The Watch in the backseat

It was a foggy Tuesday morning in San Francisco, the kind where the mist clings to the streets like secrets that don’t want to be told. I had just dropped off a fare near Fisherman’s Wharf and was making my way toward Market Street, hoping to catch someone heading downtown for work. That’s when I got pinged, pickup near Union Square.

She was already waiting when I pulled up. Mid-thirties, sharp black suit, heels that clicked like punctuation marks, and an aura that screamed corporate warrior. She barely looked at me as she slid into the backseat, her eyes fixed on her phone.

“555 California Street,” she said, voice clipped. “And please, no talking. I’ve got a call coming in.”

I nodded. As much as I like chatting with passengers, I’ve learned to read the mood. Some want a conversation. Others want to disappear into their day. She was clearly the latter.

The ride was smooth. Traffic was light. She stayed glued to her phone the entire time, whispering occasionally but mostly listening, nodding, typing. At the drop-off, she tossed a quick, distracted “Thanks” over her shoulder and disappeared into a glass tower.

That’s when I saw it.

Lying on the edge of the backseat was a gold wristwatch, sleek, expensive, and clearly not mine. I picked it up. It was heavier than I expected, a Rolex, maybe? The kind of thing that costs more than a month’s rent.

I looked at the meter. The ride had been paid through the app. No name, no number, just the pick up and drop off. She hadn’t spoken a word beyond her address. I had no way to contact her.

I could’ve kept it. Sold it even. But I’ve been doing this job long enough to know two things: karma is real, and people lose things all the time, but it doesn’t mean they deserve to lose them forever.

I drove back to 555 California. Parked illegally for a minute and walked into the lobby. A security guard glanced up.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“I just dropped someone off. A woman in a black suit. Left her watch in my cab.”

He narrowed his eyes. “A lot of people in black suits here, buddy.”

I held up the watch. “I’m not trying anything. Just thought she might be looking for this.”

He stared at it for a moment, then sighed and picked up the phone. “Hang on.”

After a couple of calls and ten minutes of awkward standing, she appeared.

And man, the look on her face, first confusion, then shock, then something else. Relief maybe. Or gratitude that didn’t quite know how to express itself.

She walked up slowly.

“You found it?” she asked.

I nodded. “Backseat. Thought you might want it back.”

She looked like she wanted to say something, but the words didn’t come right away. Then finally: “Thank you. That watch... it was my Mother’s. She gave it to me before she passed. I wear it when I’m nervous. Big presentation today.”

She opened her purse, pulled out a crisp hundred dollar bill.

I raised a hand. “No need. Just... pay it forward sometime.”

She smiled. This time, it reached her eyes.

“Thank you, seriously. Not many people would do that.”

As she walked back into the building, I watched the doors close behind her and took a deep breath. It was just another ride, another day, but sometimes, it's the little things, the honest moments, that make this job more than just miles on the meter.

. . . . . . . . . . . .