I shouldn’t have sat in the front seat.
I mean, I shouldn’t have gotten into the car in the first place. But I definitely shouldn’t have sat in the front seat.
In my defense, I did put up resistance. When he told me to sit in the front, I mumbled something about preferring to sit in the back. I had been drinking. I was just looking for a quiet ride back home.
‘But you’ll have no proper view from back there,’ Ginglik said, watching me in the rear view. ‘Come sit in the front, I insist.’
So, I did. I got out of the car, stumbled a couple steps forward and then made a terrible mistake.
‘So!’ The driver started, as if we were rudely interrupted from a previous conversation. ‘I trust you’ve been having a wonderful night. What a beauty that Prague is around Christmas, eh? All the lights and the snow and the music and the trams! A true beauty! Be careful with that mulled wine though, terrible for the teeth!’
‘Terrible for the teeth,’ Ginglik repeated and tapped his teeth. ‘Teeeerible.’
Him putting his hands in his mouth is what truly scared me. That’s when I was almost certain getting into the car was a mistake. I thought the man was on the verge of snapping and I had signed up for a twenty-minute ride across the city with him.
This was before I went to the forums. This was before I read the other accounts.
I didn’t know this happens all the time.
For a moment he seemed preoccupied with his teeth, and I tried using that moment to fish out my earbuds — but Ginglik quickly wrapped me into conversation. He started asking about my dental history, whether I wore braces or whether I floss regularly.
I had hoped that, perhaps, he might’ve just been a dentist. A really lonely dentist who drives nights and probably isn’t doing great in his private life. I answered Ginglik’s questions as curtly as possible and hoped for a speedy ride.
That night, almost all the traffic lights leading to Zličín were green. I was happy for the speed, but the longer I listened to the driver speak the more I wanted to get out of the car.
His cheery mood quickly faded as Ginglik started to speak of teeth. The man kept his eyes to the road but he was giving a zealous sermon. According to my Uber driver, teeth were the greatest, if not the only, true judge of character. ‘They are the only bone we grow for ourselves,’ he said. ‘They are the only bone we truly deserve.’
He was definitely breaking traffic laws. I don’t drive and I was pretty drunk, but Ginglik was definitely not driving safe.
Just like all the reports from Paris to LA have suggested — the Tooth Uber is never a calm ride.
‘Half of the drivers in this city are missing at least one tooth. They just don’t care about them. They threw them away!’ Ginglik raged as he overtook one of the bright Christmas trams. ‘And the ministry of transportation won’t do anything about it! Not a thing! Oh, how this country has abandoned Havel’s ideals! You can, of course, be assured that I still have all of my teeth!’
My Uber driver assuring me he has all of his teeth is what made me reach for the seatbelt. I wanted to unbuckle so that I could run off at the nearest red light.
He didn’t like that.
‘Don’t do that,’ he said, shifting his eyes from the road. ‘You need your seatbelt. Safety first. No airbags in this car.’
The car wasn’t going to stop. We were flying through yellows. Ginglik seemed to be wholly confused by my concern about the airbags.
‘Ah!’ He said, as he turned his attention to the sharp turn off Radlická. ‘Maybe you haven’t heard. Most airbags will knock out your teeth. Dangerous technology. Pointless, if you ask me.’
Were we not speeding down my neighborhood and was I not drunk, I would have jumped out of the car. But we were so close. I thought the terrible ride was about to end.
Yet it was far from over.
‘Oh, I can just get out over here,’ I said, the moment the car came to a stop. It was the last red-light from my place. Just a brisk three-minute walk.
‘Oh, no, I insist.’ He grabbed my hand. He wasn’t going to let me unbuckle my seatbelt. ‘We’re almost at your destination and, most importantly, you haven’t even counted my teeth yet.’
For a moment he smiled, but then, like a wild animal about to consume its prey, he opened his jaw.
I laughed. It’s the only thing I could manage.
Ginglik, however, wasn’t joking.
‘Count my teeth,’ he said, his voice cold. ‘Count them out loud so I can hear too. Count them out loud so I know I have them all.’
He turned on the side-light so that I could see better. He opened his mouth so I could count better.
His hand was still wrapped around my wrist.
Not knowing what else to do, I started to count.
Even after the light turned green, even after I lost count — Ginglik would not move the car. He told me to count from the start again. He told me to make sure he has all his teeth.
I counted.
I counted because the look in the driver’s eyes told me he would bite me if I didn’t.
When we arrived at my apartment, Ginglik started to deliver some long-winded lecture about dental hygiene but I sprinted out of that car like my life depended on it. Reading the other reports, I don’t think that’s too far of a long-shot.
I didn’t stay in the car. Ginglik didn’t try to take out my teeth like so many Tooth Ubers around the world do. Theoretically, I’m safe.
Only theoretically though.
By the time I was in my elevator, my phone dinged. An e-mail.
From Tooth Uber.
It looked just like the regular bills that I receive from regular rides, but instead of a billed amount, it said something else:
Thank you for riding with us, the total for your ride is: One tooth.
It’s been three days. I’ve read so many other reports of people who had experiences just like me. I’ve made some level of peace with what happened to me that night. The one thing that all of those reports lack, however, the one thing that terrifies me is this:
I fear how Ginglik will try to claim his payment.