“It’s stupid, right?”

The bartender gave me a steady look but didn’t answer the question. He poured me another Jack and Diet before he said, “Let me get this straight… You live in Woodside, and you’re coming from Pescadero.”

I nodded and took a drink, “Right so far.”

“And yet,” he continued, “instead of driving straight down 84 here to your home, you regularly drive 45 minutes out of the way because you’re afraid of a sign?”

“Well, when you put it like that it sounds pretty silly…”

“That’s the story you just told me.”

“Sure, yeah,” I stammered, “but it’s not a regular sign…”

“Oh, right, when you’re going downhill…”

“Downhill only,” I emphasized.

“When you’re going downhill and look in the rearview, the yellow hairpin sign for people going uphill is a psycho man?”

“Well, a man in a yellow slicker with a lantern. He might be psycho. I don’t know. I don’t stop to ask…”

“You know it’s just the sign, right?”

“Yes, yes… Logically I know it’s just the sign. It’s just the sign, right?”

He nodded. “And yet…”

“And yet I drive 45 minutes out of the way to take an alternate route over the hill.”

“You’re a good guy, Milo,” the bartender said.

“But?”

“But you’re an idiot in this case.”

“Call ‘em like you see ‘em, Dale?”

“You know it. And you’re being an idiot. Seriously, Milo. You hear yourself?”

“You’re right. You’re right. That’s why I’m here tonight. I’m heading down 84. Facing my fear!” I held up my glass and jiggled the ice cubes, “A little liquid courage, too.”

“You’re not driving right away, are you?”

“No, I don’t think the psycho in the slicker is going anywhere. Too late to get wings?”

“Not at all.”

After a few minutes, Dale came by and checked on my empty glass, pointing to it with a silent question. “Hold the Jack this time.”

“Wise,” he said, pouring a plain Diet Coke.

“Just to be clear,” I asked. “You’ve never heard of any slickered murderer around here? No one died a horrible death while wearing a yellow slicker? Holding a lantern?”

Dale laughed a deep belly laugh. “There’s been plenty of accidents around here, sure. But as far as I know no yellow slickered psychos.”

“Okay, just being sure.”

I didn’t leave Alice’s Restaurant until they were starting to close, around 8. By that point I didn’t feel anything from the alcohol except I felt slightly less anxious for the drive down the hill. Dave was right, it was silly. I knew that. But it was good to talk to someone.

I took my time starting down the hill. I even pulled over to let someone pass – usually I’m the one hoping someone pulls over. I wasn’t in a hurry tonight. There’re a few hairpin curves on the road, and only the last one is the one I have any issues with. The first two – and all three have the yellow hairpin curve warning – have always been fine and were tonight as well.

My palms started sweating as I approached the last major hairpin curve. No cars behind. No lights coming up ahead. I brake for the right-hand turn, swallowing hard. I turn into it, heart pounding, straighten out, and then I look in my rearview mirror…

And I see the street sign, bright yellow illuminated by light. Not a psycho in a slicker. I let out an audible sigh and smile relieved. Just a sign! As the road is about to curve again, I look into the rearview again to see the sign again. Instead, I see the scarred, weathered face of a man wearing a yellow slicker sitting in my back seat.

“Boo.”