Bianca Lombardi had to yell above the roar of the broken muffler. “Because it’s the invisible car!”

Sailing out of an underground parking structure, the lusterless Dodge Caravan caught air before slamming onto the concrete apron. Sparks burst on impact from the right running board below and the ramshackle ladder precariously secured by threadbare bungee cords to the roof above.

Never easing off the gas, Bianca-self-designated driver of questionable sobriety-cut a sharp right onto Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood. Overcorrecting, she tipped the ancient family sedan onto the two wheels.

It hovered there wearily before banging down on all fours, bald tires spinning, churning up dirty clouds of smoke. Finally gaining a slippery hold, the vehicle squealed victoriously and lurched off at whatever speed an over-worked, moderately maintained, circa 1990 minivan can achieve. 

From a safe distance, Ernesto Miranda, good-natured valet and owner of the vehicle, waved a cheerful goodbye. The keys to Bianca’s lipstick-red BMW coupe convertible were jingling in his raised hand.

Freed from the crowded acoustics of subterranean parking, Bianca no longer had to compete with the muffler. “Nobody pulls over minivans,” she explained. “Have you ever seen a minivan on the side of the road, stopped by a cop?”