At Penn Station I joked with Greg about how we could be in the beginning of some hairbrained 90’s comedy where we’d pick up and deliver the models to their hotel but then return to the van to find one dead in the backseat, probably the result of an overdose, and we would somehow be blamed for the death and then get chased by gangsters, dodging bullets over the turnpike and later there’d be a scene where we’d have to pretend she was still alive and operate her legs on the runway at some premier fashion show, hiding underneath her umbrella-like dress on a skateboard and maybe give an interview puppeteering her head to nod or shake and everyone would be impressed by her chic and drowsy aloofness, and maybe at the end she’d come back to life in some dramatic Mia Wallace like adrenaline shot revival and we’d be cleared of all charges and win the lottery and the bad guys would go to bad guy jail.
But instead, Greg and I ended up driving the van full of luggage back to NY.
