UBER TALES with Rule-Based System for Making Money

I wrote a book: UBER TALES with Rule-Based System for Making Money.

From the back cover:

This book explains my systematic approach to driving for a ride-share company like Uber or Lyft, with colorful examples and amazing stories – UBER TALES.

I illustrate my Rule-Based system by describing:

WHAT to drive, WHERE to go, HOW to manage and WHY or WHY NOT betwixt often surprising, sometimes funny and occasionally scary

UBER TALES, offering a unique view of America from behind the wheel.

This book bites and I hope it leaves a mark.

End of back cover.

Why I wrote it?

Let me put it this way: I couldn’t NOT to write it.

This book practically wrote itself from conversations I had in a car, and various tales I told about Uber. I have been writing for few years now, but on topic unrelated to ride-sharing and generally not interesting for general public. This book is different. It spoke to my children (why are actually not kids anymore) much more than any of the stuff I wrote previously, because it has broader meaning and wider appeal than just “UBER TALES” would imply.

It’s about how integrity, hard work, and common sense pay off – in real world, with real money.

I think that most people, who buy it to learn how to work better in Uber or Lyft, will find my book very useful.

I think that any business oriented person will get few chuckles out of it.

I think that subtle sense of adventure and mystery will keep any thinking person intrigued and interested to the very end.

I think that this book is condensed enough to be read in half a day (or over a week in small portions while sitting on a toilet – my personal favorite), but deep enough to make you come back and read an occasional sentence (or a paragraph) again.

I think it’s the most spectacular thing I’ve done in my life so far… and, believe me, I have a thing or two to compare to.

Enjoy.

Available ONLY on Amazon for now (local bookstores auscultating):

https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1724688049?pf_rd_p=d1f45e03-8b73-4c9a-9beb-4819111bef9a&pf_rd_r=GN90277FQ3C8QEZYKF3H 

Have a taste. Beginning of the book is available as a preview. Click ‘Look Inside’ link above picture of the cover – it opens pages 1 through 12.

Teheran 17

About 20 years ago we had a business in Ambler, Montgomery County. Shortly after grand-opening some gopnik walks in and cheerfully asks: "So, where are you guys from?" I used to try to clarify that I am a non-religious jew, born in Ukraine when it was still a part of Soviet Union. My native language is Russian. No, Ukraine is not a part of Russia. Yes, Putin is a dictator. No, Russians love America. Yes, THIS IS my home. No, I don't like Russian food. Yes, Golden Gates is the best Russian restaurant in Philadelphia and so on and so forth.

On that day in Ambler I thought this is too much to explain to a simpleton from Pennsylvania country-side and just said: "I am Ukrainian." I don't know if it was my pronunciation, his hearing or lapses in public education, but gopnik went around town telling people that those new guys on a corner are 'Real Iranians'. It took me a better part of a year to convince locals that: "No, I am UKRAI-nian, not IRA-nian... No, it's not the same thing... No, it's not the same part of the World."

On Tuesday, at 11:07 am, for the first time in my life, I met a real IRA-nian.

Man was in a talkative mood, so I quickly disposed of 'Dictator Putin vs Our Democracy' theme he tried to start with me, and went straight for the jugular. I had an important matter to discuss. Although the ride was about 30 minutes long, there was no time to waste since I wanted to give him a little background behind my 'loaded' question.

From what I remember of History taught in school and books I read on my own - Russia always had a warm relationship with Persia, a part of the World represented now by Iran, and not so much with Arab countries further East. Seemingly different cultures of Russian Empire (followed by multi-national Soviet Union) and different monarchies of Persia were connected for centuries by trade, trust or war. So I ask: "How did Iranians see Russians?"

I think he decided there and then to give me a 'loaded' answer, but first the man wanted to provide some background of his own.
Having left Iran for university in America in 1971, he called himself a 'victim of circumstance'. American degree was no good in post-Shah Iran, but their economy was tanking anyway. Plus mobs on a street chanting "Death to Americans" made his American-born wife very 'uncomfortable'. He praised Shah for developing Iranian oil fields and investing 60 billion of revenues into infrastructure and public projects, making Iran one of the leading economies of Arab World. He said: "Life was pretty good. We had cars and electronics, but we had no political freedoms. Now, there are some kinds of freedom, but economy stinks, country is in isolation, while government squandered 1 Trillion dollars of oil profits."

