Couchsurfer Ted

I have to assume anybody who uses couchsurfing.com approaches their transactions with a modicum of trepidation, or at least I hope they do, but I also would be remiss if I did not alert everybody to the fact that there is at least one confirmed super weirdo in the mix. His name is Ted.

He came to me via a note nailed to the heavy wooden front door of a former “officer’s house” where my friend was staying, in the middle of a sleepy old naval base on the San Francisco Bay. It read:

Miguel–

I drove over to the house at 9 PM and knocked and rang the bell but nobody was home. Where are you? I sent you an SMS but you did not reply–maybe your service is down? You must get back to me urgently, so we can make arrangements for our upcoming trip to Yosemite.

–Ted

Miguel was visiting from Buenos Aires, a friend of one of the other five guys living in the house with my friend. Miguel’s host’s name was Bill. It seemed logical that Miguel might have another international traveler trying to get in touch with him for a trip to somewhere like Yosemite–that happens all the time when people are traveling. Not every international traveler has a cell phone that works abroad, so maybe Ted had to walk over from some hostel and leave a note. Maybe Miguel was being a flake. Maybe it was an honest mistake. My friend and I didn’t care. We just sat on the porch getting high.

A cab rolled up and two people got out: Bill and Miguel. We told them there was a note. Turned out Miguel had been skiing in Tahoe for a long time, perhaps even for the entire winter season. At some point recently, he decided he should step out of his skis for a few days and see some of the sights before he left to go somewhere else. He went online to check out his options.

On couchsurfing.com, Miguel found somebody who was organizing a trip to Yosemite. This was Ted. He communicated with this guy and arranged to meet him for the trip.

On the appointed date, at the appointed place–which was in the middle of nowhere–Miguel was confused. He was the only other person there, apart from the man who organized the whole affair. For whatever reason Miguel got into this strange guy’s car and they drove away.

Miguel scrutinized the man. He was smaller than Miguel, which is saying a lot, considering Miguel is probably five-foot-six, 120 pounds, so he definitely thought he could beat him up if necessary. Ted was old, maybe 50. He had a hunchback and walked funny.

He finally spoke. “We’re not going to Yosemite.”
“What?” Miguel gasped. “But…”
“We’re not going to Yosemite. We’re going somewhere else.”

Ted drove off elsewhere, taking Miguel to a place called “the peninsula.” I’m sure it is a beautiful place to go, wherever it is, but not when you think you might be buried there in a shallow grave. Or raped at gunpoint.

Miguel had no idea where he was, no idea where he was going, and he was in the middle of nowhere. He began hatching an escape plan. He realized his friend Bill lived relatively nearby, in San Francisco. He bluffed.

“Hey, Ted, my friend Bill just sent me a text and said his sister is going to Buenos Aires tomorrow and that maybe she can take my skis back for me, so I don’t have to lug them around New York for the rest of my trip.”

“That’s great! Let’s go! That’ll be a big help, I bet.”
Ted was accommodating. He drove Miguel all the way to the old naval base in San Francisco, to Bill’s house. Miguel removed his skis and his suitcase from the back of Ted’s car.

“I…have to do laundry, too…”
“Oh, OK–I’ll come back to pick you up in a few hours.”
“OK…”

Miguel evidently went inside, met my friend and me, explained the weird situation to Bill, then they went out drinking. A narrow escape.