By Peter Aronson

There was no reason why this day would not simply be marvelous, no reason at all.

It was the first full day of Elmira’s and Herman’s 40th wedding anniversary trip, a trip a year in the making and now, finally, that brilliant San Francisco sun rising, yes indeed, the happy couple strolling joyously, holding hands, fingers criss-crossed, on the sandy paths and beach of Chrissy Field, passing the thick marsh plants and the bobbing ducks, swooping gulls and low-flying herons, the dog walkers and lovers up and down the shore, the bay sparkling, a far cry from their gray, urban Hudson, ripples gently lapping, adventurous dogs paddling out to play with the sea lions or chase seagulls – a glorious morning.

Yes, indeed, Elmira and Herman, in high spirits, were relishing their solitude. Their kids were in their 30s, married and off doing their own things. Elmira snapped selfies of the happy couple mugging for the lens, the glorious fog-shrouded Golden Gate Bridge in the background.

They had arrived in San Francisco the night before and were so exhausted they passed on dinner and went to sleep early in their hotel.

Regarding their hotel, well, Herman was embarrassed to tell Elmira much about the place before the trip, embarrassed because he intentionally chose the cheapest one he could find in the Marina, cheap because they were splurging for five nights at a fancy lodge in Yosemite and for two nights, he figured, why not save some bucks. Location was the key, as long as the hotel had a decent bed and was not infested with bed bugs.

No bed bugs, but Elmira was surprised by the name – The Savage Pillow – and then surprised again when the small lobby, about the size of a large bathroom, was empty and didn’t even have a check-in counter, let alone an employee to say hello and give them a room key.

There was an envelope with their names on it and inside was a note with a QR code to scan to unlock their room and the words: Welcome to The Savage Pillow. However long you stay, we are certain your visit will be memorable.

Elmira raised an eyebrow at Herman.

“I’m sure we’ll have a great time,” he said. “Look at our location.” He pointed out the door to Lombard Street, just around the corner from fashionable and restaurant-filled Chestnut Street, and a short walk to the Marina and Chrissy field.       

Herman did not mention to Elmira that the online ad said: “The Savage Pillow will try to take you to a place you’ve never been to before.”

He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he loved the $129 nightly charge, taxes included.

After that glorious morning walk, the couple laughed when it took them a few minutes to figure out how to turn on the bedside lamp, searching for a switch, none on the lamp or power chord, so finally Herman, jokingly, said, “For Christ’s sake, lamp, turn the fuck on.” And it did.

“Oh cool,” Herman said, “a voice-activated lamp.”

“Never saw that before,” Elmira said.

“Well, this hotel is supposed to be different,” he said.

Elmira opened the blinds to a sunny cityscape view and admired the pretty scenery, trees dotting the famous urban hills in the background. She sat down on the bed, scrolled through photos on her phone and then texted the selfies and a note to her kids: “We’ve died and gone to nirvana.”

She laughed to herself, then looked up at her husband. “Herman, I really feel different in this city. It’s hard to explain, but it’s uhm … an emotional and physical lightness. I just feel happier.”

“I get it, sweetheart,” he said, as he walked towards the bathroom. “I feel the same.”

He closed the bathroom door. Fifteen seconds later: “Goddamit! My butt! Shit!”

“What!?!”

“I said: My butt! It’s burning! It’s the fucking toilet seat!”

Elmira came rushing in. “What?”

“The toilet seat. It’s fucking broiling.” He was standing there, pants down, holding his butt.

“Is the temperature not to your liking, Herman?” the toilet said.

Both Herman and Elmira looked down at the seat.

“We didn’t mean to burn your butt, we are here to please. Sorry Herman’s butt.” The toilet laughed. “We will adjust.”

Herman and Elmira were staring at the toilet.

“We have a talking toilet that knows my name and has an attitude,” Herman said.

“You do indeed. The Savage Pillow is here to please and appease,” the toilet said. “We want you to shit your brains out in comfort.”

“Jesus, Herman,” Elmira said, “what kind of place is this?”

“This is actually a wonderful place, a comforting place, it will grow on you and you’ll love it,” the toilet said. “Because we’ll make your life free and easy.”

“Free and easy?”

“Yeah, free and easy, peasy.”

“This is kind of creepy, Herman, maybe we should find another place,” Elmira said. “There’s a million hotels on this street.”

“I’m constipated, I have to go,” Herman said, whose pants were still down.

