Things are slow. Liz impresses me yet again: "The light on Mass. Ave. and Everett goes 'don't walk' eleven times. Then it stops and turns green." Encouraged by the friendly, laid-back atmosphere characteristic of the escort, a passenger in the back jumps in, "Lights are regulated on purpose by businesses or gasoline monopolies. For example, in my town WalMart has a special light in front of the store. It's red when all the other lights are green. They found out that in one out of 100 possible chances, you will remember you need something and will just turn at the light instead of waiting for it to change."

9:04 p.m. On JFK St., the other way.

Liz:"One of the passengers we get pretty frequently at the Law School works at the video place down here in the Galeria. Whenever she calls, she has gummy bears or chocolate that she gives to us. She's like our grandma. Richard calls her Mama something. We all know her, we are always wanting to escort her."

9:08 p.m. Parked. Both of us. Alone.

My time in the escort is nearing an end. Confident that I've gained Liz's trust. I press her for the story of all stories. Cautiously, she whispers, "Some passenger was on, and he just got really sick and started throwing up out the window. In the process, his cap fell off in the middle of Beacon St. There was some story behind the cap; it was sentimental to him for some reason. The passenger asked the driver to go back for the hat, and they did. After that, the escort driver made him clean up the side of the car."

I left the car satisfied. My mission was complete, I had gained new insights into the JFK fiasco, and I had even been offered a sugar bunny. Candy, conversation, a safe drive home, no pressure for a parting kiss, and the open possibility of further dates: This is the best escort one could hope for.