Fallen Angels, Season 1 & Season 2

Two officers approached Jane’s BMW without drawing their weapons.

They directed her to lower her window and show her license, vehicle registration and proof of insurance.

Jane included her White House ID for good measure.

“Been drinking, Ms. Doe?” one officer asked.

One beer, Jane said. She explained she was simply exhausted from a grueling day at the White House defending the police from bullshit media criticism.

“Thank you for that, Ma’am. But we can’t let you back behind the wheel.”

“We’re just a block over.”

“Wouldn’t be prudent, Ma’am.”

“I’m grateful to find myself in such strong and capable hands, officers.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Officers Schwartz and Fitzwilliams drove the damsel in distress home and offered her husband a ride back to the Beemer.

“You’re lucky that you’re a beautiful woman.” Dick told her the next morning. It wasn’t a compliment.

This was the third DUI Jane had sashayed out of since they’d met.

Being unemployed, Jane and Dick couldn’t afford not to hire Maria José as a cleaning lady.

The minimum wage in the District is $15 per hour but Maria José, fresh across the border and not knowing a word of American, agreed to work for $7.50.

With every dollar Dick and Jane would pay, they would earn a dollar in savings. Maria José’s services would pay for themselves.

The couple had worked on White House policy promoting a wall to stop undocumented immigrants. But what they did not believe in was victimizing good Americans who employed them.

Maria José was an absolute angel, grateful to earn whatever she could. Dick and Jane took genuine pride knowing they were saving her from a life of certain prostitution.

“We already think of you as one of the family.” They said as they paid for her 3-hour tryout in cash.

“Same time next week?” Jane asked.

Maria José answered with some Spanishy sounding words.

“Awesome. It’s settled then.” Jane said.

The thrilled couple were puzzled and a little hurt that they never saw Maria José again. Maybe they had been wrong about her work ethic.

Jane and Dick allowed themselves a mental health day.

They debated where to go for breakfast. Jane held out for beignets.

Around noon they climbed out of the Smithsonian Metro station and strolled arm-in-arm through the National Mall.

They sang calliope tunes on the carousel that was a rendezvous point when they first fell in love. Food trucks were parked exactly where they were supposed to be.

As they worked their way back to Columbia Heights, they flirted with a hopeful Japanese Chin at a rescue shelter and made silly faces for toddlers at a playground (other people’s kids are so cute).

They bought tequila and limes, and as they watched night came on they downed a pitcher of margaritas between them.

Not long ago the evening would have turned physical but things have changed since Dick and Jane lost their White House jobs. Gone is that incredibly powerful aphrodisiac rush they got from inventing fictions that were repeated on Fox News.

Nothing good ever comes from being in a laundromat during the workweek.

Dick and Jane had been banished, and were condemned to spend eternity waiting for a functioning dryer at the Petwork Laundromat.

It’s their particular hell to know that beautiful, young people have taken their jobs at the White House. Using the same desks, scheduling the same meetings with same lunches ordered-in at taxpayer expense, working on the same policies (but in reverse), and flashing the same IDs Jane and Dick had been forced to surrender.

No one at the Petworth appreciates how special Dick and Jane are. And absolutely no one at the Petworth has anything interesting to say.

“I feel like we’re being punished, Dicky.” Jane said.

“Punished for what?” Dick asked.

“That’s the thing, Dicky,” Jane said, “I don’t know.”

Humidity and the smell of curries have always made Jane nauseous.

Dick and Jane quietly stopped attending a suburban megachurch which preaches the gospel of personal prosperity. They were falling behind with their contribution pledge.

They’ve been visiting various congregations since they moved to a more affordable part of town.

Yesterday they sat in on the Easter service celebrated down the street from their new place.

Dick picked up a rosary left behind in his pew and wrapped it around his fingers, imitating the woman in front of him. He recalled wearing yamakas at friends’ bar mitvahs years earlier.

He and Jane ignored the donations basket as it was passed down the pew. They were just window-shopping and besides they didn’t stay for the whole service because they had brunch reservations near Dupont Circle.

Judging by cars they saw in the church lot, they figured that if the parishioners at St. Martin’s were praying for wealth and influence, they were saying the wrong prayers and singing the wrong songs.