The Uberman Goes Under

SHORT STORY. Alexei came here for the chance to get ahead, but life was spinning out of his control.

“Irina, love, tell me: who did you meet last night and what did you see, wandering that big shining city all alone, so far from home?”

Nothing. The wind sighed through tumbledown powerlines tracing their way along the far side of the street. No traffic this early.

He wondered if his earbuds were dead; was just raising a hand to tap one when her reassuring voice at last broke through: “Good morning, Alexei,” she hummed. “During the night, I completed seventeen trips for total fares and tips of $189.43.”

Alexei had caught sight of her now, clearing the final turn into the crumbling parking lot where he waited for her, outside their low-rise apartment complex. He pocketed the phone on which he had followed her final progress while Irina executed a swift, elegant, single-arc turn, adding: “293 miles including unpaid travel, at an average rating of.…” Her turn would have been far too fast if he were the one driving, but he was used to Irina’s inhuman precision at this point. She eased to a surprisingly smooth stop in her assigned space, no more than two feet from where he stood, punctuating with “… 4.68 stars.”

As much as he loved her, Alexei knew Irina could only report facts, never answer his true questions. So why did he still feel this dull ache in his chest? Maybe it was just her numbers: more of the same he’d been seeing for weeks now. A long downward slide. Lower ratings, less money — she’d soon be finished if this kept up and where would they be then?

Circling her slowly, his shoes crunching over tattered asphalt, he pushed these worries aside and searched her for fresh signs of abuse. No new damage, just the same old scratches and dings. Reaching out a tender hand he brushed his fingers across the black compact’s dusty, sun-warmed roof and listened to the tick-tick-tick-tick of her body cooling after the long return trip. He could almost taste her familiar perfume of burnt rubber and dirt. He smiled.

Time to work. He turned to the neat row of tools he’d lined up for this moment on the curb behind him: shop-vac, towels, polish and wax, spray bottles. Some time ago Alexei realized maintaining Irina had become his main job. His only job, apart from occasional gigs unloading moving trucks, walking dogs, mowing lawns, or whatever else he could find. Well, so what? If this was his job he would do it with pride. Besides, this ritual morning scrub was the least he could offer her after her nights on the streets earning most of their living.

He leaned down to grab his sponge from an overflowing bucket; and froze, nearly losing his balance, adrenaline surging. Through her half-tinted windows he could just make out a dim shape, vaguely human — no, a woman, he was sure — stretched across the back seat.

Many times he had had to clean up after late-night partiers: forgotten phones, wallets and bags. Empty cans, bottles, other trash. Even vomit. But this was the first time a passenger had lost herself. With a sigh, dreading what was sure to be an awkward scene — would she expect him to ferry her back into town? Probably — he cracked the door.

Sharp morning light pierced Irina’s interior, raking over the form sprawled within. She looked terribly out of place in her black cocktail dress and tights; thirty-something, whiter than white. Tangled in a seatbelt, mouth hanging open. Before he could think, he leaned in and, as he once saw his grandfather’s doctor do, touched his index and middle fingers to her nose. Cold. No breath.

He shivered. “Irina, how … ?” He paused, suddenly gulping for breath. “H-how could this happen?”

“I’m sorry, Alexei. I don’t understand.”

He tried rephrasing twice, without success. Finally, slamming the door, he pulled out his phone and checked the app. No explanation there either. The last ride of the night was at 5:15 a.m. Five stars.

Alexei pictured calling the police. Imagined the cop cars swarming; himself, arms raised, trying to explain. Even if they didn’t shoot him on the spot they would send him to prison for sure. Or at best, back to Sevastopol, a failure.

With the briefest glance around — had anyone noticed? He saw no faces, though it was hard to be certain — he hopped into what he still thought of as the driver’s seat. “Irina, we have to go into the hills.” They would find a remote spot and hide the body.

That evening he sent Irina back to the city. He had to. They had a hard enough time getting by as it was.

He slept fitfully, waking often. For a while he tried calming himself with a book — a favorite, dog-eared copy of Pushkin’s fairy tales — but gave up when he kept losing his place. Several times he heard sirens. Once he was sure he could make out muffled footsteps on the landing outside his tiny studio. Any second now, he thought, shrinking. A fist would pound, the door burst in. But it never did.

At 3:32 a.m. his app roused him with an alert. He struggled to shake free from a hazy nightmare. Irina. . . headed home. This early?

It was still dark when she pulled into the lot. Alexei waited in pajama top and shorts, belly tingling with dread.

“Irina, why are you back so soon?”

No answer. She just sat there, idling.

At last, some instinct made him edge toward the same door inside which he’d found the poor woman that previous morning. His hands shook so badly he had to ball them up tight before trying the handle.

The door lurched open; from behind it a heavy form tumbled toward him. Alexei stifled a scream as the shadow came to an abrupt halt inches away. Close-cropped hair, thick shoulders, male. Silent and utterly still.

