Back in the summer of 2021, I was driving Lyft full-time around Denver. It was a busy stretch, and I pretty much lived in my car chasing bonuses.
Most nights felt routine, just pick up, drop off, repeat. But one ride made me rethink the whole job.
The request came from near Union Station. It was supposed to be a short trip to an apartment complex just a few minutes away. Easy money, I thought.
A guy climbed in the back seat, didn’t say a word, just sat down like he’d done this a hundred times. Nothing unusual about him at first glance.
The ride itself was normal. I followed the GPS, hit a few stoplights, and tried not to think too much about the fact that he was dead quiet.
That’s not unusual either—plenty of people just zone out during rides. But after a while, I noticed he wasn’t on his phone, wasn’t looking out the window, wasn’t fidgeting.
He was just staring straight ahead at me.
I pulled up to the drop-off point, a small brick apartment building. I stopped, put the car in park, and waited for the sound of the back door opening. It didn’t happen.
I glanced in the mirror. He was still sitting there, eyes fixed on me, not moving. My phone buzzed with the prompt to end the ride, but I couldn’t bring myself to hit it.
Something about the way he sat there made my skin crawl.
I unlocked the doors again, figuring maybe he hadn’t noticed.
Still nothing.
He leaned back in his seat like he was perfectly comfortable staying there. My chest tightened.
It was clear he wasn’t planning to get out.
I gave the car a little tap forward, thinking that would get him moving. Instead, he just sat deeper into the seat like he expected me to keep driving.
That’s when it hit me—he wasn’t just stalling, he wanted to go somewhere else, and he wasn’t going to ask. The street was empty, no one walking by, no other cars around.
It felt like it was just me and him in that moment, boxed in together. I could feel my heart pounding in my ears. I didn’t want to confront him directly, so I tried something different.
I threw on my hazard lights, opened my door, and stepped out like I was calling for someone.
I raised my voice on purpose, just talking into the night like a friend was waiting for me.
That broke the moment. I heard the back door open, and when I turned, he was slipping out of the car.
He didn’t say a word, just walked off into the shadows like he’d never been there.
I jumped back in, slammed the locks down, and sped away. Even now, I catch myself waiting at drop-offs, listening for the sound of the passenger’s door closing.
If it doesn’t happen right away, my stomach knots up. That ride left me on edge, and honestly, it still does.
