‘Lucy? … Yeah, yeah … So listen … You know all about that already? And do you think …?’

I wanted to tune further into his talk but I noticed a big long swathe of red on the GPS – a hint of traffic trouble up ahead on Melrose. Should I leave this jam and zigzag around a lot of twisty back streets – heading down to Beverly, eventually getting to S Western Avenue, then turning north? Following that route would give us the appearance of moving forward and getting somewhere but which would end up taking as much time as driving into the slowdown up ahead on Melrose – one of the big old-school boulevards that are the real arteries of the city. The guy didn’t seem to be in a hurry. I was hoping that he’d finish up his call before we reached his address. Because there was something I wanted to tell him before we parted company in front of 179 Melbourne Ave.

You don’t work for Uber.

Nobody works for Uber.

But you do drive for Uber.

You might not be their actual employee …

But you are their captive.

Because they hold all the cards – and you have to abide by all their rules. You also have to be driving about seventy hours a week to earn some modestly acceptable money – which is about thirty hours too many. Mathematically that works out to an extra six hours on a normal workday to keep yourself just about afloat.

So, again, I don’t work for Uber. But I still have to pay lip service to their rules and restrictions. Just as I know: if I didn’t take an interest in everyone I pick up, if I didn’t play surface detective and try to figure them out in the few minutes that they are with me, the job would be beyond punishing. My life for many hours a day is letting a screen on a smartphone direct me around this crazy sprawl that I call home. Wanting to put together a storyline, a police dossier, on each of my pickups … well, it chews up the clock, right?

Mr Writer finished his call with:

‘Surely you can convince them to come up with a little more. What they’re offering now … Okay, you don’t have to remind me that my stock out here isn’t the highest right now. Still, they can look at that series of mine … So what if it was back in 2014? … Fine, fine, understood, other clients … Yeah, sure, and yeah, know you’ll do your best, and sorry if I … Right, right … You too.’

I heard him doing another long intake/outtake of breath, then muttering ‘shit, shit, shit’ to himself. The delay on Melrose still had us only a mile east along the route.

‘Looks like we might be here for a while.’

‘Home is going nowhere. Home can wait for me.’

To which I wanted to say:

‘Don’t I know that one.’