Fare That Cost More Than Meter

It was Saturday around 1 AM, and I was driving down Sutter Street downtown when I heard a hotel doorman whistling, waving for a cab. As soon as I pulled over, his face lit up.

"Thanks, bro," he said, opening the door for a passenger. "None of the cabs want to stop here."

The moment she got in, I could tell—she was drunk. The smell of alcohol hit me like a punch to the face. She had dressed up for the night—a nice, classy outfit, her hair done neatly, heels that made her look like a lady. She seemed like someone who might be heading to a party or an upscale event. But now, her staggering movements and flushed face were a dead giveaway.

As always, I greeted my passenger before asking where she was headed. But instead of answering, she began flirting. I smiled politely, trying to stay professional, and asked again. After a moment, she finally replied: "Brentwood, CA."

Brentwood? Sixty miles away from the city. It didn’t add up. But I turned on the GPS anyway and started driving.

By the time we hit the Bay Bridge, I heard snoring. Sure enough, she had completely passed out in the backseat, her head leaning against the window. I couldn’t help but think—who does this? Early twenties, wasted, passed out, taking a cab 60 miles away... and snoring?

I kept driving, but something was off. Halfway through the trip, I noticed the alcohol smell was fading… but now, there was something else—a strange, musky odor I couldn’t place. I glanced in the rearview mirror, but she was lying back, her face hidden. I turned on the interior light, just to check if she was okay.

To my surprise, she instantly woke up, her tone sharp and hostile—

"Where are you taking me?!"

I blinked. "Uh… don’t you know you’re in a cab? I hope you have enough for the fare."

Without a word, she reached into her purse, flung it open, and flashed a wad of cash.

We both laughed, and I could tell she was coming back to her senses—at least a little. But that weird smell still lingered, hanging in the air like a bad memory.

She soon dozed off again.

When we finally reached Brentwood around 2 AM, I pulled into a quiet residential neighborhood—big houses, manicured lawns, the kind of place where nothing crazy is supposed to happen.

I turned on the interior lights and tried waking her up. No response. After a few attempts, I had to step out of the cab and open the back door. That’s when I noticed it.

The backseat was wet.

I sighed, already knowing what had happened. When she finally woke up, I asked, "Why did you do that? We could’ve stopped somewhere."

She barely reacted. Instead, she reached into her purse, pulled out more cash, and mumbled, "I apologize, please charge me extra for the trouble."

And just like that, she stumbled out and disappeared into the night.

I sat there for a moment, looking at the way she went, the empty seat, and the mess I’d have to get cleaned up for the next shift. That was it for me—I was done for the Friday night shift.

She left the cab But that passenger never really left. For nights after, I kept thinking about her. Not just about what she did—but about what kind of night she must’ve had to end up like that. What was she running from? Where was she headed? How did it all go wrong?

Some passengers are just a ride. Others? They stay with you.