It’s June 2001.
I’m 22 years old and have been sitting at the intersection of 14th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, D.C., for 15 minutes.
It’s raining, hard. I’m in the first car I’ve ever owned, a navy-blue Jeep Cherokee with more than 200,000 miles on it. There’s less than a quarter tank of gas left and it needs to last until Friday, because my entire net worth is rattling around the sticky change holder next to the emergency brake.

Yesterday the tailgate window mysteriously dislodged itself, and through the rearview mirror I notice rain pouring inside—proof that duct tape can’t solve everything.

I can also hear the front fender rocking back and forth in the back seat. I’ve intended to fix it ever since someone found it on Christmas morning near the 18th green at a country club in Connecticut. I have also intended to cure myself of a propensity for driving my car into stationary objects while intoxicated.

The dashboard clock clicks from 5:58 to 5:59, which means it’s actually 5:46, which means it’s time to leave the intersection of 14th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue. I take a deep breath, flick my cigarette out into the rain, and turn left. Toward the east entrance of the White House.
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http://www.vanityfair.com/politics/features/2009/01/dubya-and-me200901


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