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.

Last month I graduated from Yale and moved to Washington, D.C., to start a band with my best friend, Jeff. Other than Jeff, the only person I know in this city is Barbara Bush, daughter of George W. and Laura Bush. As it turns out, I’m one of the few people Barbara knows here, since her family recently relocated from Austin, Texas, after her father was elected the president of the United States of America.

Barbara and I met about a year ago at a party in my apartment in New Haven. We had a similar fondness for drinking alcohol and eating Kit-Kats and quickly became friends. We also both enjoyed watching Ally McBeal, which saved me the trouble of telling her I was gay.

Ours was a strange bond, but one we both enjoyed—and one she apparently missed—because this afternoon she invited me to her house to have dinner and watch a movie.

“My parents eat on the early side, so can you come over around six?” she asked.

“Yeah, sure,” I said, unsure. “I’ll finish up work at five, grab my dry cleaning, and come over to your place.”

Your place. What an odd way to refer to the White House.

My windshield wipers have packed it in for the night, making it difficult to determine exactly where the visitor’s-entrance checkpoint is. I roll to a sudden stop as a heavily armed guard and a man in a black suit step in front of my car.

The sight of metal detectors and dogs reminds me that I am carrying one half of a marijuana cigarette in my Camel Lights pack.

I hand the Man in a Black Suit my expired Connecticut driver’s license, and he returns to the security hut while the Heavily Armed Guard motions for me to unlock the trunk. He opens the liftgate to reveal the following: three weeks of dry cleaning I intended to drop off earlier that day, one rusty front fender, a half case of warm beer from a camping trip I took two months ago, and a couple dozen harmonicas, which, at first glance, look a lot like pocketknives.

“I was in an accident. And I play the harmonica—they’re harmonicas.”

The guard shakes the fender a couple of times, nods at me, and shuts the liftgate. As he does, the remains of the duct-tape adhesive give way and the rear windshield falls away from the car. Miraculously, the Heavily Armed Guard manages to catch the glass in mid-air and positions it back on the tailgate.