It was early evening in central Florida and the glare of the sun had eased to a kind of soft glow. The air was cooler now, the day no longer a blunt instrument. The mood was gin and tonics in tall beaded glasses. There was a bar where we were staying, but my wife and I thought we would mix them in our room since we had a west-facing porch and could watch the sunset while we sipped our drinks. We had the makings in the car, and who needs to pay minibar rates?
"Be right back," I said.
I went through the lobby, out the front door and turned down the walk leading to the parking lot. First, I noticed that someone was coming the other way, and then, almost immediately, I saw who it was. Recognition has seldom contained more shock.
"Good evening, Mr. Palmer," I said.
"Good evening," Arnold Palmer said to me.
Back in the room, I tried to sound casual as I quartered a Key lime with my pocketknife.
"You'll never guess who I saw."
"I give up," my wife said.
"As I live and breathe."
"I don't believe you."
"Well, it's true," I said. "Right here in Orlando. I take back every ugly thing I've said about the place."