She’s dressed strangely, in bright red lipstick and gray hair that might be wig, as she leans in my window and asks, “Can they put their walkers in your trunk?”
“Sure,” I say, “Do you need help?”
“Nah, we’ve got it.”
They are outside a bar at almost midnight, and as they easily load two walkers into my trunk, laughing all the while, it becomes clear that none of them has mobility issues. Also, they all have gray hair and wrinkled faces, but the wrinkles look like makeup and their hair is suspect, to varying degrees. These are not old ladies—they’re probably in their thirties or forties—but they are dressed like old ladies.
“What’s the occasion?” I ask.
“Just out for a night on the town,” one of them answers in a phony old lady voice.
They never do tell me, but I can venture a guess. Years ago, a friend of mine was turning thirty and her husband secretly told everyone to come to her birthday party dressed for a funeral. As guests arrived and she asked, “Why is everyone wearing black?” her husband answered, “We’re mourning your youth.”
That would be my bet when it comes to these old ladies. One of them just turned forty and jokes about getting old turned into an idea for a themed girls’ night.
“I’m Mabel,” says the woman in the passenger seat. “That’s Doris, Maria, and Aunt Bea.”
“Whose aunt is Aunt Bea?” I ask.
“Everybody’s!” answers Aunt Bea.
I enjoy theme parties. One time I had a few middle-aged astronauts who were in town for parents’ weekend at the university. They said it was an “astronauts and aliens” party and I was disappointed there weren’t any aliens. Another couple were going to a party in white jumpsuits that I guess were golf attire, but I asked if they were exterminators, making the man laugh and offending the woman—who apparently picked out the costumes even though the man had doubts about them. But these old ladies are some of the best. Most people draw the line at dressing up. These gals are committed to the bit.
When I get them to the next bar (they may be old, but they’re not calling it a night just yet), they dig through their purses for a tip. They consider giving me things like saltwater taffy, medication bottles, and dollar-store jewelry. Doris ends up handing me five dollars and a toothbrush. I thank her and she tells me she already gave her last can of tuna to her previous driver and her dentures to the bartender. I believe her.
I put on my hazard lights and pull up outside the bar. Someone waits behind me while three women get out of my car and dig their walkers out of the trunk, and I imagine he is even more confused than I am.
Memoirs of a Rideshare Driver is a series that tells true stories from my 10,000+ trips as a rideshare driver. I will post new stories every month in 2026 (and two this month since I missed June).
What fun to have these kinds of people in you t car!