Frequent Fleer (Patreon)

"Hey, man. Sorry about the wait," the half-naked man in his early twenties excused as he climbed into the driver's seat of the taxi. Well, shuttle car to be more exact. "You're going to the airport right?"

"Where's the other guy? Where are my bags?" I ask, confused about the situation. He's wearing nothing but blue jeans and sneakers. That and a silver pendant that hangs down to his rippling abs. He's handsome for sure, though it's a mystery if he cut his hair himself in the mirror or if he paid through the nose to have some stylist replicate the look for him. I look out and in the mirror and see no one else outside the car.

"It's cool. They are in the back," he says, turns the keys in the ignition, and pulls out of the hotel parking lot.

"What happened to him?" I continue to look out the window for the guy who met me in the lobby, twice this kid's age, and fully clothed.

"Don't worry, he'll be fine. What are you flying?"
"He's not fine now? An airplane of course."
"What company," he chuckles, giving me a blindingly white grin.
"Delta," I say, feeling stupid.

There's a pause of silence in the car. I don't really have time to mess around. As a business traveler I cut times short all the time, and I don't really care who is driving me to the airport as long as I get there within the hour.

"Massive, explosive diarrhea."
"What?"
"The other driver got an emergency. Probably food poisoning. I'll reckon he'll still be on the lobby toilet when I get back after dropping you off."

Well, that can happen to anyone, and not something to start a conversation with. Still, he could have said something more reassuring up front. And why isn't he wearing a shirt? Then again, why do I care? He's driving up the on-ramp to the highway and in the direction of the airport, so all is good.

"So where are you going?"
"Singapore"
"For business?"
"Yeah"
"Business class?"
"Yeah"

I suppose all of the questions could be relevant. What terminal to go to. What entrance to use. But from his tone it sounds like he's just fishing for info, or worse, small talking. I'm pinching the bridge of my nose. These layovers are killing me. Better to just fly directly without involving another timezone to mess up your rhythm.

"Cash or credit?"
"Credit, and a receipt."

He's scooting forward in the driver's seat while leaning back, barely able to see the road, while digging something from his front pocket. He then straightens back up again and hands me a black box. One of those card readers for chip and pin credit cards. Importantly, no printer for receipts. Perhaps he'll just write a bogus paper one like every other driver.

"Just put in your card and code, and you'll be out quick," he said. I haven't really seen the use of this 10 second save of time every driver insists on, but I guess once we are at the destination the clock has stopped and every second is a second they are not earning money on.

He reaches for the stereo and turns it on. Surprisingly heavy heavy metal blasts from the speakers. I'm about to ask him to turn it down, but this way we'll avoid any small talk. Fuck timezones, I think as I close my eyes for a micro nap.

"Hey! HEY! You need to get moving!" someone yells on my left. A bit disoriented I turn towards the sound and to my surprise see a uniformed man looking in through the window. How did I get in the driver's seat, I wonder as I look forwards and see the terminal building beyond the steering wheel. I then look down and see blue jeans and naked, rippling abs. The pendant is gone though.