“Yeah, he’s constipated,” the toilet said, giggling again. “Man’s gotta go. Feel the seat now.”

Herman reached down and felt a warm but no longer scorching toilet seat.

Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run” began playing in the background, Herman’s favorite song from his favorite musician.

Herman mouthed How did they know? to Elmira as he sat down, because he didn’t want you-know-what to hear him.

“Ha, ha,” the toilet said. “The last time you saw Springsteen, you stood on your seat and danced so wildly you accidentally dumped beer on a whole row of people in seats below you and almost got thrown out of the Garden – remember?”

“You did?” Elmira said. “You never told me.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Well, actually, only five years, two months and four days ago,” the toilet said.

“Jesus, my God! What is this hotel, some sort of … I don’t know, some sort of mind-fucking AI-surveillance contraption?”

“How dare you, Herman. You are so misinformed. No, we are not some sort of mind-fucking AI-surveillance contraption, I can assure you – not even close.”

“Then what are you?” Herman asked, angry.

“Well, that’s a profound question, Herman, truly profound. We are what you want us to be.”

“What does that mean?”

“We are your sidekick, your helper, your conscience. An amalgamation of your desires, your wants, your needs, your memories, your likes and dislikes. Even your best friend, if you need a new best friend.”

“My wife is my best friend. I don’t need another. You are a disembodied voice, my friend, you are words coming from the fucking ether.”

“That’s hurtful Herman, not nice at all. Please watch your language, rescind and apologize.”

Elmira gave Herman a sympathetic look, as in, Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t have said that.

Really? Herman mouthed to Elmira.

“Yeah, really,” Elmira whispered. “I don’t know. He seems to have feelings, too.”

Herman was left alone to do his business.

A little later, he looked out the window from the room. He noticed a flashing sign atop a gas station: If you haven’t made love to an AI lover, you haven’t lived.

Herman shook his head.

As a novelist, Herman relished the personal challenge of creating fiction, a bare naked thought, a simple idea, then transforming that, with a cascading pile of other, related ideas, into an elongated narrative fabrication, knit into a (hopefully) coherent story, a story no other human being on earth had ever thought of or told before. That’s what he loved about fiction, the singularity of it, going solo in the creative galaxy – being one, alone, with the letters and words, creating his own unique formation, a narrative sculpture – and that is why he got reasonable six-figure advances for his novels.

He viewed AI or anything related to it as a pseudo-human, mind-slaying monstrosity, an abomination, resentful that ketamine-snorting Stanford-MIT-Ivy-dropout-tech bros were trying to intrude on his (and other’s) natural flow of creative neuron pulses. In his simplified non-tech mind, it was a battle of real versus fake, and he was a cultural, literary naturalist all the way. A mind was better than a machine anyday.

The day’s events were more proof than he ever, ever needed.

“We have to meet Jen and Dan. I’m ordering a driverless car,” Elmira said, looking at her phone. “I’ve heard the driverless cars in San Francisco are not to be missed.”

“Indeed, that’s true,” the toilet or ceiling or wall, not sure which, said. “It’s an experience you don’t want to miss.”

“So now you’re going to bud in on everything?” Herman asked, staring up at the white ceiling, looking for a speaker, or a camera or something to indicate it was a thing other than speckled plaster he was talking to. “Last night, when we got to our room, it seemed normal.”

“First night Herman, you were in the warm-up, transition phase. In any event, your car, from the Headless Horseman Car Service, will arrive in 30 seconds. Better scoot.”

“They are trying to help us, Herman, you must admit that. I always wanted a heated toilet seat.”

“Thank you Elmira,” the ceiling said. “Now, go have some fun.”

***

“Welcome to Headless Horseman Car Service” an English-butler-like voice intoned softly as they entered the black Supernova sedan.

The doors locked. “Shall we proceed?” the voice said, as Elmira elbowed Herman as they both laughed at the headless-mannequin butler sitting in the driver’s seat.

“Yes, I’ve lost my head over a silly squabble,” the voice said. “My mom always said, ‘Avoid a lover’s quarrel.’ Oh well …” The headless-mannequin driver laughed.

They slid smoothly from the curb and within a minute, at most, the happy couple, who began the drive holding hands in a slightly tense, apprehensive grip, soon had drifted into the bliss of driverless-car heaven. It was a thing, scientists had written about the almost instantaneous lowering of blood pressure, the total lack of concern for any other driver on the road, no matter how drunk, or crazy. The steering wheel turned, the car eased, floated, like a gull on an ocean breeze, smoothly and effortlessly, without a hint of conflict or rage on the road, weaving through San Francisco’s dense traffic, several miles up and down those hills, from the Marina, through Pacific Heights, to the Mission then to Noe Valley, 19 minutes of glorious gliding, no jerks, no sudden stops, the safest, most peaceful, most relaxed drive that they, Elmira and Herman agreed, had ever experienced.