I was getting tired of his social-economic excursion when he finally got to the point. In a peculiar Eastern way, there are always two sides to a coin. While Iranian government propaganda in mid-20th Century was highly negative of Russia, Iranian people had great affinity towards Russian culture. His family often enjoyed 'pirozki' and 'babka', and everything 'Russian' was really cool.
Fast-forward 50 years - Iran is bashing everything American, but people walking around in Levi's jeans, Apple iPhone is 'it' and the best present for a teen-age boy is a NY Yankees baseball hat.
Go figure.
Восток дело тонкое.

The man spoke with such warmth about his country, I guess that given the choice again he would never gone to America in a first place.
The fate of a person is not written on his forehead. It's really all quite random, you know, except...
I told him: "Picking between 'here' and 'there' - I personally choose 'here' every day of the week and twice on a weekend".
I went back to the old country once. After living in America for many years and gotten used to comforts of modern society - it was a fucking nightmare.
"Have you gone back to your lands since then?", I asked.
"O, sure. I go every year if I can and more often while my parents were alive."
I was dumbfounded.
"Wasn't it the place where people from America feel 'UN-comfortable'?", I confronted him.
"O, I couldn't live or work there, but to visit for a couple of weeks is fine. Nobody cares. Traveling in Arab World is not like in Western countries. People move around all the time."
His parents came to Iran from what used to be Azerbaijan. Some family members moved to what now called Armenia. Borderlines are largely a recent phenomenon and they keep on changing. Just to see your family may require visits to several countries on a same trip.

That was it. A Fat Pitch! We stopped on a red light. I looked him square in the eyes:
"Where is Your Home?"
Iranian didn't have to think.
"HERE. My children and grand-kids are Here. My wife... My life... You know, when I travel There, I can stay for a week, 2 weeks, but every day after that is like torture. I just want to go home..."

He went quiet and looked out the window. Wrinkled olive skin of his relaxed face basking in diffused sunlight of a cloudy summer noon. We drove in silence through spectacular slopes of Manayunk to where serene waters of Schuylkill River meets Twin Bridge.
Real Iranian looked perfectly comfortable in a back seat of Beloye Taksi.

In a way, All PeopleS are the Same...

Marshall

Just before noon on Wednesday, I picked up a passenger going to the airport. Guy looked sharp in a dark blue suit, tie was already off. Kid didn't seem to be a year over 35, but I bet that at 45 he will look just the same. The only piece of luggage is a back-pack. Nice shoes. He promptly revealed that he arrived late last night from Atlanta (due to freak rain-storm delayed flight), had 2 meetings ending with lunch at Chinese restaurant and now was heading back home.
He spoke slowly.

I swear I could smell MSG on his breath and that rotten stench of a restaurant kitchen oozing from his clothes. Chinese crap didn't agree with his stomach. Guy was skillfully suppressing the burps, but the odor was impossible to conceal. As he was opening and closing the window, with air-conditioner of Beloye Taksi blasting on '5', I took mercy on him and offered my last bottle of water.
That did the trick.

Relieved and now relaxed, the man proceeded to tell his life story, with only rudimentary prodding required on my part. As it turned out, kid was born in Southern Georgia near Florida border. Not a surprise that he finds Philadelphia 'a little bizarre', but still wants to bring his children for a visit to a City of Brotherly Love - see the Liberty Bell, take a tour on a Red Bus, ... the works. (Only later I realized that it must be for him akin to me taking my own kids to the Zoo. To see animals in their own habitat, you 'no...). I made on observation that people Down South are a lot different from us here in PA and NY, but didn't indicate how. To my surprise, he didn't dig in, but instead replied in a beautiful Southern Drawl how his business takes him all over the country and : "Only Down South can I speak like at home..."
A Pause.

