Oy vey.
In theory, many things sound great. Like communism, or having a job. Another one is public transportation, although I guess it’s not so much the description of it that sounds appealing so much as it is the mere idea that seems promising. It actually sounds pretty damn dreadful if you spell it all out: riding a train car or bus that “runs” on a “schedule” so loosely that you can never plan a trip accurately. It's essentially dirty cattle cars that thousands of other people take every hour and proceed to touch, puke, and sleep on. You're travel distances in a rectangular-shaped confined space with 65+ other strangers who may be insane, loud, or smelly. If you choose/are lucky to find an open seat, it's usually still warm from its previous occupant who may have very well been farting on it for the past twenty minutes. It’s funny, everyone has weird little idiosyncrasies, and as a person who worked in the service industry I can be the first to tell you how absolutely retarded and unfounded they all seem. But as much as I say that, I have my own little things that annoy the hell out of me, and for some reason mass transit brings them right to the surface. Like those assholes who insist on using the subway car and/or bus to have completely unimportant cellphone conversations at the top of their voice. Or, feel that it is the perfect time and place to go through all of their ringtones at top volume to find the one they like. Or sit five seats apart from their friends when there are empty seats in between them and having a conversation in overly loud voices anyway. Or blast the music on their iPod so loudly you can hear it from 10 feet away and OVER your own headphones. I can go on like that for DAYS. But other than that it doesn’t take much to annoy me when I’m using public taking mass transit. However, once I started biking my commute to work every day instead of riding the crowded stank-hole that is the NYC trains and buses, it didn’t take long for me to realize how horrible mass transit was and how wonderful being a “road warrior” is. Granted, drivers and pedestrians are just as frustrating and stress-inducing, if not more so, but that aside, I became a total bike whore. I loved it: the hour-long ride to and from work, the weaving in and out of traffic, the butt maintenance. And of course, not having to wait for passengers/train doors opening and closing, unnecessary stops, track work / trains not running, and being able to just go, go, go. As a very independent person who loves to do my own thing, I quickly fell in love with my newfound bike commute relationship so much that even my mom's voiced concerns in typical Jewish motha-fashion that it was dangerous couldn't pull me apart from my beloved two-wheeler. My first month pedaling on the Brooklyn streets passed smoothly, and I looked forward to what was the healthiest and happiest new coupling I had been in since, well, not any boyfriend but probably not since my first vibrator (I may have cried a little when it gave its final buzz.)
However, no matter how swimmingly this honeymoon stage was going, it was only a matter of time before it faded and reality set in. I was (and am) a good biker: I always ride with traffic, stay to the right or in the bike lanes, have lights on my bike, and never, ever wear headphones to obstruct my hearing. I made sure once it was clear this was going to be a permanent lifestyle change to look up all the laws I would need to follow, and rights that I have as a biker. Unfortunately, no matter how well I may have adhered to the rules of the road, or watched out for me and others, it was almost inevitable that I would get into some sort of accident. Because no mat ter how much effort I put in to do my best to be a team player on the streets, I shared those streets with drivers. And I may have been nice while describing them in the previous paragraph but let me be blunt: they all SUCK. I mean, it’s beyond belief sometimes how absolutely retarded and inconsiderate they are. In fact, my experiences have led me to update my “five deal-breakers” list when it comes to men to include anyone who drives, leases, or owns a Lexus: it’s a wrap. Lexus drivers are by FAR consistently the hands-down worst people behind the wheel you will find anywhere. If there is traffic, or congestion, or a pile-up, I can practically guarantee that a Lexus will be at the source of the problem. But aside from me finally understanding the phrase “all the crazies were out driving today”, and the reason behind bikers being such fucking assholes (which as a pedestrian I had experienced many times but never understood what could be stressing them out so much), statistically alone I was bound for trouble. I biked anywhere from two to sometimes three hours daily, easily four to five days per week. Add up the road time and throw in some morons behind wheels, and, well, you've got a recipe for disaster. The kitchen timer finally dinged for me on a warm afternoon in October as I was biking up Coney Island Avenue on my way home from work.