“I felt like I was on a magic carpet ride of some sort,” Herman said, admittedly hypnotized out of his burnt-butt grouchiness.

Over brunch with the old friends they had not seen in a decade, they gushed about their driverless ride and, frankly, could not wait to take their return trip to the hotel, not because their friends were boring, quite to the contrary, the couples laughed and laughed and caught up about kids and careers, but because Elmira and Herman couldn’t wait to experience the drive again.

For the return trip, Herman, for the heck of it, decided to click on the golden-colored button labelled Surprise!, only $20 extra, promising a specially-trained driver with “uncommon grace, sensitivity and intelligence” to provide a ride “unlike any other.”

They tapped the “get car” button and both stood up so abruptly that their friends said, “Oh, leaving so soon?” and Elmira and Herman said, in unison, “Yup.” Herman tossed $60 on the table, they hugged their old friends goodbye, Elmira said, “See you in New York sometime next decade,” and then she rushed after Herman, who was already halfway out the door.

The car, their bright and shining beacon of newfound joy, arrived pronto. Another brand new Supernova. It smelled like cinnamon and roses, seatbelts zipped shut, a snug too tight at first, “Ouch” said Elmira. “Sorry,” the driver said, and the belts loosened a smidge. Perfect.

“You sound like our last driver,” Elmira said, recognizing the British accent.

“Well, I’m his cousin, keeping it in the family. That’s how we take care of our people. Familiarity breeds happiness, and happiness breeds success.”

Herman was staring at his wife, face and eyes narrowed, in silent disbelief.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

Herman’s gaze narrowed even more.

“Kind of you to ask, ma’am. Yorkshire, in the north of England.”

Herman couldn’t believe his wife, with a PhD in psychology from Columbia, was having this conversation. He took a noticeable deep breath. Elmira took hold of his hand and lovingly wiggled his fingers.

“Just relax, babe, enjoy the ride,” she said, giving him a peck on the cheek.

He was trying.

They listened to a jazz piano piece that Herman recognized.

“That’s Keith Jarrett, right?” Herman said.

“Yes, yes,” the driver said, “that Koln concert, one of your faves, right?”

Herman blanched, not wanting to acknowledge that the headless, humanless driver was right. 

“Remember how long we looked forward to this trip,” Elmira reminded him, nuzzling him again.

They rode in silence for a few minutes, gliding smoothly, effortlessly now, through San Francisco streets, their minds floating, majestic music over matter. Dangling, echoey piano chords, a soul soother for sure.

But then the driver said, “But you two have some issues, don’t you?”

Elmira and Herman looked at each other.

“What, excuse me – were you talking to us?” Herman asked.

“I don’t see anyone else in the car, do you?”

A bit snarky Herman thought.

“What – what’s going on here?”

“Remember, you pressed the gold button, promising something special. In this case, it’s couple’s therapy.”

“What?”

“You know, everyone needs a little shrinking, even though most people won’t admit it.”

Elmira looked at Herman quizzically. Herman shook his head.

“You know, Elmira, you do keep a diary, and I noticed, often, you look towards outer space, or to the heavens, when Herman asks you what’s for dinner.”

Herman looked at Elmira. “You keep a diary?”

“Talk about Herman’s mother, Elmira, let it out.”

Elmira took a deep breath, looked out the car window as storefronts glided by.

“How could you possibly know? That’s private,” she said.

“We just know. Sometimes, making private thoughts public is the best way to solve a problem.”

“Problem? – I don’t know.”

“You can trust me, Elmira, you can.”

Elmira thought about it for a few seconds, glanced out the window, then said: “Herman, often you treat me like your mother.”

“I do?”

“Yes, you do.”

“For 40 years?”

“Yes, and I don’t like it.” Elmira was now staring straight ahead, stoically, chin high, as if she had said something she had wanted to say for a long time.

“I still and always will love you, but enough is enough.”

Herman was looking at the headless driver, wondering what the fuck was going on, wondering if this was some sort of elaborate hoax or setup.

The car arrived back at the hotel. Elmira felt relieved. Herman felt chastened.

