Finn

I'm not a violent man, but I have a dozen reasons for pulling my cab over and throwing the chattering man in my back seat onto the curb. His cheesy Christmas outfit is one of them. His love affair with Uber is another.

"Not trying to insult you or anything," the man says. "But I don't see why any of you are still working for cab companies. The Uber model is the wave of the future, don't you think? I mean, seriously, it's so convenient for consumers, with the app charging your credit card and everything. And you don't have that blasted meter staring you in the face ..."

I look at the man in the rearview mirror. "You got money or not?"

"Of course. What do you mean?"

"You sound like a guy who has a problem handing a credit card or cash to an actual human being. You'd rather put it in an app where who knows who in India or China or somewhere is saving all your data."

The man's laughter is defensive and unnatural. "How old are you?" he asks. "You don't look old enough to be suspicious of the Internet. You look like that guy Luke on Gilmore Girls. My wife would love you. You probably get that a lot."

"Never heard of the guy," I say, even though I get it at least once a week.

"The way he looked at the end of the series."

The older version, of course. I'm feeling older all the time, even though I only turned thirty a month ago.

I'm getting close to the guy's destination, something I know since I have intimate knowledge of the St. Louis street map without a GPS, so it isn't worth responding.

But the guy loves the sound of his voice. "I only took a cab because it's raining and it's rush hour. Uber spikes their prices up at times like this. And there you were, sitting at the hotel where my convention was ..."

Now I have to respond. "So you'd rather ride with some dude who hasn't had as many background checks as I have, who doesn't have to pay the same license fees and taxes, who doesn't know how to get where you're going unless he's looking at his phone while he's trying to drive, who might have been working in a lab for his day job, where he handles live viruses and doesn't believe in washing his hands —"

"Come on," the guy says. "That's ridiculous."

"Most ride-share drivers don't do it for a living, pal. I know the shortcuts —"

"But you don't take them. Come on, you know cabs go out of their way to run up the bill. Those drivers may not do it for a living, but they're good enough. And I usually know where I'm going. I can tell them how to get there."

"You know," I cut back in, "that's another thing. Good enough is really what you want? How about excellence? You watch TV on six-inch devices, you read your news on blogs, you eat fast food rather than cooking. You're happier with two all-beef patties than you are with fine restaurants or — here's a concept — homecooked meals."

The guy leans forward on the seat, and I fight my urge to shove him back. "What is your problem?" he asks. "What does my diet have to do with driving a cab?"

Nothing, but it has everything to do with me. I'm seriously losing it. I'll never make it through this Christmas season.

I reach the guy's destination, and pulling over to the curb, I check the meter. "Eight bucks," I say. "Do you want a receipt?"

The guy doesn't move. "I asked you a question."

I turn and look back at him. "You want me to keep that meter running?"

The guy shakes his head, pulls out his wallet, and hands me a ten. "Give me a receipt, since I don't have it on an app."

I'm pretty sure the guy doesn't intend to tip me, so I fish two dollars out of my pouch and hand them back to him with a receipt. The guy snatches them and opens his door.

"Want my card?" I shout after him.

He slams the door, and I chuckle as I drive away.

You run into jerks in every line of work. Unfortunately, I meet more than my share, especially this time of year, when there are Christmas parties every single day.

My radio crackles, and my dispatcher comes on.

"Finn, where are you?"

"Northwest," I say. "What you got?"

"Someone in that area called for a cab. Address is 113 Sensero Drive."

I groan at the address. "Come on, LuAnn, that's a residential neighborhood. I was going back to the airport."

"You're the closest. I was supposed to book this earlier, but I didn't."

Why didn't the person call Uber? It's getting rare for people who aren't accustomed to looking up a phone number to call the cab company. And they love to watch the progress of their Uber drivers on their phones, which I consider another way the government can keep tabs on us. Just sign up to drive for a ride-share company, and you, too, can be tracked anywhere and everywhere.

Most of my fares these days are airport or hotel fares, and those are the easiest. Sure money, sure pickups, and not a lot of time lost waiting for someone. As irritating as those fares can be if they've been drinking, they pay my rent.

But occasionally we get a call from an actual house. It's usually someone who doesn't know how to use a smartphone. Those can be the most irritating fares.

I do what I hate and type the address into my dashboard GPS, since I refuse to do it on my phone as a matter of principle. I follow the voice guidance as I drive.

It's a white ranch-style house that looks like it needs a good coat of paint. The grass could use a mow. They probably aren't big tippers. Great.

I tap my horn and watch the door. There's no sign of anybody, but I see through the screen door that the front door is open. As I wait, I turn on the radio and scan through "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus," "Santa Baby," and Michael Jackson's version of "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town." It's been all Christmas, all the time, since Thanksgiving. I wonder if these oblivious station managers really think that if they take a break and play a Top 40 song people will flee in search of more "Jingle Bells."

Time is wasting. I'm going to the door. Try getting an Uber driver to do that.

I straighten my backward baseball cap and go to the screen door. I make sure my knock conveys my impatience. When no one answers, I move closer to the screen and look inside.

An old woman sits in a wheelchair, her head tilted forward. Either she's sleeping or she's dead. Great.

I look back at my cab. I could tell LuAnn that no one came to the door, which is true. I could just drive off, but the woman will probably wake up and call back and complain that no one came.

I knock again on the screen door. "Hello?" I yell.

The woman jolts awake. "What?"

"Did someone here call for a cab?"

The woman looks around, as if she doesn't know if anyone else is there who may have called. "Yes ... uh ... oh yes. Thank you so much."

"Do you need help?"

"Yes, please. That would be so nice."

I open the screen door and step into the small front room. Her purse sits on the table, so I point to it. "Do you need your purse?"

"Please," she says.

I wheel her out the door, carrying her purse. "Should I lock it?"

"Yes, thank you."

I lock the doorknob and pull it shut.

The woman reminds me a little of my own mother in her last days, and that familiar bitter acid burns my stomach. I roll her to the car.

"Uh ... can you stand up or walk?"

"With a little help," she says. "My name's Callie. What's yours, honey?"

"Finn," I say,...