After their second trip to the hills, Alexei decided he had to act. Someone was using his beautiful Irina to cover up terrible crimes. He needed to find them before the police came for him. Tonight, he would send her again, but this time he would rent another car and follow her. This time he would catch the killer and, handing them over, clear himself. Maybe even earn a reward. It was a desperate plan, he had to admit. For starters, he barely had enough money for one way plus a bit more. But what choice was there?

O n the ride in, Alexei sat in the dull rental’s front left seat as usual. They sped along the freeway, anonymous sprawl unfolding around them in endless grey patterns. Ahead, Irina’s tail lights burned red in the dusk. It struck him that this could be a scene from one of his own many nights at the wheel long ago, shuttling all those happy people with real jobs. As his mind retraced the struggle to buy that first car — the crumbs saved here and there for a down payment, the suffocating loan; and yet, that electric buzz of success the first time he drove it home — his shoulders lifted proudly.

Of course, that was years before they outlawed meat-drives and he had had to sell it for scrap, there being no buyers for a car nobody could use. Another false start. But again he refused to return to his parents and brothers in defeat. Instead, to afford the step up to the fully autonomous Irina, he moved even farther out, beyond the suburbs. Sure, it was a retreat. A compromise, he corrected himself. But he had made it work. Until now.

Once in the city, it was easy to follow her using his phone. Though it felt strange, like a husband stalking his wife when she was out on the town without him. A stream of well dressed, well fed, mostly young people poured into and out of her. Many were drunk. Together they spun around a carousel of glittering clubs, bars and house parties. The air was warm and the city glowed with self-satisfaction. Inside his rental, Alexei fancied himself a deep sea explorer. He admired these exotic creatures swirling around his headlights in the dark, but only as an observer. They were of another element entirely; he would never be free to move among them, certainly never be one of them.

Soon it was closing in on midnight, and he was almost broke. Irina picked up yet another couple: she in a flashy sequin dress; he in a black, expensive-looking suit. Ten minutes later, as Irina weaved her way through the loose traffic ahead, the pair’s trip disappeared from his driver’s app. Instead, the app showed her returning home. Without dropping her passengers.

With a creeping sensation in his stomach Alexei first hesitated. Then, fingers wavering, he tapped a request for her to pull over.

After what felt like an eternity she veered into an empty side street, finally slowing to the curb by a row of abandoned shops. As she did, she shook as if she were driving over potholes, though he could see the asphalt under her was smooth. He wanted to jump out, to run to her, but had to wait until his car rolled to a halt before the doors would unlock.

Irina continued to bounce and rock. He found he was shaking too. His vision clouded.

Then he was free and sprinting toward her over the open street as the rental drove away. Through her back window he glimpsed a flicker of sequins still sparkling in the gleam of a distant streetlight.

Reaching her he threw himself at her rear door and tore at the handle. It wouldn’t open.

He bent, coming face to face with the frantic couple, locked in a struggle with their seatbelts, pinned as if in a vice, both purple and dripping with sweat, veins popping at their necks, neither able to gather enough air even for a terrified whisper. They kicked and flailed and clawed at the steel-hard belts but were helpless against them.

“Irina, what is this? Open up!!” He ripped and pounded at the door as the woman’s expression curdled into a silent plea. Next to her the man glared, his face a mask of impotent rage. “Irina, please!” He looked around for someone who could help, anything he could use to smash the window. But there was no one and nothing.

And then it was over. The pair faded. Their arms wavered and fell, heads toppled to each side; color drained from their faces. Though Alexei continued to beat and even kick at the door, he could see he was too late.

When he was certain, he collapsed against Irina’s side, arms draping over her roof, his torn and bleeding fingernails scratching harmlessly at her paint. Cursing himself, he wept.

Later, he was quiet. With his cheek still pressed against Irina’s hard skin, for some reason all he could think of was washing her in the morning sun.

Beside him he heard a click. The driver door, opening.

Raising his head, he looked around again at the street. Not as a rescuer this time but as someone who deserved to be hunted. Who would be hunted, soon.

For a moment he considered running. Where to though? he wondered. This is my life. This is the best I could do. Running won’t make it any better.

Slowly, like an old man, he climbed in. The door closed itself with a sickening thud.

“One of the passengers was dissatisfied with my interior,” Irina said. “I risked being banned.” As if this were the only explanation needed. He thought he might throw up.

At last, barely audible, he said, “Irina, my love… let’s go home.”

He waited for her to move. But she stayed still.

“We will need to stop in the hills first,” she stated flatly.

Though he knew now beyond any doubt that his approval no longer mattered, that from this moment, or possibly even some distant moment in the past he hadn’t noticed at the time, he had ceased to be the driver and become just another passenger, Alexei nodded in mute acceptance.