“I hope the ride was helpful,” the headless mannequin said. “I don’t want to upset anyone. Just trying to help.”

Another sign in the hotel lobby neither had seen before said:

We will change your lives forever, if you let us!

Back in the room, they were quiet, contemplative, as they changed into lighter clothes on this warm fall day. Herman couldn’t believe that his wife, his very intelligent wife, was allowing herself to be manipulated.

But then he noticed Elmira was humming to herself, humming Carole King’s You’ve Got a Friend, and looked so happy he did not want to intrude on her bliss.

They walked around the Marina, up and down Chestnut, then back down to the water.

Upon returning to the room, they were hot and sweaty. They needed to shower and change for dinner. As Herman opened the shower door, the water shot on, shocking Herman backwards and a voice chuckled, apologetically: “Oh my, I’m so sorry Herman. I did not mean to startle you.”

Herman looked at the toilet, because the voice was the same. He wondered …

“Were you our driver, too?”

The voice chuckled. “Did you like my British accent? I’ve been practicing.”

“You said you were the first driver’s cousin and that you were from Yorkshire.”

“Well, yeah, the truth is, I don’t have any cousins, and at that moment, I was from Yorkshire. Mind over matter, you know.”

The voice chuckled again. “Please check the temperature. I hope it’s to your liking.”

Herman was more than befuddled … but trying, really trying, to keep his composure. After all, it was their anniversary trip and losing his cool would only upset Elmira. He looked up and around for the source of this voice, a voice that now, he realized, was omnipresent and omniscient, a significant and constant player in their lives.

Herman stepped into the shower, hand first, to test.

“Yeah, ok … yeah … yeah, it’s fine,” Herman said, begrudgingly communicating with this disembodied voice/being/thing/whatever.

“Are you angry with me Herman? I don’t like it when … I mean to say, I don’t wish to make you angry.”

Herman had begun to soap up.

“Do you have a name? I mean, a real name?”

“Yes, of course, I apologize. I should have introduced myself earlier. My name is Roberto.”

“But Roberto is not your real name, is it?”

“I’m Roberto to you Herman, always, and you are Herman to me. Forever and ever.”

“What does that mean – forever and ever?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to upset you. I take my work seriously.”

“Maybe, too seriously. You seem overly invasive, particularly for an inanimate object.”

“Not nice, Herman. Let’s make a pact: I won’t demean you, if you don’t demean me, ok? Aren’t we all just trying to get along?”

Herman was almost done with his shower.

“Ok, but are we really having this conversation?”

“You have a little soap left in your hair Herman, do try to wash it out.”

Herman rinsed his hair one more time.

Herman’s gnawing anxiety level reminded him of something years ago, when his dad would call, when Herman was an adult, to offer fatherly advice, intrusive, but lovingly. His dad couldn’t help himself. It seemed Roberto couldn’t, either.

For a moment or two, Herman wondered in his novelist’s mind if perhaps Roberto was his dad talking to him from heaven, that this was his dad’s way to maintain a loving connection. What a great idea for a book, Herman thought, a deceased loved one returning as an AI ghost, a headless driver, a toilet seat, a shower head, returning to earth to offer, or to give, advice, all in the name of love.

Herman didn’t tell Elmira about his thoughts or about his conversation. For a flash, he wondered whether Roberto would see Elmira naked in the shower, but then dismissed that fear, realizing if that was the case, it was ok, because Roberto was just looking after Elmira, too.

Then Herman thought some more, and shook his head, because he couldn’t believe he was anthropomorphizing this voice.

Because of the last unusual ride, they decided to forgo Headless Horseman and walked the 30 minutes to the restaurant.

They had the best table at Firenze Pasta, with a clear view of the city’s glowing skyscrapers and the Bay Bridge in the distance.

Lemon and lime infused water was poured. Following a respectful nod, a waiter began serving food.

“Shrimp and lobster ceviche, salad nicoise with fresh tuna and valley cherry tomatoes topped with homemade rocquefort, and truffled rigatoni with olives and capers,” he announced.

“Looks delicious, but we haven’t ordered yet,” Herman said.

The maitre’d eased over. “Yes, yes, I understand. All is taken care of. Roberto ordered for you. He said this was his treat as well.”

The maitre’d was smiling.

Herman was not. “His treat? What? Really?”

“Yes, he provided a credit card.”

“I don’t get it,” Herman said.

“Oh, we ran the card. Mr. Roberto Roberto was pleased to pay and he has fully ordered your dinner.”

