Pizazz on Route 66

It was going to be a mediocre night, then, the life of the party ran out into the parking lot, silently, on tiptoe, while three look-a-likes screamed loudly to the music in the center of the dance floor, nightclubs being a dead scene, she must have felt more than a bit out of place.

Pizazz, everybody's got it, once in a while. Even a broken clock has pizazz twice a day, when it's right. Hey, that's not quite it, however, on a couple of drinks that sounds good enough. The girls on the dance floor had more than a little bit of pizazz, and only the bouncer noticed the hybrid BMW, painted variegated shades of pink, screeching and burning rubber, as the driver tested its brakes and gears. Then, the vehicle's motions became smooth, as the mini test-drive finished, and the bouncer waved goodbye. Pizazz waved goodbye back to the bouncer, shyly, prior to quietly leaving the lot, and sedately turned the pink hybrid BMW eastbound onto Sunset Boulevard.

The driver imagined the quiet parking lot at a place in a town like Fontana, or maybe San Bernardino, or perhaps, even, somewhere in unknown territory on a dirt park road in the Los Angeles forest somewhere north. Her gas tank was less than 1/4 full, having just been siphoned, and it was too late in the evening for a lone female to fill up again, so she drove smoothly, coasting to every yellow turning red, to save gas, and cut off the engine at every long red light.

The vehicle's gas supply still veered into the "orange zone" by the time she got to Pasadena, and spending the early hours of the morning sitting in the lobby of an all-night diner, "waiting for a date", began to look like a good idea, so, Pizazz parked the car in a residential neighborhood, and did exactly that, then, began bobbling along the sidewalk, singing "Route 66" with the words all wrong, while walking towards the neon lights of the diner.