As I biked down the nearly empty, four-lane avenue (the light at the intersection I had just crossed turned red, so no cars were behind me) I was thinking about grocery shopping I had to do after I got home when- WHAM!! The driver's-side door of a parked car on my right opened up without warning and hit me, mid-pass. It slammed into my outer calf and part of my bike, and I flew off onto my back into open traffic. Luckily, even though the light from the intersection I passed had since turned green, the cars behind me were a good enough distance away to slow down in time. Almost with a survival instinct, I bounced back up immediately, dragging my bike and myself to the curb. I instantly burst into tears, barely able to breathe or register what had just happened and buried my face in my hands. The driver who had hit me with his car door (called getting “doored”) had come over to me and was now holding my shoulders, asking if I was all right. Shaking from head to toe, the shock had made it almost as if I had gone slightly deaf and couldn't really hear even his pressing inquiries clearly. As the haze that had come over all my senses began to wear off, I heard him talking to some pedestrians who had come over to see if I was okay, too. My face still in my hands, I managed a weak nod of the head as sort of a general acknowledgment and assertion to whoever was there that I was O.K. I heard the driver tell them, "Yeah, I think she's just in shock." As I regained a normal breathing pattern and heart rate, I pulled my hands away from my face and attempted to shakily wipe away my tears from my eyes and cheeks. All I wanted in the world at this point was to head back home (I was literally 3 blocks away from my apartment) but before I could do more than breathe, the driver quickly intercepted my mental desires. He was still standing right in front of me, and now that I had my face uncovered I saw by the lack of space between his feet and mine that he was actually really, really close to me, with his hand still on my shoulder. Reluctantly, and sort of confused as to why he was standing practically on top of me, I looked up and got the full picture. I won't lie, I was partially reluctant because I know I must have been lookin' a hot mess with mascara and sweat everywhere, and I found myself thinking for a fleeting moment oh man, what if he's cute?! But then I remembered that my best relationship for the past month had been with a bike, not a man, so my odds were probably not the best in the potential romance department. Sure enough, when I looked up at the bike assaulter, my eyes rested upon a middle-aged, pot-bellied Orthodox Jew whose clothes were more of a mess than mine but who clearly did not feel the same sinking disappointment that was hitting my stomach. He exclaimed, "My God, wow, you're absolutely beautiful!!" Jesus buddy, really? That's the first thing you say? Since his looks were not the most sobering, I was still sort of in a daze, though luckily this barely-able-to-see was due to a near-death experience and not because I lost a contact lens in the accident. That may not make the most sense; I mean, when would it ever be better to almost die rather than lose a contact, right? But allow me to explain my logic here. If I had lost my contact lenses, than I wouldn't have had to see him since I am practically legally blind without them. That could have been terrible in the long run since his voice was the sexy voice of a good-looking man. I may have been drawn to that alone and even given him my number. But apparently there is a god up there who doesn’t want to fuck with me too much, because I came out of this accident with both lenses in, both eyes were working, and it was the gift of sight that kept any potential madness at bay. Well, should have. What followed next could only qualify as madness of the highest power. As if his opening line that I was gorgeous, not his insurance information, was bad enough, then he insisted on driving me home, refusing my refusal and hastily ushering me into the passenger seat of his car. Despite being heavily reluctant and assuring him I was okay to make it on my own, I was still too out of sorts and weak to put up the good fight and as if out of a bad dream, found myself succumbing and taking a seat. My attacker, on the other hand, jogged around the car with giddy excitement to put my bike in his trunk. He got into the driver seat with a huge grin while I sat there, slumping into my own seat in a state of utter confusion at why this was happening and how I had let it. He took some time before he turned the car on, to discuss all the issues that needed addressing, such as my looks, and did I want any wine? What. The. Fuck. Next thing I know, he is getting out of the car, running to the liquor store across the street while I remain inside his 90’s dirty Toyota Corolla, dying a little more on the inside as the minutes ticked by. Then he returned, with this bottle of wine that was, I don’t know, a present or something, finally turning the car on and started driving. He couldn't seem to get over meeting me, a.k.a. mortally wounding me via car door. He kept looking at me and talking excitedly, asking me where I was from and what I do for a living, and repeatedly raving about my beauty. I guess the bottle of wine wasn’t just for me, because he was like, “Let’s go back to your place and crack it open!” When I didn’t answer that with a resounding “Huzzah!” he tried something else, like saying we should go out somewhere, a restaurant to have something to eat, or a bar to have a drink. NOW. Not, "Oh hey, let's get together sometime after you've cleaned the blood off your hands and knee", but right then, this minute, to go drive somewhere and HANG OUT. He seemed a little less enthused about the restaurant idea he had thrown out there, confessing he wasn’t much of an eater but definitely a drinker. This led to him telling me he runs a booze business and I should come and work for him. It was all getting to be too much for a girl to handle. And I don’t mean in a touching, heartfelt way, but in more of an “Okay, so I'm about to vomit and you're a fucking creep” kinda way. So I told him I had (fake) plans and therefore couldn’t hang out, and to drop me off at the train station because there was no way in hell I was about to show him where I lived. He kept calling me a “miracle” and, "wouldn't it be funny if we wound up actually turning into something? Like we don't know each other at all, but maybe this is fate and if we start seeing each other it could maybe really go somewhere!" Right. Because that's clearly what the miracle here was, that we're soul mates and not the fact that I survived a bike accident with almost nothing more than an elbow scratch.
Sadly, it would've been an amazing story for the grandkids if it had actually gone the soul mate route. But all I could think was: this might be really romantic if he didn't happen to look like an Israeli George Costanza.
