It came to me in a dream

 

As rough a draft as it can be -- straight from my brain to electronic page without an edit:

I pulled the door to my hotel room closed and took the dark stairwell down one flight to the main floor. I wandered into the bar and plopped on a stool next to a guy in a brightly colored and rumpled sweater. He gave me the “nod”, and I reciprocated. The bored bartender asked if I wanted a menu and  I told her yes and ordered a beer.  She flip[ped a cardboard coaster and a laminated menu in front of me, followed by a domestic lager. I told her to run a tab and offered up my corporate credit card as hostage.

I was finishing off my order of wings, choosing to stare at the ball game instead of my phone -Buffalo sauce and screens make for a bad mix. A close play at first brought out a challenge from the home team and after watching replays I muttered “ Safe!” just loud enough for my neighbor to agree. That small sports moment, as so often happens, spurred a more general conversation.

A wide-ranging discussion of the pitcher’s shortcomings, a mutual dislike of anything Yankees and New York in particular, ultimately led to introductions. “Sam Wyatt,” I said poking out my hand. “I’m in town for a customer meeting tomorrow.”

“I’m Percival Cavenaugh Klosterkemper. Everyone calls me Buddy.”

“I can see why.” We both laugh. Buddy is drinking boilermakers, emptying the shot and beer before I can even finish half my brew. I had a third beer and stumbled off to bed. Buddy had switched to straight whiskey by this point and seemed settled into his stool for the night.

 

The next morning, I choked down a plate of dehydrated eggs and lukewarm coffee in the hotel breakfast nook. I pulled out my phone, checked travel times, and ordered up an Uber. I was brushing away the morning and coffee breath when my phone signaled my ride was outside. I came into the lobby and saw Buddy slumped in a worn wing-baked chair. He was still wearing the gaudy sweater. His hair was mussed and a recalcitrant lock on the crown stuck up like a sheaf of wheat. It sure looked like he had slept in the lobby. “Hey Buddy,” I mumbled.

“You order an Uber?” he asked. Puzzled, I nodded. “That’s me.” He rose unsteadly on his feet and promptly stumbled over a suitcase on his way to the hotel exit.

A middle-aged guy reached out to steady him. “Whoa, steady there, Buddy.” He said.

“How did you know my name?” Buddy asked. Buddy turned toward me. “It is the tan Camry.” We walked to the curb and Buddy opened the passenger door and climbed in. He held the door open and peered at me. “Sit in the driver’s seat a minute, won’t you?”

Confused, I complied.

Buddy pointed to a device mounted next to the steering wheel. “Blow into that thing for me. You are sober, right?” He looked at me expectantly. “It will let you start the car.”

“Maybe I should call a different driver.”

“So, here is the thing,” Buddy drawled, “I am the only Uber driver in town.” He pointed at my phone. “Go ahead, check.” He was right, there was only one car on the entire map.

Shrugging, I did as he instructed and then started the car. Buddy looked at me expectantly. “You can go ahead and drive. My phone,” he pointed to an iPhone mounted on the air vent, “will give you directions.”

I guess I was driving myself to the appointment. I stopped at the curb in front of my customer and climbed out of the car, leaving the vehicle running. Buddy walked around to the driver’s side and said he would wait on me unless he received another Uber call. As I went in the front door, a security guard came out.

“Hey, Buddy, You can’t park there.”

“How do you know my name?”