Where Are You Going?
One day, when Gregg wasn’t around, I left a bar with a guy I didn’t know. I wanted to go to Tubby’s, a few blocks away. We left in broad daylight, needing those flaming shots before lunch.
We got into the stranger’s car to get to Tubby’s faster, even though it was less than a mile away. This made sense to me at the time. Always let some other person drive. That was my motto.
We were both wasted.
We were in the car for maybe a minute when the guy turned in the wrong direction.
“Where are you going?” I asked politely. It was early enough that I didn’t think I was slurring my words. “Tubby’s is that way.” I pointed backwards and turned around in my seat, as if looking for the bar. Without a seatbelt on, it was easy to sit completely backwards and use the dashboard as a backrest.
“It’s cool,” he said, laughing. “I know a better place.”
“Tubby’s is a great place,” I said, facing front again. I started to panic a little; I didn’t want to go too far from home.
“It’s good to try new things,” he said, hitting the gas a little harder. “You’ll like it.”
You’ll like it?
Suddenly I felt gripped with an overwhelming terror that was not sufficiently squashed by my alcoholic intake.
I had a barrage of flashbacks reminding me very energetically why I shouldn’t be in a car with a stranger: sweaty bodies, fists in my face, “take this!” … shadows towering over me, “shut up!” … and now some voice suggesting “you’ll like it” when I already very much did not.
I sat up straighter and demanded very calmly: “Let me out.”
The stranger laughed again. “It’s okay!” he said, maybe genuinely.
But he didn’t stop the car.
I could barely breathe. I don’t know this guy, I thought. I don’t even know his name and they’re going to find my body in a ravine.
“It’s NOT okay!” I managed. “Let me out!”
He glanced at me, smiling, and laughed again. I stayed frozen, listening to the engine.
Then, just as the car went around a slow curve to the left, I lurched forward, grabbed the door handle, opened the passenger-side door, and threw myself out of the moving vehicle onto the pavement.
I’d expected to fly from the car onto the sidewalk; instead I thudded onto the street. I flopped around a little, then my body landed with a fallump against the curb.
I could hear the guy screaming “… fucking nuts!” before he squealed away, his car door still slapping the side of the car as it rounded another corner and disappeared.
He did not stop to check on my well-being.
For some reason, his car did not run me over me – nor did the car behind it.
I pulled myself onto the sidewalk, stood up, brushed some gravel out of my skin and, bleeding only a little, headed for Tubby’s.
Halfway there, I realized that the guy might try to find me at Tubby’s, and kidnap me again. So I walked to a completely different bar and hid in plain sight, drinking with other complete strangers.
I didn’t leave until the bar closed at 2 a.m.
I never saw that guy again, and it was the only time I ever jumped out of a moving car. For some stupid things, once is enough.