“4.6 Stars and a Hint of Regret: My Commute with Rick the Uber Philosopher” A journey through nicotine, nostalgia, and midlife metaphors.

It started, like all bad decisions, with optimism and a time crunch.

I had an interview. Not a dream job—just one of those “please let this pay enough to make me stop budgeting toilet paper” gigs. The kind where you try to look professional but your socks have holes and your résumé has been crying in PDF format since 2023.

I opened the app.

Uber. Rick. Silver Toyota Camry. 4.6 stars. Profile said:

“Loves classic rock. Former small business owner. No pets.”

What it didn’t say was:

“This ride will feel like you accidentally time-traveled into someone’s unresolved trauma.”

Rick pulled up, window down, aviator sunglasses on despite the clouds, and what I can only describe as “divorced energy” radiating from the passenger seat.

The door opened and the scent hit me first.

Not just smoke. Not just cigarettes.

This was something deeper.

Cigarettes and regret.

Like someone had tried to smudge out bad decisions using a pack of Marlboro Reds and a Creed CD.

I sat down. Mistake #1.

Rick looked in the rearview mirror and grunted:

“Don’t mind the smell. My ex-wife borrowed the car last week.”

Sir… unless your ex-wife is a 1980s casino floor manager named Lou, I think we’re both inhaling something older than your last happy memory.

We merged onto the highway to the sounds of “Smoke on the Water,” which felt… accurate. Rick drummed along with one hand and told me about the time he lost everything in a bowling league scandal. I’m still not clear on the details, but it involved someone named “Janice,” a turkey sandwich, and the phrase “emotional embezzlement.”

I said nothing. I just kept nodding like a man who had accepted his fate.

Rick then launched into an unsolicited TED Talk on why aliens are probably running the IRS and how he once almost became a chiropractor “but spiritually, not legally.”

At one point, I asked if he had taken a wrong turn.

He said:

“Life’s all a wrong turn, kid. You just hope the radio stays on.”

We finally pulled up to the office. I was five minutes early and emotionally twelve years older.

Before I got out, Rick looked at me and said:

“You’ve got good vibes. You remind me of my nephew. He moved to Arizona to sell knives and find himself.”

Then he handed me a slightly sticky Werther’s Original and drove off.

I walked into my interview smelling like a pawn shop’s break room, wondering if I should even try to explain what I had just lived through.

Spoiler: I didn’t get the job.

But I did gain a story, a caramel candy, and a mild case of secondhand midlife crisis.

So if you’re ever riding Uber and debating between a 4.6 and a 4.9-star driver?

Just remember:

The 4.9 will get you there.

But the 4.6?

He’ll take you on a journey.