Bigfoot

I want to start by saying that I have enormous respect for Bigfoot as a subject, a cultural touchstone, and the reason my parents’ 1997 camping trip to the Cascades produced what my mother still has in a laminated sleeve. But the witness accounts are damning. Witness One — a 34-year-old IT consultant named Derek who requested I describe him only as ‘a reasonable person with a functional sense of smell’ — reports that his alleged Bigfoot driver arrived seven minutes late, took a route that Derek’s phone clocked as forty percent longer than optimal, and at no point acknowledged the in-app ETA or the two polite ‘are you on your way?’ messages Derek sent. The car was described as a late-model Subaru Outback, which: yes, that tracks, I’m not even surprised. Derek gave one star. The app reportedly crashed when he tried to write a review. Bigfoot’s general size, limited visibility in standard-issue rearview mirrors, and apparent indifference to GPS instructions place it firmly at number five — the bottom of this list, but only because four worse options exist.

The Mothman

I will state for the record that my mother texted me three times while I was writing this entry. The texts said ‘research???’ and contained links. I did not open them before filing because I have boundaries and also a deadline. The Mothman is, according to two of the six witnesses — a couple from Gresham I’ll call Janet and Phil because those are their names and they said I could use them — categorically unsuited to the driver role on the grounds that it cannot be contained within a vehicle. Janet and Phil report that their Mothman experience involved standing at a pickup point near the Columbia River at 11 PM, at which point something with a wingspan that Phil estimates at ‘the width of my entire sightline’ descended, hovered, and stared at them with red eyes for an interval Janet describes as ‘not short.’ No car arrived. No car was ever going to arrive. The Mothman does not drive. The Mothman arrives on its own terms, and its own terms do not include a three-dollar booking fee and an estimated six-minute wait. One star. Would not recommend. My mother is going to see this and text me again.

The Jersey Devil

The Jersey Devil ranked third for reasons that WTC News’s editorial standards require me to describe as ‘multi-factor.’ Witness Three — a graduate student named Camille who was attempting to get from a conference hotel to the airport and missed her flight — reports that the Jersey Devil’s driving style could be characterized as ‘technically forward-moving but spiritually chaotic.’ Camille noted that it ran two red lights, made a sound she described as ‘a shriek but also a decision,’ and took the on-ramp at an angle she could not reconcile with the laws of physics as she understood them. The car did not smell of brine. It smelled of pine resin and something she could not place and has not been able to stop thinking about since. Camille’s suitcase arrived at the airport, she did not, and the app charged her a cleaning fee she is still disputing. She gave two stars because, and I am quoting her directly here, ‘it did get my bag there and I feel like that has to count for something.’ Camille is more generous than I would be. I am keeping her contact information.

The Loch Ness Monster

Ranking Nessie this high required me to confront some difficult questions about logistics, hydrology, and the ride-share app’s geographic coverage area. Witness Four is a man named Gerald who was, by his own account, attempting to get from a lakeside hotel to a nearby village at 6 AM when an entity that he describes as ‘longer than the road I was standing on’ surfaced in the adjacent water, regarded him, and then submerged again without incident. Gerald is Scottish, was visiting family in the Pacific Northwest, and maintains with great composure that this was ‘not his first unusual morning.’ The rating problem with Nessie is fundamental rather than behavioral: it is physically incapable of operating a motor vehicle, has demonstrated no interest in road infrastructure, and its natural habitat creates a standing conflict of interest with any land-based navigation. Gerald gave the experience three stars because ‘it acknowledged me, which is more than most drivers manage.’ I have put Gerald’s number in my phone under ‘Gerald (Nessie/Follow-up???).’ He seemed fine with this.

The Fresno Nightcrawlers

The Fresno Nightcrawlers take the top spot — or the bottom spot, depending on your orientation toward this list — not because of aggression or odor or the destruction of any fixed-price fare agreements, but because of what witnesses Five and Six describe as ‘the specific existential texture of the experience.’ Witnesses Five and Six are roommates — I’ll call them Bex and Tomás — who requested a shared ride home from a late show in Northeast Portland and report that when the car arrived, the driver’s seat appeared to contain something that was ‘mostly legs, organized in a way that suggested purpose but not familiarity with the concept of a steering wheel.’ The car moved. Bex and Tomás arrived home. Their phones showed a route that was technically correct. Neither of them spoke during the ride, not because they were asked not to, but because — and here I am quoting from both accounts, independently gathered, which I find noteworthy — ‘it seemed like the right call.’ Bex gave one star and then immediately felt guilty about it and changed it to two. Tomás has not opened the app since. The Nightcrawlers represent a category of ride-share failure that goes beyond ‘poor service’ and into ‘a reconsideration of one’s assumptions about the nature of transit.’ They are ranked first because there is no six.