perhaps he lives the role full time and has a two-foot Bat-pole from front porch to ground level just waiting to be used the next time his phone pings. Protecting the world one late-night pickup at a time.

Either away, a lesson can be found: We're all just trying to make the boring parts a little more exciting. Some people knit. Some binge watch reality shows. And at least one guy fights international espionage from behind the wheel of a half-decrepit Corolla while transporting a mystery woman and her fluffy monkey.

The world needs more of that.

Life's fun (and funnier) when we allow ourselves to be absurd.

Next time you call an Uber, keep alert. You may not just be on your way home. You may be on a secret mission. A mission so secret only one person knows about it, and even he doesn't have all the facts unredacted.

A mission that involves evading minivans, keeping a straight face while driving around plush intelligence operatives, and delivering you to your extraction point.

Now, if you'll excuse me... my phone just pinged.