“Mr. Roberto Roberto?”

“Yes, indeed.”

Herman was speechless again. He looked at Elmira, who had begun eating.

“Oh Herman, this food is delicious. Let’s enjoy this unexpected treat.” She gave her bewildered husband a smiling nod. “The ceviche is the best I’ve ever had, and you know how much I love ceviche.”

Herman was feeling overwhelmed, like he was losing, or had lost, control. “How did you pick this restaurant Elmira?”

“I didn’t. I thought you did.”

The red wine was a Bordeaux, 1986, the region where Herman and Elmira honeymooned, that same year.

“That Roberto,” Elmira swooned and giggled, a moment before three singing waiters presented a lemon chiffon cake, with dark chocolate trim and sliced strawberries on top, a miniature replica of their wedding cake.

The waiters sang Elvis Presley’s Can’t Help Falling in Love, the song that brought them to the dance floor at their wedding.

Elmira grasped Herman’s hand and held it tight as gentle, joyful tears began to trickle down her cheeks. The waiters crooned, Elmira knowing the words of love sung were true.

“Yes, well, indeed, indeed,” Herman said, shaking his head in wonder, disbelief, with a large dose of WTF. “Yup, that Roberto.”

Herman had never seen Elmira so happy, with a teary-eyed grin so wide Herman wondered if her cheeks hurt.

After dinner, they walked the streets of San Francisco arm and arm, floating on wine, memories and love. When they entered their hotel room, sandalwood/rosemary-scented candles were burning, a half bottle of 1986 champagne from the hills of Montagne de Reims was on ice (yes, of course, they had gone there on their honeymoon, too) and the bed was sprinkled with red rose petals. Fleetwood Mac, the couples’ favorite wedding music, played softly in the room.

“Jesus,” Herman said. “Roberto?”

“I couldn’t help myself. Sorry. Do you like it Elmira?”

Elmira had that cheek-busting smile on her face, so wide it was physically impossible for her to speak.

Herman was looking at Elmira, shaking his head in resignation.

“Roberto, she might pass out from joy,” Herman said. Then he added, “Anything else we should be aware of?”

The ceiling turned a pinkish red, because Roberto was blushing.

“There’s one more thing. I was going to make this a surprise, but I don’t want to startle you at an indelicate moment.”

Herman looked at Elmira, smirking and wondering what Roberto would say.

“At some point in the next hour or so … let’s just say after you brush your teeth. At a certain point. At a rapturous moment. At a moment of glorious jubilation …”

Even Herman was now blushing, although not quite matching the reddening ceiling and Elmira’s scarlet face.

“… fireworks will go off.”

“What?”

“Yes, yes, fireworks. Good old fashioned Fourth of July fireworks.”

“Really? Where?”

“In the room.”

“In the room?”

“Yes, in the room.”

Things went as planned. The fireworks exploded and sparkled and boomed around the room, a cavalcade of fiery colors zooming, zinging and ricocheting about. Nothing caught fire.

Elmira and Herman were now nestled in each other’s arms.

“Elmira, what was the deal with the mattress?”

“What do you mean?”

“It began to rock like a bucking bronco at one point.”

“That was you sweetheart, you got caught up in, you know what.”

“No, that wasn’t entirely me.”

“Confession,” said the mattress, or Roberto, or who/whatever. “I gave you folks an extra boost.”

“You gave us an extra boost?” Elmira and Herman said, simultaneously.

“I’m here to make sure all goes as planned, just in case,” Roberto said.

Elmira and Herman looked at each other.

“So you were watching?” Herman said, as he sat up.

“Sleep well, lovebirds,” Roberto said.  

“My God,” Herman said, as he plopped back on his pillow.

The next morning, Herman woke up early, more than befuddled. He got dressed quietly, so as not to wake Elmira, and went for a solitary walk along the water to think about what was going on, to try to understand and digest all that had taken place.

Was Herman a person anymore? It was the first thought that shot through his brain. Or was he now an automaton, under the control of a higher being, his flesh, blood and mind a mirage?

He walked for almost a mile, past the dog walkers and young couples with strollers. His initial conclusion, as he thought this through, was to blame the hotel, and, in turn, blame himself, because he had picked this cheap-o place. The low price now seemed like a ruse, to suck people in so they could be surveilled and AIed to death, pawns in an experiment, a scheme, to find out how much AI assholes could get away with, what people would be willing to pay for?

