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!

My husband didn’t run. He didn’t understand why I did, but he supported me. He bought me a neon vest an always charged my flashlight when the days grew shorter and I was out past dusk. I told him not to worry – I always ran on busy, public streets (or at least as busy and public as our sleepy suburb would get), always carried something to defend myself, and then a backup something. And if everything else failed, I wasn’t afraid to scream really loudly. I demonstrated for him once; he asked me to never do that again.

And then he died.

Aortic aneurysm last spring. He had time to know it was something bad and to say goodbye. It was that fast.

Getting over it has been anything but fast. I turned to running further and further. My best friend, Annie, says I’m running away from it. Frankly, I don’t care if I am. I’ve seen grief counselors. Annie, Taylor, Mitch, they’ve all been great friends, but… they’re not James.

And so I run.

But the days have been growing shorter, and my runs keep me out later. And I’m crap at keeping my flashlights charged these days…

And so I was out well after dark. I took a side street to get home faster and immediately felt something was off. But I told myself I was being stupid and to just keep going. That’s when I saw the man ahead of me crossing the street, his gaze fixed on me. All my womanly instincts screamed for me to Get Away Now™. I felt panic start to rise, anxiety disrupting my breathing as the man drew closer.

Then I felt a hand on my shoulder – yeah, that should be terrifying in this situation, but it wasn’t. It felt familiar, warm. It felt like home.

And then I heard his voice deep and resonant from behind me. “Hey, do we have a problem here?”

The man in front of me paled, his eyes going wide and I thought he was going to trip over himself he came to a stumbling halt and hurriedly turned and sprinted in the opposite direction.

I spun to face the voice, the reassuring hand, my James…

And there was nothing behind me but the dark sidewalk.

No, that’s not true… from the wan light of the streetlight two houses back I could make something out on the ground. It was my little flashlight. And a blackjack. I picked them both up, verified the beam of the flashlight was bright, tested the weighted leather pouch, and felt the tears start to fall.

My husband didn’t run. But he clearly does now.

I’m currently on the first leg of what is shaping up to be a really busy flying month for me. I’ve already flown more this year than I’ve flown the last ten years combined. I’m not complaining – flying still seems like magic to me: you get into a steel tube, noise, vibrations, and hours later emerge from the tube in a different part of the world. I guess I’m too much of a roadtrip person – I only believe I’ve arrived somewhere if I’ve passed through (and experienced the passing through) the space between point A and B.
But I digress…
This was mostly composed on my phone flying to Philly, so forgive any typos!

I love flying.

No, I mean it. Some people say they enjoy flying, but for me there aren’t many more peaceful places than in a plane high above the ground. High above the ghosts.

Yes, “I see dead people,” as they say. But there’s a lot of dead people around. Since practically no one can see them, when you make eye contact with them, they know. And from that moment on, they’re not going to leave you alone. Sure, there are ways to get them to go away (though few that don’t make you look like you’re talking to yourself), but as with most inconveniences in life, the best way to deal with them is to avoid them in the first place.

I won’t look directly at anyone until I’m sure they’re living or dead. You’d think that’d be easy, but it’s not. Ghosts are only slightly less distinct around the edges than living people. So, you have to look without, you know, looking. Especially in a crowded place like an airport, it can be exhausting.

But when you get on a plane? Peace!!

I don’t know why there aren’t ghosts on planes – maybe it’s that aircraft don’t stay in service long enough to gather spirits? Maybe it’s the transient nature of passenger aircraft. But in fifteen years of flying heavily for work I haven’t encountered a single ghost.

Until today.

Packed flight, cross country from LAX to JFK. I nearly made eye contact with half a dozen ghosts on my way to my gate, even having to walk through a few to “prove” I can’t see them (and that’s not a comfortable sensation). Get to my aisle seat, window is taken. I look down the line of people still boarding, hoping I hit the lottery and have an open middle seat. The tall, thin man with a spreading bald spot walking down the aisle stops at every row looking for his seat. He stops at my aisle and I look up at him and.. damnit!

“You can see me! Yes!”

I look away quickly and pretend I don’t hear him. He’s not buying it.

“No, no, no,” he said, bouncing with glee. He doesn’t even flinch when the woman walks through him and points to the center seat. I awkwardly stand up, trying not to come into contact with the ghost and yet still do my best to actively ignore him.

“Stop pretending you don’t see me! I know you see me! I’m going to sit here in the aisle and jabber on until you talk to me.”

People were still milling around and trying to stuff an over-sized carry-on bag into an already-full overhead bin to notice me stare the ghost in the eyes and mouth the word, “Wait!”

Surprisingly, he did.

People finished boarding, the plane taxied, the flight attendants gave their safety spiel, we took off, and the pilot hit the seatbelt sign. I made a beeline for the lavatory, followed by the ghost.

I locked the door and he moved through the closed door. I stepped back and the two of us stood nose to ghost nose in that tiny space. “Look,” I said before the ghost could speak. “Yes, I see you. But only I see you up here and I can’t exactly talk to you without looking like a loon and getting placed on a no-fly list. And what the hell are you doing on the plane anyway? I’ve never seen a ghost on a plane.”

A wan smile creased the ghost’s face. “Funny story… I actually died in this bathroom.”

I started with the realization that I was in a bathroom where someone died… and that someone was standing inches from my face. I managed to cross into his space, causing an electric jolt in me and I kicked the door and nearly fell over.

“Sir, are you okay?” came a muffled voice on the other side of the door.

“Yeah, fine… just a second,” I called through the door as I scrambled to my feet. In a whisper to the ghost, “This bathroom?”

The ghost nodded. “Right at the end of the flight. No one noticed until the cleaning crew found my body that night.”

“Yikes…”

“Yeah. And I’ve been here since,” he said, eyes falling off into the distance.

“Huh,” I said and started thinking. “I have no idea how to get you to pass on…”

His eyes snapped back to me. “Pass on? What? No, I like it here. Hanging out, watching movies, catching people’s drama… I’m not going anywhere.”

“Sir?” The muffled voice came back through the door.

“Almost done!” I called. “Oh… okay. Well, then how about I come back here and we can talk a few more times on the flight?”

“I’d like that,” the ghost smiled. “I don’t get to talk much, like I said before. Sorry I was a little over-excited.”

“It’s all good. I understand. And, hey, I’ll see if I can get this flight back when I head home.”

And that’s how I gained a friend at 30,000 feet every time I head to or from New York. And the best part? He knows how to get into the electronics – I’ve been getting bumped to first class every time. Sometimes it pays to be able to see dead people!