In the late ’90s I found myself in an unusual employment situation. Working for Pacific Bell, I was assigned to a project in Los Angeles that was expectantly terminated, and I was offered a position in the Bay Area, with all travel and living expenses paid for one year. A coworker named Mike received the same offer, so we decided to team up, sharing an apartment in Walnut Creek, CA. He made the first trip in his Toyota 4Runner so that we would have a vehicle in which to commute to the office. The arrangement was that I would drive us to Burbank Airport and leave my vehicle there. We would fly to Oakland Airport where his vehicle would be waiting. We did this for an entire year, using Southwest Airlines to travel home each weekend.

Mike was not a coffee drinker, but I was hopelessly addicted. The morning routine at the start of our commute was to stop at a nearby coffee shop, where Mike would drop me off at the curb and wait while I went into the shop to get my coffee and a morning paper. This simple endeavor went without hitch for months.

The curb where Mike waited was red, but I was never in the shop for more than a couple of minutes. On one particular morning, a police officer had a problem with Mike being parked there, and requested that he move. Mike politely complied, moving his dark blue 4Runner across the street where he would still be in plain view as I exited the shop.

At some point between Mike moving and my exit from the shop, a gentleman with a dark blue 4Runner stopped at the curb where Mike had previously parked. Paper and coffee in hand, I walked up to the 4Runner, pulled open the door, got in, yanked out the dashboard cup holder, placed my coffee in it, placed the newspaper on my lap, closed the door, then pulled the seatbelt over and buckled it. I glanced over to where I thought Mike would be, instead found a total stranger in a white shirt and tie, sunglasses lowered below his eyes, looking casually over his arm which was outstretched to the steering wheel. Beyond the stranger, and across the street, I saw Mike who appeared thoroughly entertained by the development.

I lowered by head and stared at the floor.

“I guess I got in the wrong car,” I said softly.

“I figured you’d put it together at some point,” he replied.

I apologized. The man said he understood (which I thought was an odd thing to say), and took my coffee and paper and made my way across the street.

Mike had some really good laughs. All the way to the office. The commute was 20 minutes. 20 minutes of humiliation.