The portal that separates sleeping dream and wakeful reality is a dark egress, but it's hard to tell the difference between the two when morning comes early with a knock at the window and the glowing honeycomb of a flashlight.
Los Angeles International Airport is a half-hour south. Driving up through the eastern slumlands, past the soft lights of Santa Monica, until Route 1 changes from a grimy grid to a twisting freeway. But at 2 a.m., the normally scenic Pacific Coast Highway looks a lot like the endless pewter-colored ribbon of Interstate 5.
Just remember what they're looking for, in the following order: drugs in the car, alcohol on the breath, someone else's title and registration. Failing any of those, they want a story that hangs together, one that ends with a quick exit out of the jurisdiction. Oblige them.
But this is going to be difficult. The vehicle -- an oversized Chrysler Town & Country with Colorado plates that was the last rental available at the counter at 1 a.m. on a Wednesday night -- points south now. Along the beach side of the highway, hidden in a row of parked cars, across from an RV park. The idea was that it was supposed to blend in. But now the quick thinking has to be even quicker.
Where are you headed?
South. To Los Angeles.
Where are you coming from?
Colorado.
What's in L.A.?
Friends. I'm visiting friends.
Have you had anything to drink?
No.
Where did you obtain this vehicle?
San Francisco. At a rental counter.
Where do your friends live in Colorado?
Colorado? You mean in Los Angeles, right?
Yes.
They live in Santa Monica.
You're 30 minutes away. You can't sleep on the road. Get out of here.
It doesn't matter, as long as the pieces fit together in a vaguely ambiguous manner. Go a few more miles south for show, turn around, the Ventura county line is only five more minutes. Keep going.
