Chirky

The long story:

This morning I camped in front of the television again, anxious to see whether the icy weather was still clinging to the roads. I was determined that I wouldn't drive in to work. And since I don't have a personal chauffeur, I decided that I would use the mass transit system. People, intelligent people, manage do it everyday. Why shouldn't I?

Roger offered to drive me in to work again, but I pleaded with him, "Nooooo! I don't want you on these roads either. You shouldn't be driving me where the roads are even more hazardous than where you're going." And then I put my foot down: "I won't allow it."

I took off soon after that and walked the mere three blocks to the rail station. In those three blocks, my knees felt the impact of the frigid 26° weather – they felt like balls of frozen meat, meat that should have been warming by the fire rather than forging ahead through the cold winds of this wintry blast pummeling Dallas. (Gah. I make it sound like I was in the Arctic rather than in the 'burbs.)

As I punched buttons to purchase a ticket for the rail, the railcar approached. I turned around, hurriedly shoved more coins into the machine, and grabbed my entrance ticket just as the railcar doors slid shut. It took off without me, and so my morning began.

By the time I caught another rail and made it downtown, I could have already driven to work. Twice. I clambered off the rail, hustled two blocks and caught the bus that was supposed to take me to my office building.

It was upposed to take me to my office building, as in, the doors should have opened at my stop. I stood there, directly in front of the exit doors, waiting for them to open. I glanced at the driver. He looked directly at me. And then he drove into traffic. With me still standing there. Waiting to get off the bus.

He kept driving, and kept driving. And then he turned onto Harry Hines Boulevard, a street in Dallas that is famous for its prostitutes. I called my manager to let him know what was happening, and he responded, "Why don't you just press the button to let them know you want to get off?"

I asked a passenger where such button might exist, becaus I didn't see it. He suggested that I press a black rubber strip that was attached to hte side of the bus. It was about half an inch wide and three inches long. That thing? It looks like some sort of a bumper in case someone hits their head on the wall and needs some cushioning to absorb the hit. Still, I pressed the strip. Immediately, the driver pulled to the side of the road and opened the doors. Finally.

As the bus pulled away, I took in my surroundings. And then I realized where I was: on Harry Hines. In the ghetto. By myself. At that moment, my heart dropped. I fished my phone out of my purse and called Roger to come get me.

There I stood, frozen, black leather coat and sneakers for the long trek through downtown, clutching my work bag. In it were my work shoes and lunch. I stood there like a girl scout, with my homemade bowl of chili and sleeve of crackers, wondering what to do. I timidly walked a few steps, trying to figure out where I was and where I should go and how I would get back to my office. And then I started crying. Wouldn't you?

I had men honking their horns at me and jeering as they drove by. Some cocked their head at me, flicked their eyebrows and kissed at the air. I was even propositioned.

They thought I was one of those women: the ones who walk the streets, looking for their next prey; the ones who willingly give of themselves to the highest bidder.

On the outside, I tried to remain calm. I tried to appear unphased by my surroundings. But on the inside, I was terrified and trembling. I feared what someone might do to me. I found myself memorizing makes of cars and license plates everytime a vehicle came near me. I mentally planned my escape from the evil clutches of those men: how I would run to the police, full of pertinent information for them to catch my abductor.

Moments later, in the midst of my planning and calculating the precise way I would elude my captor, Roger pulled up in his car as the last kissy-face man was driving away in his truck. I poured myself into the front seat in a large heap and recounted the events of the morning, with much whining and huffing, to Roger. And then I thanked him, because although I didn't want him on the roads in this weather, he wouldn't take no for an answer.