And now, a brief interlude of fiction inspired by this seemingly out of control photograph taken as we glided down a street that led towards Capitol Hill:
"...and
as she realized that the red light with a cute exclamation point was
not intended to simply make her smile, it occurred to Jennifer that the
brake pedal was already mashed fully against the floorboard of her 1990
Lincoln Continental. A totally silent disregard for the weight of
her foot, encased only in cream colored tights, simply enraged the
normally placid young woman.
The massive sedan weighed perhaps more than two full tons, and when one added in the one hundred and forty three pounds that comprised Miss Quigley, well, it simply became obvious that regardless of what else was to happen during the following ninety seconds, the excessively electronic sedan had quite fully turned against its master; apparently, Jennifer thought to herself, the car was in a complete state of mutiny.
Whatever was she to do? And to top it all off, the damn radio had the audacity to play that hideous song by Ace of Base, at four o'clock in the blasted morning! What nerve!
The only thing left for Jennifer to do was to cruise blithely along at fifty five miles per hour, wishing with all of her might that she had taken Mumsy's Mercedes out to get her $200 worth of hits of crack cocaine, and not driven the damnable Continental.
Whatever had she been thinking?
Apparently none at all, since anyone who is anybody would never dare drive into the slums of D.C. in anything less than an automobile worth more than a year's salary as an elementary school principal.
Jennifer reached for her dark brown leather purse and fished out her cigarette case. Silver, delicate, and altogether the prettiest extravagance in her possession, she flipped it open for one last time. If only, she silently thought to herself, I had never become addicted to Xantax, perhaps none of this situation could have been possible, not at all even probable.
The car bounded up and down as it flew across the uneven and thankfully desolate crosswalk of Sixth Street and Constitution Avenue.
The jolt merely annoyed Jennifer, and she found herself coming full circle in her emotions as they regarded that small yet undeniable red exclamation point. She had always wanted to go out with a bang. Now, as the car drifted helplessly at forty seven miles per hour, Jennifer smiled to herself, and looked into her own eyes in the vanity mirror that she had flipped down directly in front of her pale face.
The newspapers would note the incident, they simply had to. It would be impossible not to mention a crazed girl of twenty three years of age driving right into the concrete barricades that shut Capitol Hill off from the rest of D.C. and the entire mean world. It had to be impossible, and she closed her eyes to the happy thoughts of belated fame finding her post mortem."
The massive sedan weighed perhaps more than two full tons, and when one added in the one hundred and forty three pounds that comprised Miss Quigley, well, it simply became obvious that regardless of what else was to happen during the following ninety seconds, the excessively electronic sedan had quite fully turned against its master; apparently, Jennifer thought to herself, the car was in a complete state of mutiny.
Whatever was she to do? And to top it all off, the damn radio had the audacity to play that hideous song by Ace of Base, at four o'clock in the blasted morning! What nerve!
The only thing left for Jennifer to do was to cruise blithely along at fifty five miles per hour, wishing with all of her might that she had taken Mumsy's Mercedes out to get her $200 worth of hits of crack cocaine, and not driven the damnable Continental.
Whatever had she been thinking?
Apparently none at all, since anyone who is anybody would never dare drive into the slums of D.C. in anything less than an automobile worth more than a year's salary as an elementary school principal.
Jennifer reached for her dark brown leather purse and fished out her cigarette case. Silver, delicate, and altogether the prettiest extravagance in her possession, she flipped it open for one last time. If only, she silently thought to herself, I had never become addicted to Xantax, perhaps none of this situation could have been possible, not at all even probable.
The car bounded up and down as it flew across the uneven and thankfully desolate crosswalk of Sixth Street and Constitution Avenue.
The jolt merely annoyed Jennifer, and she found herself coming full circle in her emotions as they regarded that small yet undeniable red exclamation point. She had always wanted to go out with a bang. Now, as the car drifted helplessly at forty seven miles per hour, Jennifer smiled to herself, and looked into her own eyes in the vanity mirror that she had flipped down directly in front of her pale face.
The newspapers would note the incident, they simply had to. It would be impossible not to mention a crazed girl of twenty three years of age driving right into the concrete barricades that shut Capitol Hill off from the rest of D.C. and the entire mean world. It had to be impossible, and she closed her eyes to the happy thoughts of belated fame finding her post mortem."
