I was in the Brentwood neighborhood of Los Angeles and wanted to go to the airport. I tapped the Uber app on my phone but somehow found myself talking to someone named Ron, who was indeed an Uber driver.

“How much is it to LAX?”

“Well, the passenger door is messed up, and you have to hold a bungee to keep it closed. Also, there was a private flood in there, so there’s that.”

“How much is it to LAX?”

“Fifty bucks. What’s the address?”

I looked at addresses of businesses so I could tell Ron where to pick me up but couldn’t decide which to use. There was the sushi restaurant at 12139, and the tax accountant at 12137, and the dry cleaner at 12135. I dismissed the sushi restaurant because it had tables on the sidewalk and I didn’t want to stand there with my luggage while people were eating nearby. And the accountant and dry cleaner didn’t give off the right vibe for an Uber pickup.

Having spent five minutes considering addresses, all the while yelling “Fuck!” at my own indecision, and with Ron still connected, I settled on Mulligan’s Pub at 12131.

“I’m at 12131. Mulligan’s Pub.”

“OK.”

“But you know what? The bungee…I’ll pass.”

That’s where I woke up.

(I do not know what a private flood is. You’ll have to ask Ron.)