As I pecked at the keyboard, the clock ticked on towards the time I was supposed to be on a bus that was even now waiting for me at the far end of a shopping mall parking lot, at the north end of the city.

In fact, there were three of them, standard yellow schoolbuses, and they were all pulling out as I zigzagged towards them through the parked cars, panting and screaming and shouting for at least one of them to stop.  But none of them did.

And with those buses went my hopes for a job that summer.

They were taking prospective staff to a day camp I didn't know the name of, a hundred and twenty miles or so north of the city, but where, I had no idea - all I knew was I should have been on one of those buses if I wanted a job that summer. 

So - what next?  I had just enough cash to get me back home and a pen.

I found a piece of cardboard, and scribbled PLEASE / SVP in big letters on it and coloured them in (SVP being short for "please" in French, Montreal being a bilingual city).  I then stood at the roadside, held it up and stuck out my thumb.

The people who picked me up didn't see the sense in my trying to get to a summer camp a hundred and twenty miles north of town, in a place I couldn't name, but for me, it was the only logical thing to do - I really, really needed a job.

So that was why I was about 70 miles outside the city, beside a strangely-empty highway that was usually full of weekend traffic heading north toward country cottages ... or heading south towards the bright lights of the city.

But right here, right now, in the throat-baking dry heat and the blinding sunlight, there was absolutely nothing.  No traffic.  In either direction.  Complete silence, except for the wind whistling softly through the grass behind me.

I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And then, I heard a car engine. 

It was soft and deep and came from something shimmering shapelessly in the heat haze in the distance.  It was black and white and silver ... and gold.

I held up the cardboard sign, and stuck out my thumb.

There should have been a chauffeur in a uniform and peaked cap - it was that kind of car.  It had a black soft top, white bodywork, chrome pipes along the sides at the front and brass lamp fittings and it rumbled contentedly to a gentle halt right in front of me.

The passenger door opened - the wrong way round, because the hinges were at the rear - and the driver beckoned me in.  He looked like he could afford a car like this.  And have another couple tucked away in one of his other garages somewhere.

We started off.  The highway was still empty.

"So," he said casually.  "Where you headed?"

"Good question.  There's a day camp I need to get to."

"Uh-huh."

"It's about 120 miles north of Montreal."

"Uh-huh."

"I've got to get there because they're interviewing people for jobs for the summer. Nice car, by the way."

"Thanks.  What was the name of that camp again?"

"Uh ... I don't know."

"And where did you say it was?"

"I didn't.   I don't know that, either."

"O ... K ... "

"And they're looking for people and there were buses parked at the shopping mall and I was supposed to be on one but I got there too late and - "

He took one hand off the steering-wheel and held it up to stop me.

"No problems - I know that camp..."

"You do?"

"Yep. As a matter of fact, that's where I'm headed right now."

"You are?"

"I am indeed - I just happen to own it."

And after too many years writing to please human readers, he's now working on keeping those searchbots happy as well.