Lyft Off

As I deplaned bidding Las Vegas goodbye for now (worry not, dear reader, those posts are coming), I got an email saying “We’re really looking forward to seeing you tomorrow at that talk you’re doing for us.”

Now guys. I know I booked four talks this year. I knew that one was in May, one was in June and one in September. And. Um. Oh shit.

I had one day at home between the Mystery Trip that my friend Jeff gave me as a Christmas gift and the Inuhele Tiki Trip at which I’m speaking and signing books. (Look for me! I’m the one calling himself Captain Swizzles and wearing a variety of zesty hats!) In that one day, I hoped to recover, do some laundry, start writing trip reports, allow myself some panic spirals before pushing all that down. You know. The usghe. (Spelling? Yushe?)

Now, instead of maxin and relaxin all chill and all cool, I had to immediately sit down at my desk, fire things up, and start cramming everything about the Twilight Zone I could fit into my noggin.

Now, normally I call myself a Three Week Expert. Give me adequate lead time, and I can become at least a temporary expert on the topic you’re hiring me for. I had less than twenty-four hours before I had to stand in front of the folks at the senior center and give a cogent, interesting lecture about the history of this show.

Happily, talking about The Twilight Zone is a little like talking about Star Trek. It’s in my bones. (Not my Bones. That’s really specific to Trek.) I watched it with my dad when I was seven and never stopped. Plus, I had a vague outline and I spent much of my twenties poring over The Twilight Zone Companion. I had this.

Still, it was work. Mind-rending, nonstop work. I had barely finished my presentation when the Uber showed up and I was on my way.

KevTalk went very well. Like, extremely well. I spoke for 45 minutes, took questions, listened to stories. One of the best things about doing a talk about a TV show or a writer is you can ask the audience what their favorites are, and they just want to talk about them. It’s so much fun, and it’s fully engaging, and it (cornily?) gives me hope I really need right now.

After the talk, I went to Starbucks, then called a Lyft to take me to the commuter rail. From there: the emergency room.

Hold up, I hear you saying. Emergency room? You can’t just say “emergency room” and expect us to glide right on by. Context! Backstory! Aren’t you a writer?

Well, chat: you know how I had those hernias for a year and no one believed me until I went to this surgeon and he was like “Oh shit, you have hernias! You need to be operated on!” Well, a different hernia has been presenting itself, the umbilical kind, and it was hurting like mad yesterday. It wasn’t turning color or like making everything in my insides go weird, but it really stung. I made an appointment with the surgeon guy for Wednesday … and then started to worry.

Now, is it the Anxiety Paradox where you worry something bad might happen that you actually make it worse? Well I think that had a hand in my pain. I spent a couple hours in the ER lying on a cot between two people who definitely needed more help than me, watched as some hot cops and EMTs bring in people who definitely needed more help than me, and listened to a man bellow that he was being starved to death as if the ER was a prison. He definitely needed more help than me.

A doctor finally showed up and looked at my belly. Pressed on it. “That’s uncomfortable,” I told him. “Uncomfortable isn’t unbearable and you seem fine,” he told me brusquely. “You definitely have a hernia, but it’s not presenting any immediate issue. You’re fine to see the doctor on Wednesday, and you can definitely travel.”

That was one of the big things I worried about. I was scheduled at Inuhele last year and I had to cancel due to the other hernias. I didn’t want to be the guy who always cancels Inuhele due to hernias. What a weird way to be known!

I got home. Watched Kids’ Baking Championship with my man. Went to bed. Woke up and started looking at shirtless pictures of Glenn Campbell when I was interrupted with a note from Lyft: You’ve been charged an $80 damage fee.

A what? A what now? What damage? I didn’t do any damage. What the hell?

Looking deeper into the charge, it looks like it came from the 3-minute ride I took from the Starbucks to the Commuter Rail. In other words, from one side of the parking lot to the other side of the parking lot. (It would have been a chilly 18-minute walk in 16º with hernia pain. Now I wish I would have taken it.)

I contacted Lyft. First they said it was a vomit charge. Now guys. Early in my Tiki days, I drank Malort and three drinks in one night and I puked in an Uber. I got charged a cleaning fee and I happily paid it. I have never again been sick from drinking and I’ve never - ever - puked in a rideshare again. Then they were like, “On second review, it looks like you spilled coffee on his seat and floorboards.”

Folks, I had a coffee with me. It had a stopper in it. I spilled nothing. And also: why are we believing the guy whose story changed?

Round and around. They shared the pictures of the “damage” with me and they look like they were taken during the day, when it was real dark when he dropped me off. Also, hilariously, Lyft asked me if I had any pictures of the car during my trip. I was like, “Why would I?” They’re asking me to prove a negative. I did, also hilariously, send them a picture of me at Starbucks with the cup. “Notice the time stamp and the stopper,” I said, like Lyft CSI was going to be on the case. Come on Marg Helgenberger! Help a Kev out!

They couldn’t help me. I escalated it and the manager who initially said they waived the fee did NOT waive the fee. I talked to a third person who seemed genuinely sorry they couldn’t help, but nope.

So: when the temporary charge goes through I will dispute it at my credit card company, likely as I’m on the plane to my fun tropical getaway in beautiful downtown Atlanta. And when I touch down and I’m looking for a way to the hotel? I’m taking an Uber.