It was set straddling a 193o's Cabaret-esque environs and current day Bellingham.
A taxi driver in his old 193o's car sat waiting alongside the curb next to George Dyson's Baidarka Company at West Holly and Central Avenue. A women entered the taxi through the passenger side door. She was a prostitute. The married cabbie had been waiting for her.
Apparently, they had long had relations with each other. The cabbie was perhaps a john, perhaps not - perhaps a john that paid the young lady for companionship rather than sex. Or perhaps looked after her, and possibly gave her gifts.
He was obviously attracted to her. As she was to him. But it was like there were worlds and oceans that lie between them each sitting on the opposite side of the old car.
It started to rain. And with sexual tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. The cabbie asked the young lady to "tell me one of your stories." - - -it was like they were locked into roles, but were trying to break out of them. They both loved each other in a deeper, lasting sense than just a prostitute and john. They were perhaps meant to be together.
The young lady began to tell the man stories, trying not to make them erotic. While the man both hoped that the stories would not be erotic and part of him hoped that they would be.
They longed to break free. to grow into their fuller selves. but it was like they were trapped. Held captive by a dark world. by society - by what they know.
The man began to drive as the lady told her stories. She opened her body and sprawled herself out on the bench seat in spite of herself - wanting to be in the light - to be her bigger self, but feeling compelled by what she knew - and what she knew the man wanted of her.
The story got more and more erotic. And as the man drove around, not necessarily heading anywhere - a 193o's british stoplight sort of superimposed itself upon the scene. The stoplight had different pictures of grand urban projects where the green, yellow, and red lights would have been.
Christopher Wrens parliament buildings. John Ruskin Gothic....it was a picture of an ideal.
The woman shut her eyes and lie on the bench. Feeling safe. Feeling protected. Probably the only time that she ever felt safe was with this man. ANd she wanted to give herself to him. But also there was such a platonic - a spiritual connection that prevented her. And him the same.
She was dozing off while he was driving around. Their lives seeming hopelessly confined. But together they were in a sort of freedom within the gilded cage - - -
The man was going up the Chestnut Street viaduct. Except the Viaduct was inside of Maritime Heritage Park. And it was simultaneously huge. Like An huge industrial complex such as what the Georgia Pacific Mill used to be was fit in the same amount of space as Maritime Heritage Park - as if viewed through a "Lens Baby."
Shrunken while being congruently expanded.
Something came onto the road. I think it was a cat, or perhaps an old lady crossing the street. But it caused the Cabbie to swerve to avoid the object in the road. Sending him through the guardrail and into the air heading down down down towards an enormous belle epoque building. Something looking like the Sutro Baths with an enormous glass and cast iron ceiling.
All the while, the woman lie on the seat with her eyes closed continuing the story.
She was so exhausted that she didn't here the car crash through the guard rail. she just was so relaxed and safe. and comfortable.
The man loved her when she was like that. IT was such a precious gift to him. to see this young vulnerable women safe and secure.
He knew that they were going to crash into the building and that they would die. But here, in this slow motion descent. they were free. and happy in a way - - -
The man had a huge compulsion in him to scream in terror as they approached the glass roof.
IT took everything in him to let go of the wheel and to cover his mouth with his hands so as to stifle his scream. Because he wanted the woman at least to have peace when they were to die. Nothing seemed more valuable than that. Nothing as important to him.
They crashed through the great ceiling and into a swimming pool.
They were dead.
Then a different cast, as a montage of 198o's and 199o's olympic games footage played with an epic soundtrack. Gymnasts. swimmers. Martial Artists. Ice Skaters. etc - - - a very hurried optimistic stream of Walter Cronkite like clips of the Olympic Games with that 198o's VHS or home television look -