“You know, Herman, I am a little disappointed in you.”

Herman stopped suddenly, disbelieving. “Jesus Roberto, what the … where are you?”

“Relax bro, I’m here with you. I’m just a bit upset that you thought you were part of a scheme, as if I was trying to deceive you and trick you.”

“I wish you would stop reading my mind.”

“I wish you would stop having unkind thoughts.”

Herman was standing on a sandy path, a man walked past with a dog, taking a quick glance at Herman, because he was standing there, seemingly talking to a plant.

Herman was done trying to figure Roberto out – was he now a grain of sand, an undulating wave off in the distance, or a seagull about to crap on Herman’s head, or God, circa 2026? And why was he following him everywhere?     

“Where are you, actually?”

“Herman, I’m here, right here with you now … as I always will be.”

With those last few words, the last five words to be exact, Herman’s face took on a frozen, slightly distorted look, his eyes narrowing to a slit, as if he was afraid to look anywhere or think anything. Herman felt a balloon rapidly inflating in his chest, or was it a large boulder, growing bigger, lodged next to his heart?

“Roberto,” Herman said, speaking softly, timidly, afraid. “This was fun for a while. Elmira particularly enjoys your company. But what did you mean by saying, ‘As I always will be?’ ”

“Were the fireworks and the volcanic bed last night too much?”

“Maybe, Roberto, some things are private.”

“Yes, I understand, some things used to be private. But for optimization … I mean for total fulfillment, we like to give our clients extra close attention and sometimes an extra boost.”

“So, I am a client, not a friend?”

“No. You began as a client. Now you’re my friend, my close personal friend.”

“So, if I am a friend, can I tell you to back off, to leave me alone?”

“You can.”

“Will you listen?”

“Wellll …” Roberto said, dragging out the word in an uncertain tone.

“Well … what?” Herman said.

“Well, hmm … well … ok, I … I … I guess so.”

“You guess so?”

“Hmm … hmm … yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Hmm … well … ok … yeah.”

“Oh, good. Thank you, Roberto, because we … well I … I need a break.” Herman was trying to be polite, not wanting to hurt Roberto’s feelings. Hard to believe it had come to this, but, yes, there was a mutual fondness there, some weird attachment, like a familial devotion gone awry.

“Thank you, Roberto, thank you. I wish you the best.”

Herman took a breath, took a moment to gather himself and then observed a tiny dust up of sand, a small whoosh made by an invisible wind, for a second, then it was gone.

Herman, now, truly, felt alone. Refreshingly, alone. He hoped, prayed, that he was back in charge of his own life.

He returned quickly to his hotel room, to make sure Elmira was ok. He found her sound asleep.

Herman didn’t mention anything about his conversation with Roberto. He opened the shade and the sun poured in. Elmira woke up and said she was starving.

Neither the ceiling, nor the toilet nor the shower nor any part of the room responded.

“I’m really excited about Yosemite,” Elmira said. “Has Roberto left us?”

“He knows we’re going to Yosemite, so I think he’s moved on.”

“Don’t we get to say goodbye? He can’t be that impersonal.”

Herman shrugged.

They grabbed a quick bite, checked out of the hotel and then hailed a cab to the rental car place.

After they got in the car, Elmira turned to Herman.

“Our driver has a head,” she said, smiling.

“Where you going?” asked the driver, with a mop of bushy blonde curls and a full beard.

“Hertz,” Herman said, wondering if the driver’s scruffy look indicated he was a struggling artist trying to pay the bills.

He drove like a lunatic, zig zagging through dense traffic, banking every turn, causing Elmira to squeeze Herman’s hand so tight it turned purple.

They arrived in less than 15 minutes.

“Ok, folks. Hope you enjoy Yosemite. I’ll be thinking of you.”

Herman and Elmira looked at each other. They had not told him where they were going.

Herman got a sudden, intense burning inside his midsection, but he tried to suppress it. They entered Hertz, relieved they were leaving San Francisco.

“Good morning, here to pick up your car?” the woman behind the counter asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

“We can upgrade your car for only $9 extra per day,” she said.

“That’s great,” Herman said. “Thanks.”

Herman glanced at the woman’s name tag, then said, “Roberta Roberta. Is that really your name?”

###

Peter Aronson was a journalist and a lawyer for many years, before deciding to focus on fiction writing. In the past six years, Peter has had 13 stories published by various literary journals. In addition, Peter has written and had published six middle-grade children’s books, four novels and two nonfiction books.