Suddenly, soupy fog begins oozing over Sunset Boulevard. The windshield frosts over, the temperature plunges. We start shivering.
"Damn," Darren mutters, and rolls up the window.
Just a moment ago, the warm California sun was blinding us, befitting a street with that name, one that winds in serpentines down to the Pacific. Just a moment ago, we passed its dusty landmarks: Chateau Marmont, the Comedy Store, the billboards for Hollywood fare that nobody watches in the theater anymore, the stars' mansions, most of whose owners have long since died. Just a moment ago, we could see where the road led beyond the curve. Suddenly, we can barely see anything at all.
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We roll along as if through a film noir. Through, well, "Sunset Boulevard," the tragedy about the silent-film diva who despairs that her era is over. Donald Trump's favorite movie.