An Invisible Uber Driver

I'm Chris Harrington and I'm the managing partner of a small, specialized tax firm. My partners and staff include attorneys and accountants.

For decades, I've dreaded my daily commute from the home I share with my family in Glastonbury Connecticut to my office in Springfield Massachusetts. Traffic is grueling traveling through Hartford and again as I approach Springfield, each morning. Every night, it is equally awful driving in the opposite direction. I watch those driving eighty-miles-per-hour in the commuter lane with a similar yearning as watching a twenty-year-old female in a thong swimsuit at the beach.

I'll never be confused as the smartest guy in any room, but occasionally...

I was reviewing a fraud case involving an Uber driver, when I had an idea that might solve my "traffic-jam" problems. Three weeks later, I had a side-gig with Uber.

Each morning, I wake up at four and log into my Uber portal and look for someone needing a ride from the Hartford area to Bradly International Airport, halfway to Springfield. In the afternoon, I look for riders needing to go south. I find passengers for nearly every commute.

The benefits are many. I can cover most of the costs of my family's four cars. Once or twice a year, I meet a rider who will later become a client, after I am able to convince them, I really am an attorney. The best benefit is flying up the commuter lane, while the common folk are inching along on the crowded highway.

Five weeks ago, I was picking up a passenger outside the Marriott Hotel in Springfield. He waved, when he saw my Uber sticker, before turning and kissing the tall, well-dressed blonde with him. He slid his hand along the back of her bare leg, under her short skirt, lifted it and mauled a delicious looking ass-cheek. The blonde walked him to my SUV, opened the door and after another scorching kiss and grope, I heard her say, "I can't wait to see you again in two weeks. We can look at a few more houses and have more orgasms." They kissed again, before we took off for the airport.

"It looks like you had a successful trip," I said with a smirk.

"Jesus," he exclaimed. "I work for Amazon and I'm relocating to Connecticut to help manage the giant new distribution center. There are a few hundred of us moving from different areas and many of us are using Jillian's real-estate firm. She and her staff come highly recommended. They are extremely competent agents and for a few extra bucks, will have sex with you, in the vacant homes."

'She has an even better side gig than me,' I thought to myself.

As I walked into the real-estate firm, four weeks later and announced, "Did anyone call for an Uber?" Jillian looked up, smiled and said, "Hey neighbor. What can I do for you?"

As I approached her, I noticed ten miles of legs, sticking out of the bottom of a dozen short skirts and a nearly identical amount of cleavage.

"I was going to call you for an appointment next week, to discuss a concern I have with the last few years of your State and Federal taxes. However, I was in the neighborhood, took a chance and stopped in. Do you have fifteen minutes?"

Her smile gleamed and she answered, "Follow me to the conference room."

After grabbing coffee, we sat and Jillian asked, "What seems to be the problem?"

"I was confused, when I matched up your agency's total commissions, with the number of closings you reported. The numbers didn't make sense, so I did a deep-dive and cross-referenced your reported closings with the State's Real-Estate Bureau. You are reporting twice as much income, as the State says you make."

Jillian's smile was long gone, and I imagined smoke coming from her ears.

"May I be blunt," I asked? And continued, "Are you running a prostitution ring out of this office?"

After a long silence, Jillian stood, turned and opened the curtain that covered a window looking into the office. "You'll get one of my agents a week. They'll suck you, fuck you and take you up the ass, if you make this problem go away."

As the agency's front door crashed open and shouts of "Police! Don't move," were heard, I pulled a legal-size envelope from my briefcase, dropped it on the table and announced, "Jillian Wallace, Michael Wallace is divorcing you. You've been served."