This Must be the Place

Richard drove the drunken, well dressed, man home. His passenger appeared so drunk that he couldn’t tell Richard which city he lived in. He kept repeating “San Vicente, San Vicente, San Vicente,…I’ll tell you the house when I see it.”

Nonetheless, Richard pointed the Lincoln Town Car down San Vicente Blvd, in Santa Monica, and eventually passed a huge mansion that looked more like a Modern Art museum than a home, as the man yelled, “Stop, Stop, that’s it.”

As he pulled the limousine to an abrupt halt, the man, a movie producer Richard had never before chauffeured home, threw open the door, stumbled out of the back seat, and began to make his way up the long driveway toward the house. But not before he had turned around, reached into his suit coat pocket and extracted a wad of thousand dollar bills which he happily tossed toward Richard, who, with the front passenger-side window rolled down, leaned over and yelled to his inebriated benefactor, “Are you sure this is the place?”