Bedtime Story, Act I

Can you give me a lift? I can pay you for gas.
Where to?
Over to the West Side, just over the city line.
People still hitchhike? And at your age?
You don't know my age.
Just saying. It was a Sixties and Seventies thing. But frowned upon. Because . . .
You gonna give me a ride or not?
Yeah, yeah. Calm down. Sure. How much for gas?
Ten.
Make it twelve.
Why twelve?
Cosmic.
Deal.
I need it now. Because, you know. Ya never know.
What's next, a "request" for a blowjob or get out and walk?
Too predictable.
True.
Let's dispense with the basic formalities. I'm Raoul. And you are . . .
Lefty.
Lefty? Not very feminine.
Not very feminine? Who the fuck are you to say?
No one. No one at all. "Fuck" ain't so feminine either, but I guess that depends on what you mean by "fuck" and what I mean by "feminine."
Here's twelve singles, one is a little ripped.
We're all damaged. Thank you. Appreciate it.
No prob.
What street we going to?
Hawthorne.
I prefer Emerson or Thoreau, with a dash of Melville.
Aren't you clever. 
I am that. What block?
1200 Hawthorne.
Got it. I hope this is nothing illegal.
Why do you say that, Raul?
Raoul. The French spelling.
Are you French?
I am not. Are you?
No, sir, if I may be so formal.
I like your voice. It's soothing. The voice a kid wants to hear for a bedtime story.
Do people still do that?
What? Speak with voices instead of texts?
No, tell bedtime stories.
Yes, I'm sure.
It's getting dark.
It's not dark yet but it's getting there.
Bob Dylan.
Excellent.
You're the second person in two days to talk about my voice.
Really? In a good way?
Yeah, what's your bedtime story?
What are you wearing?
What do you mean? That sounds naughty, especially for a so-called bedtime so-called story.
You know. Scent.
Chance. By Chanel.
As in, don't take chances?
The bedtime story, please.
Once upon a time...
Please.
Once upon a time an elderly man without any visible tattoos, a courtly fellow with a slight British accent, posh, wearing Tom Ford Ombre Leather, glided his 1957 Thunderbird convertible to a gentle stop on Strait Street as he saw a hitchhiker, an anomaly of the age, her thumb out, corny, as in an old movie, slightly sullen, not smiling but catching the driver's eye. The car stopped, but not the driver's mental ruminations. She was in her forties, likely, cut-off frayed blue jeans, hot August evening, Versace (maybe) shades atop her dirty blonde hair, tall, willowy, statuesque. Stately. Green eyes, but possibly blue or hazel from this distance. This spelled danger. Something out of a film noir that the film's backers chickened out on as a lousy financial risk. He rolled down the passenger-side window electronically. (The windows up on the convertible helped his hearing and didn't mess up his hair.) As he began to call out to her, he found himself yawning. She yawned.
Hey, it's right here. Stop. Here it is. 1200. Hawthorne.
I guess this is it.
I guess it is.
I guess so. 
See you.
Maybe see you again.
Thanks. Yeah. See ya.