Our eyes met in a rear-view mirror. Southern Gentleman had clear eyes. Not the color. The expression. Searching, looking, laughing, reading like an X-Ray. The eyes with intellect, reason and calm. Rarest thing ever.
I know.

Just to be sure, the blue-suit-man started a half-assed effort to classify Carolina's and Maryland as a sort of mixed border line, but I wouldn't have any of it. I already SAW him. Just one mention of Mason-Dixon Line (with all it's Civil War baggage) removed all remaining guard-fences of a Georgian farmer's youngest son.
That's what he was.

When Father got too old and wanted to rest (his word - not 'retire' - 'REST'), two brothers concocted a plan how to get some money out of the farm quick, but still keep most of the land. They actually subdivided some of their territory and sold lots for houses to be build on. This, my friends, is a pure genius - land to build is the most profitable slice of Real Estate racket. Granted, it comes with a lot of work, but what it needs the most is a lot of connections because the permitting process is next to impossible. Real МАЗА. They did it. And all required communications, water, electric, roads and more. To make a long story short - Father happily retired..., pardon, rested. Two sons, however, found themselves in a pickle. The farm is now smaller. Agriculture prices are lower than ever, while costs are thru the roof. Then Georgia passes the law making seasonal workers ineligible for welfare assistance during off-season months. There is nothing to do on a farm for all those people during winter. Down South they don't pay nothing for nothing. And like this - pfui - all their employees disappear.
We Laughed.

From the rear-view mirror I saw a real-life Cullen Bohannon. I mean, the guy really looked a lot like a protagonist of AMC's series "Hell on Wheels". Bit more rounded. Minus the stupid hair.
Mr Bohannon type - they don't fret, they don't finch, they just keep at it.
No matter what.
Through a 'job broker' (I'm not kidding - A JOB BROKER) they hired a Guatemalan Crew, who costed less even considering a temporary housing that Mr-Bohannon-look-alike build for them. Guatemalans worked so hard and fast that Southern Gentlemen had to give them some paid days off. Tobacco didn't grow fast enough for those guys.
No complains. Always in good mood. Always happy.

Farming has been an 'idee fixe' of mine for some time, so I had some questions. He was happy to oblige and I learned a great deal about rotation of cotton with soy or corn. Some intricacies of tomato irrigation and fertilizing weren't so new to me, but a certain kind of Yellow Pine - that was a discovery. Apparently, there is a sort of Pine tree used for lumber, that matures to production in only 7 to 10 years. So what you do is - cut some trees on your property (read: forest), replant clearing with new Pine trees and continue doing it every 2 years in equal parts over next 10 years.
Forest Farming FTW! Fucking brilliant! How come nobody mentioned this when I was looking at that farm near Poconos a few years back. That place wasn't really a 'farm' - most of it was just land with forest on it. Very costly to turn into arable fields, but perfect for Cullen Bohannon pine shticks. Guess people Up North don't think like that.
(Bergamot spits)

The Man in Blue Suit from Georgia doesn't work on the farm any more. The profit just isn't there to support 2 households, so he left it for older brother to take care of Family Land. He now sells insurance - that's what Philadelphia trip was all about - insurance for big industrial green-houses, that evidently can be done in a morning meeting and lunch at unfriendly to Southern stomach eatery.

As I listened to his slow and calm voice, I started to get a sensation in my neck and back of the head. It's really weird, and wonderful, and happens very rarely when I talk to like-minded people. People who share my values in life. It's like waves or something I can neither describe clearly, nor understand fully. Funny thing - I can feel this woovy bliss long after the person I caught the vibe from leaves. Hours, sometimes days after...
By the time we got to the Airport I was tripping.

