Who am I anymore? Due to worsening conditions I’m afraid, like many of the failed Samurai who served before me, that seppuku is my only option. My story must be told, both as an obituary and as a warning to any brave soul willing to cross paths with a steaming and uncompromising devil.
January 17, 2015. The day this Great War began. I placed a gentle kiss on my lover's brow as she laid asleep, placed my headset in my bag, and I was out the door, ready to seize the day, utterly blind to my fast approaching doom.
Old submariners in the US Navy often describe an unspoken tension in the vessels hours before an attack. This wasn’t something silly like naval warfare, this was Uber Customer Service. As I walked through the office doors I could sense a certain stillness in the air. A contagious and zeroed in focus that no fool could deny.
“Ever notice how you come across somebody once in a while you shouldn’t have messed with? That’s me.”
I arrived at my desk, turned on my laptop, and sank into my chair. This was my submarine, this was my Navy, this was my war.
The first calls that came in required little effort to resolve. A payment error, a rider trying to leave a tip, a driver smoking cigarettes during the ride. I was ready for a challenge. A few hours passed with minimal calls. On days when there was a lull in activity you knew something catastrophic was eyeing you from around the corner.
Suddenly a call came in. A name and number flashed on my screen.
EASTWOOD, C. 213-974-3211
“Thank you for calling Uber Customer Service, this is Matt. How may I assist you?”
Static and distorted sounds on the other line.
“Hello? This is Matt from Uber Customer Service. How may I assist you?”
I was getting fed up and about to disconnect the call when I heard an old and angry voice.
“Listen here you son of a bitch,” said the voice. “To me your nothin but dogshit, you understand? And a lot of things can happen to dogshit. It can be scraped up with a shovel off the ground. It can dry up and blow away in the wind. Or it can be stepped on and squashed. The choice is yours.”
I reverted back to my training. This was the challenge I was looking for.
“Sir?” I said, careful not to show any lack of confidence. “Once again, you’ve reached Uber Customer Service. Is there a specific issue I can help you with?”
“Ever notice how you come across somebody once in a while you shouldn’t have messed with? That’s me.”
The time had come. I had met my match and I found myself at the same crossroads that social warriors like Cesar Chavez, Martin Luther King Jr. or Joe Rogan must have felt. Does one continue on a path towards righteousness or does the reality of unforeseen pain and turmoil become too much of a cross to bear?
I saw my own reflection on the screen of my computer and I was reminded of the oath I took when I accepted this job. I must carry on, I must discover who this mysterious C.Eastwood was and I must try to salvage this strange conversation in order to generate potential revenue for the God within our midst, the Muse that keeps me awake at night: Uber.
After several attempts of trying to activate this man’s profile I determined that not only did he not have an email address but he wasn’t even aware of the existence of email as a modern form of communication. Several hours of taunting, name-calling and a half hour lecture on Libertarianism led me to initiate up a three way call between myself, C.Eastwood and the team at Google in a valiant attempt to create an email address for this monster.
Upon realizing that the Google associate he was speaking with was a woman, Mr. Eastwood blatantly said, “I’m not afraid of any man, but when it comes to sharing my feelings with a woman, my stomach turns to royal gelatin.” Despite his blazing ignorance, an email address was established and I was confident that victory was within my grasp. Little to my knowledge, a blazing and shattering blow was about to strike me across the brow.
“Listen Jack,” said Mr. Eastwood, “I’m fucking Clint Eastwood, from Million Fucking Dollar Baby. I’m hanging up the goddamn phone right now. I’m sick of your jerking me around.”
No, no, no. I was not about to lose a great battle because this old bastard was growing tired of talking to me. I had not even unearthed the reason why this Hollywood giant had called Uber Customer Service in the first place. I knew I had to keep him on the line longer, but how?
“Mr. Eastwood. Before you hang up, if you don’t mind, could you explain to me the thought process behind your 2012 Republican National Convention speech?”
This distraction turned into an hour, which turned into the next day, which turned into a week which turned into a month which turned into a year which turned into three years. Every time Clint wanted to hang up I would distract him by asking his opinions on PC Culture or I would get his thoughts on YouTube and we were back at the beginning, the confusion only gaining more power.
Over the past three years I’ve heard Clint Eastwood welcome grandchildren into the world, make love to his wife, and even get diagnosed with prostate cancer. My own life is in complete disarray. Uber has abandoned the office space that I now call home, my girlfriend has left me and married another man, and my family thinks I’m alienating them.
It is time to end my misery. I am pulling out my sword. I am going to die a failure.
Goodbye world.
Suddenly sirens begin to ring. My old customer service supervisor and a grey-haired man appear and approach me.
“Matt. You have passed your simulation and you have done Uber proud. You are the proud recipient of a $1 raise.”
The grey-haired man looks at me intently.
“Hello old friend,” the old man quietly says.
I look up. Tears are welling in my eyes. I have won.
“Clint? Is that really you?”