Two concerts ended simultaneously at downtown venues. I sat on the corner between them, trying to find my rider. Like termites in a fallen log that someone just kicked, crowds of people poured from the doorways, across streets, with and against the traffic signals . . .  a typical Friday night Ubering downtown. I’d just gotten off the phone with Chris, and told him to look for the small silver SUV with its lights flashing, sitting on Ottawa St. A minute later, a passenger door opened.

“Hi, are you Chris.”

“Yes,” my rider confirmed. “Can we change the destination?”

“Sure, I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

Chris looked toward the sidewalk. “He’s our Uber,” he shouted to his friends nearby. The back door opened, and suddenly my car became one with the chaos around me.

“Hey, can we go to the Tavern?”

“Sure.”

“Ooooh, Starburst.” The girl climbing into the backseat found my candy jar.

“I love Starburst, are these for us?”

“Yes . . . “

“We want to go to the Tavern. Can you take us there?” Chris repeated.

“No problem.”

“Hey, get in,” Chris shouted back toward the sidewalk.

As the last of their party climbed into the backseat, a knock came on my window. “Hey, are you Tim?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Chris, I think you’re my driver.”

The noise and commotion in the car didn’t skip a beat. ‘Chris’ #1 looked at the guy standing at my window.

“We’re Blown. We’re blown!!” he shouted at his friends in the back seat as he jumped out of the car.

The last thing I heard from the gang of Uber-pirates as they stumbled down the sidewalk toward the Tavern was the voice of the girl from the back seat.

“I scored a Starburst. . . I scored a Starburst.”