As soon as the black SUV pulled up to the curb, I opened the door and fell inside. I was very tired, so I didn’t get a good look at the driver. “Is this first time in Palm Springs?” he asked me with a heavy Eastern European accent.
I responded, “Yep, I’ve never been here before.”
“What do you think so far?”
“It’s nice.” I yawned out my answer, and that should have been the end of the conversation. When you step into an Uber at 5:30 a.m., you neither expect nor want to establish a personal relationship with a complete stranger. But it wasn’t the end of the conversation. Not at all. “I live here ten years!” The driver said this with a hint of pride in his voice.
Trying to be the polite young man that my mother raised me to be, I acknowledged this statement with an, “Oh,” and then asked, “How do you like it here?”
“I hate it! Palm Springs is horrible horrible place!” Thus the façade of normalcy fell off, and thus entered Vlad the Uber Driver.
Before I continue, there are a couple of things you should know about Vlad the Uber Driver. First, I’m aware that capitalizing “Driver” in “Vlad the Uber Driver” isn’t grammatically correct—I’m doing it because that is literally how he introduced himself. Vladimir was the name he used when I first stepped into his black SUV, but apparently Vlad wasn’t quite himself at the beginning of our journey, because he re-introduced himself twenty minutes into the ride as, “Vlad! Vlad the Uber Driver!”
Second, Vlad really likes his sunglasses. There were (and probably still are) four pairs of Ray-Ban sunglasses in his car. Three were on the dashboard. One was on his face. I think that if Vlad were to lose his sunglasses, he would cease to be Vlad. Vlad also really likes Gatorade. I found at least eight different bottles of Gatorade in at least five different flavors. Some of them were unopened, others were half empty. Some were stashed in cupholders scattered throughout the car’s black leather interior, others rolled across the floor as we drove. At first, I didn’t understand what medical condition would cause a man to have so many flavors of Gatorade in his car, but in retrospect, this made perfect sense—no single flavor of Gatorade could possibly satiate Vlad the Uber Driver.
Rather, as both you (the one reading this essay) and I (the unfortunate and unsuspecting freshman who just wanted to go rock climbing in Joshua Tree National Park) will discover, he was full of surprises.
For instance, upon a preliminary inspection of Vlad the Uber Driver—with his slick black hair and purple collared shirt, with his ivory-colored teeth and desert tan, and with his shiny gold cufflinks and unbuttoned black blazer—I never would have guessed that the man had such a passion for wind power. I made this particular discovery once we had left behind the trees that give Palm Springs its name (Vlad jumped on the opportunity to direct my attention to one such tree and inform me that it was, in fact, a palm tree) and found ourselves in a great sea of big white wind turbines, each one rising from the desert like the periscope of an oversize submarine. “My good friend, Ted,” Vlad called out to me, “Do you see that?” After confirming that I had noticed the many white propellers outside the SUV’s tinted window (they were kind of hard to miss), he instructed me of their purpose and nature.
“That is wind turbine! Wind turbine and his friends power all of Palm Springs!”
“That’s pretty cool,” I remarked. Fifteen-year-old Ted, even when considered a good friend, was not the best conversationalist.
“They use wind to make electricity. Unless there is no wind. Then my TV stays on because of something else. I don’t know what. Do you watch Oprah?”
“No…sorry,” I responded. “Should I?”
“It’s okay! I don’t either. I think it is stupid.”
Make of that interaction what you will, but the passion with which he spoke still inspires me to get out of bed each morning. His excitement was palpable, even from the back seat; he spoke like a small Ukrainian child who had just received exactly what he wanted for Christmas, or a blissful Latvian Romeo proclaiming his love for Juliet. Naturally, I was as intrigued as I was uncomfortable. Of course, I didn’t ask him about his sunglasses or love of Gatorade or even his hatred of Oprah, as one does not simply ask Vlad the Uber Driver about his mysterious ways. What powers Vlad’s TV when the wind stops blowing? Why doesn’t Vlad like Oprah? How would the conversation have progressed if I had answered that I did, in fact, watch Oprah’s show? Would he have revealed that he watches Oprah as well? Would he provide his own unique interpretation on Oprah’s latest talk? Or would he have lectured me on the error of my ways? As much as I learned about Vlad, so much more remained a mystery.
The next two hours flew by like an implacable Eastern-European man in a black SUV down a 70-mph California highway. We discussed music (Vlad doesn’t like modern American music though he’s a fan of Neil Diamond), the American educational system (Vlad believes that I should not drop out of high school; I was never in any danger of dropping out of high school, but nonetheless, he warned me not to do so), the climate (it was hot outside; Vlad was convinced that you could boil an egg on the freeway), and the value of sunscreen (Vlad is a fan of sunscreen, but only on other people; he refers to melanoma as “The Big Bitch” but is convinced his profession will keep him cancer-free). Eventually, we reached the small desert town that lies right outside of the national park. The town was exactly what you would expect: small houses with broken chain-link fences, massive rooftop satellite dishes, cacti, and gas stations. At the town’s only stoplight, Vlad pulled over and pointed at a small donut store across the street. It looked like what would happen if you tossed a Dunkin’ Donuts into the middle of a desert with no food or water. Vlad pointed out the window and said, “This is Sal’s Donuts. Is where I met my wife.” Imagining Vlad the Uber Driver walking into a donut store and meeting the love of his life, I couldn’t help but smile. But before I could say anything, Vlad continued, “She is horrible horrible wife. I wish I never went in there.” Yep. That’s Vlad. Why should I have expected anything different? After all, Vlad the Uber Driver can’t be tied down by a family. He’s a man of the road! “Do you want to go in and get a donut?” Vlad asked me. Not wanting to run into Vlad’s wife or encounter a similarly tragic matrimonial state, I declined his offer. “Smart boy,” Vlad continued. “Their donuts are as bad as my wife. Very bad.
Before I knew it, the car came to a halt, and Vlad informed me that I had arrived. I thanked Vlad for the ride, and Vlad thanked me for my patronage. I then pulled myself from the air-conditioned vehicle and stepped into the almost alien landscape of Joshua Tree National Park, filled with towering rock formations and strange trees with hair-like bark and fingers reaching towards the desert sun. As I walked into the valley, Vlad called me back and handed me his business card, which read, “Don’t be Mad, Call Vlad!” I chuckled under my breath, waved him goodbye, and our journey was over…or so I thought.
In reality, after spending six hours rock climbing, with various degrees of success, I would return to the same spot where he dropped me off and–having found no other means of transportation–call the number on the card and spend another three hours with Vlad the Uber Driver.