We both removed sunglasses and shook hands. I think I saw a hint of surprise in his stare... and smiled. Real-life-Cullen-Bohannon took his time collecting his phone, charger, back-pack and neatly folded jacket, wished me well and slowly walked toward Delta entrance. Not 'slow', like lazy, fat or sick - 'slow', like steadily putting one firm step in front of another. Wide strut. Broad shoulders caring a hard-chinned head. I watched him like I watch a rare animal from far away land. May be exotic, possibly be near extinct, definitely not from these parts. I seldom look at my passengers after they disembark Beloye Taksi - a person has to be really interesting for me to gawk...
Georgian was almost at the door to the Airport when he slowly turned, looked at my car from front to back and then at me. Dead in the eye.
THIS never happened before.

His name is Marshall, but even if it wasn't, I would still call him that.

Maiden Voyage.

I’ve been looking at this beautiful white thing, thinking how in a world am I going to keep it clean and without damage. Long days in a sun and many hours of labor will eventually take its toll, there will be nicks and scratches, people will surely destroy the interior… but for now – it’s a shiny and clean Beloye Taksi – The White Cab.

On Wednesday, registration finally came in and I immediately signed it up into my Uber account. Paperwork was approved by the time I put the water bottles and candy in. Adjustment of the driver seat tho… that took the rest of the afternoon. I wasn’t rushing – everything has to be set up just right – Uber iPhone, my navigation, phone, stylus, my candy, water… I mean, I have to live inside this small space for many hours, it has to be both comfortable and functional.

Then comes the test. I went out around 6pm for few hours to get used to new car and its contraptions. I went for usual spots and… nothing. Not a single ping. Two hours later I knew something is wrong, but couldn’t figure out the source of the problem until alert came in without the sound. Bingo! Uber iPhone wants to play thru the car speakers. I didn’t figure it out, it was two teenage girls I picked up from that silent ping.

After I managed to rectify the sound situation things started cooking. Beloye Taksi got a steady stream of 10 to 20 minute rides – just what I wanted. Right away there where compliments about how nice it looks and clean smell and all that. First run had been going swimmingly and I kept on rolling.

12:45am call comes in from some bumblefuck 15 minutes away. Although not far from small towns, that place is legit in a middle of some forest, with one lane road not wide enough for two cars to pass, and no shoulder (just a big-ass ditch). I found the place all right, but decided not to drive up the driveway, because the house is way deeper into the woods. I can see light in a couple of windows, but nothing else. Nobody is coming. 5 minute passes and I am starting to get a bad juju, so I call ‘em up like “Hi, Im your Uber, I don’t know if Im in a right place. Can you see my car outside?”  (Meaning, “yo, I been sitting here outside chilling my bones. Harry up, beAch, the meter is running”) My worst fears realized – drunk woman with trembling voice, whispering: “Don’t come up the driveway, wait on a road, turn headlights off and keep the motor running”. Shiiit. What have I got myself into?

After few more minutes I decided that:
a.    Its stupid.
b.    I am in a deep completely dark forest.
c.    I am the captain of this ship and I get to decide what goes on and off and where.

So I put light back on, got my flash-light and stepped outside to meet my passenger. She was in dark knee-high pajamas and army-type boots, hair sticking every which way, no makeup. Suitcase. I offer to put it in a trunk. The thing feels almost empty.

We actually had a nice talk about Russian literature and music.
 She had Vysotsky on her phone and we listened to “Wolf Hunt”. She explained that although she doesn’t understand the words, she can feel the “haunting power of the song”. Her words.  Imagine her shock when I provided a loose translation about surrounded wolf and hunters and dogs, and breaking out from obedience…

She was running away from a husband number 2 or number 3 (she kept mixing them up). I learned a lot on that hour-long drive to a … parking lot on a shopping mall. The fuck? She actually spoke to a guy waiting there for some time. She was afraid he would leave, so she kept telling him how close we are. “Only few minutes away. O, you so nice to me. I’m so glad I have you” and more and more like this. I don’t know what the story with a future husband number 4 is, but he was definitely losing patience and even asked her if she is lying. Finally, we arrived at that Walmart and she jumped out as soon as car stopped. As I was handing her the bag, she was on a phone and kept saying that she is waiting for him in a store and cannot see him anywhere.

The Walmart was closed. She WAS lying.