mages burned into memory must be strong, visceral, and merge with the senses. This is one: the woman in the white convertible.
During a blistering summer day in Victorville, California, a white convertible eased up to the gas pump. Not just any white convertible, this was a 1960s long lean Cadillac convertible, with white leather interior and red trim.
A lean tanned young man leaned out and swaggered to the gas station interior. He was Steve McQueen cool, and he knew it.
The white blonde woman stepped out the passenger side, swinging white leather boots onto the oil stained pavement. She stretched a long cat stretch. Every inch of her white leather pants clung to her, white film on lean legs. The silver studs on the white leather jacket glinted sun, crying out defiantly, “Money! I got loads of it!”
She shook her long white blonde hair out, combing through it with flame red finger nails and ringed fingers.
The young man jogged out and kissed her. “This’ll just take a minute, Baby. Then we’ll be on our way to ‘Vegas.”
The white blonde woman turned and got back in the car. For just a moment, just long enough, her face was fully visible.
An old face, brown with too much sun, and pursed with lines. Heavy rouge, heavy lipstick, heavy black long eyelashes, heavy makeup--all were creased into the lines of a face that had been to ‘Vegas many times.
The white convertible pulled back onto the I-15. Her hand caressed the back of his neck.
