I’ve got about ninety minutes until my flight lands at SFO. Some people are watching the new “The Fall Guy” movie, some are sleeping. There’s at least one guy playing his Nintendo Switch (Mario Cart). Me? I’m writing a ghost story. Feels right, no?

The pickups were all basically the same – pickup was from the Starbucks in Presidio Heights and they ran down to Cypress Lawn cemetery in Colma. And always using the same Uber account – Rick Callahan. But I’m pretty sure none of these people are Rick Callahan…

It started with a twenty-something guy. Kind of unkept beard, really beat up jeans and a plaid shirt. He waves as I pulled up to the Starbucks. “Rick Callahan?”

“Yeah, that’s me.” He said as he fumbled with the door handle of my Tesla 3. He settled in and we started off.

I’m the kind of driver that lets my passengers dictate the tone of the drive, you know? If they’re being a chatty Cathy, then I’ll engage and we’ll both have a great time. If the passenger doesn’t want to talk, hey, no problem, buddy.

This Rick Callahan didn’t want to talk. But he stared out the window with absolute rapt attention, bouncing from one side of the backseat to the other. His eyes never stayed on one object long, and his expression shone like a kid’s on Christmas. That’s how I knew he disappeared after I turned onto El Camino Real from Collins. One second he was there as we passed the Colma Flower Shop and then the backseat was empty.

It freaked me the hell out! But the algorithm doesn’t care if your passenger vanishes, so I finished turning into the cemetery. I stopped at the destination and checked the backseat for myself. Empty. I stood in the growing dusk when the quiet of the cemetery was interrupted by a chime from my phone in the front seat. Rick Callahan gave me five stars.

A few days later I grabbed another trip for Rick Callahan a few days later. This time, Rick Callahan was a stooped old woman who was ninety if she was a day, leaning heavily on a wooden cane. Again, she waved as I approached. “Rick Callahan?”

She nodded and this time I got out to get the door and help her in. But this Rick Callahan wanted to talk. She spoke with a slight accent I couldn’t place – maybe Midwest? A little southern? “Do you live in San Francisco, son?”

“Yes, ma’am. Born and raised here.”

 “That’s good to hear,” she nodded, pleased. “It’s sure grown, hasn’t it?”

“It’s always changing,” I agreed.

She smiled a wrinkled smile at me in the rear view mirror.

She disappeared before we got off 280.

I continued all the way to the cemetery. A few minutes later Rick Callahan gave me five stars.

There was a little girl in a checkered dress that giggled when I asked if she was Rick Callahan.

A woman with a corset hitched so tight I genuinely wondered how she could breathe. She waited until we got inside the cemetery gates before saying “thanks, hon,” and blowing me a kiss before disappearing.

A sleight man with suspenders and Pince-Nez glasses waved me down for a Rick Callahan trip. There was a Chinese Rick Callahan, complete with Coolie hat. Another bearded Rick Callahan.

And then it stopped. Once a day, like clockwork and then… nothing.

…nothing for a week, at least.

I almost dropped my pumpkin spiced latte when Rick Callahan popped up looking for a ride. As I pulled into the Starbucks lot, a man who genuinely looked like he could be Rick Callahan waved. He wore a polo and khakis and could have stepped out of any office building in SoMa.

“Rick Callahan?”

“Yes,” he said, climbing into the car. He stared with a look that seemed wistful as we drove away from the Starbucks. A moment later he sighed heavily. “I’m not Rick Callahan.” I started to say something but he cut me off. “I’m the Rick Callahan who ordered this Uber, but I’m not actually Rick Callahan…”

“Okay, Not-Rick Callahan. I’m guessing you know something about the other Not-Rick Callahans I’ve picked up this month?”

“I do, yeah. I can explain…” he said in a resigned voice.

“I’m really hoping you can.”

“I’m dead.”

“Look, Not-Rick, I’m not going to turn you in or anything…”

He laughed a genuine laugh. “No, I mean I’m actually dead. Heart attack – it was a defect I’d always had…” he waved at the air, “it doesn’t matter. Suffice it to say I died a few months ago. I lived around the block, on Manzanita. Did you know that whole area was a cemetery? I didn’t. Until I died and had to get out of my house.” He must have seen my expression because he added, “my wife… the grief… yeah…”

We were both quiet for a few minutes.

“I started running into other ghosts around the neighborhood – all these like gold rush era ghosts. We started hanging out at Starbucks.”

“Wait, a bunch of ghosts hanging out at Starbucks?”

He gave me a wry smile, “you’d be shocked about all the things I’ve seen. But yeah, turns out they moved all the bodies from this cemetery to Colma. Well, they thought they did. They missed quite a few.”

“The other Rick Callahans?”

“Yep.”

“How did you guys manage to order an Uber?”

His smile showed real pride. “The real Rick Callahan left his iPhone at Starbucks. I used to work in IT, so I combined my tech skills with my newfound ghost skills and I did a little ghost hacking.”

“You can do that?”

He nodded, his smile positively vulpine. “But Rick has no idea. I know his bank balance and let’s just say these trips won’t even register.”

“Huh… but what’s with the trips to Colma? Those were other ghosts, right? It’s not like I moved the bodies…”

“That was enough. The ghosts were able to latch onto you for the ride and then then when they got close enough to their friends and family…”

It was my turn to nod, “… they teleported to them.”

“Yeah, whatever you want to call it, they were able to jump to their final resting place.”

Again, we were both quiet for a long time as I merged into 280.

Finally, I asked, “but, do you have family in the Colma cemetery?”

His face clouded, “no, but I needed to get out of all those memories. You know?”

“I think I do.”

“I figured I’d hang out with my new friends for a while – have them introduce me around. I hear there’s some pretty famous people buried there, and I’ve always been a history buff…”

He fell into silence as we turned into the cemetery. I pulled up at the usual destination and was surprised to see him still in the backseat. “You’re still here…”

“I figured I’d ride all the way so I can say thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Not-Rick.”

He opened the door and started to climb out. “Who knows, maybe I’ll hit you up when I’m finally ready to go back to the neighborhood.”

“Anytime.”

He nodded and started into the cemetery. I watched as his form grew more translucent until he disappeared entirely.

My phone chimed. Five stars. And a hell of a tip!