The Fuber

Yet again, I should not be alive.

I know, I know, I should probably start blaming myself for these things, but really, again, this wasn't totally my fault. Who shames the victim anyway? Don't be that guy.

Let's start at the beginning, where everything always seems normal and pleasant:

This weekend I was out in the Upper East Side grabbing drinks with a friend. Great night, great bars, great drinks, great times. Neither of us were in the mood to truly rage, so 1 a.m. rolls around and we go our separate ways.
Seeing as I just moved to the city like, two weeks ago, the Subway system still terrifies me.
Seeing as no one cares about my neuroses, and weekend track construction is a thing, changes to the late night lines are an inevitably confusing problem.

I hopped on the 4 train only to discover that my connection to the E would not be happening as I originally planned, and I needed to take the 6 back to Grand Central to get on the 7 to connect to the E later down the line.
If the previous sentence makes sense to you, you're either a saint or sober. At the time, I was neither, and although four drinks don't exactly do me in, they make any trip involving that many numbers and letters turn into quite the production. Still, I managed to follow directions reasonably well, and got off at my transfer station in Jackson Heights.

As soon as I stepped off the train and it pulled away I knew I was in the wrong place. The two trannies I encountered a few seconds later confirmed it. Luckily, I'm used to this shit by now, and I calmly stepped off to the side to consult my phone and the many transit apps I had installed the day I moved here.
Suddenly a stout man with grease stains on his shirt appeared by my side out of nowhere, speaking to me in Spanish. I ignored him and silently apologized to Señora Baker for spending both Español I and II in high school doing my homework for other classes. I noticed him gesturing towards the trannies standing close by and realized he was either asking if I was part of their clique or wondering if the one on the left was a natural blonde (Answer to both: no. I was wearing a sundress and gladiator sandals for God's sake. Harsh roots though, girl). I glanced at him, shook my head, ignored him while he yelled something that was definitely not, "Where is the library, friend?" and put my full attention and trust back into Moovit.

To get to a station that would take me back to Queens, I would have to walk nine minutes. Not a substantial amount of time at any other point of the day, but at 1:45 a.m. when you're tired, have lost your buzz, and have just been made aware that you have mannish features, nine minutes is a lifetime. Couldn't do it, so I called an Uber.

Amrin and his Toyota Highlander would be there to pick me up in six minutes. Perfect! I would definitely be thoroughly creeped out by the produce vendor on the corner making sexy eyes at me by then! My phone notified me that I had just hit 10% battery life, which is pretty standard for these situations, so I put it away and awaited my chariot's arrival.
Two minutes later a shiny black SUV crosses the intersection and the driver gestures at me. Amrin apparently replaced Paul Walker in Fast and Furious 7 and I could not be more pleased with the casting choice.
I approach the car's open passenger window.
"Uber?"
"Yiss."
And so commences a potential episode of Dateline: Missing in America.

The driver is very pleasant, asking me how my night was and making the usual Uber small talk that is typically cut short by one of my friends in the backseat screaming, "CAN YOU TURN ON THE RADIO?!" We discussed the humidity, how I used to live in DC, how driving in the city is a nightmare, and how cigarettes were a gross habit that I should definitely join him in on our ride because "You are eh-young, is no problem." Valid point, but I passed anyway.

Then my phone rings. Unknown number.

"Hello?"
"Hi, it's Amrin. I'm outside Bank of America in the black Highlander. Do you see me?"
Uhhh...fuck.
I glance at the Driver Formerly Known As Amrin, who is distracted by the gay bar on the corner blasting Skrillex.
"Well I thought I was with you already but apparently not."
"What?"
"Yeahhh...I've got a ride right now but I might be calling you back."
"What?"
"I'll call you back."

I hang up and look back at Stranger Danger.
Buzz: gone. Nerves: ignited. Game face: on. I have way too great of hair to disappear into someone's basement for a decade, okay? This was not going to happen on my watch.
"I'm sorry, what did you say your name was again?" I asked.
"Alex." Shit. "What is yours?" 
"Jessica."
"Is very nice to meet you."
"You too!!!"

My overenthusiasm was a ploy to scare him into briefly forgetting which Taken dungeon I would soon be inhabiting.
"So you are married?" Translation: Who will come looking for you when you're gone?
"Nope."
"Never been married?" Translation: Did your ex-husband love you enough to come find you when you're gone?
"Never."
"You have children?" Translation: What are we working with down there?
"No."
"You have boyfriend?" Translation: Sweet Allah have I hit the jackpot?!
"YES!"
"You do?"
"Yes yes yes."

(As every girl who has encountered a sketchy bro at the bar knows, the answer is always yes. Always.)

During this transaction I go to my recent calls and dial everyone that is not my parents. Three separate people, multiple redials, no answers. THANKS A HEAP GUYS, REALLY APPRECIATE THE FRIENDSHIP. I am simultaneously watching Alex's every turn and making note of the streets we are on, realizing we are, in fact, going in the opposite direction of my apartment. Classic.

"Uh-oh Alex, I think 67th Street is the other way!"
"No no, we are taking short cut to avoid lights. Is faster, trust me."
"Ten blocks the other way is faster? That's so weird."
"Yiss."

Meanwhile, I'm still haphazardly dialing each number in my recent call log, wondering why I associate with lame-o's who aren't up, out, and about at 2 a.m. on a Friday.

"Alex why don't we just go the regular way. You can drop me off at 67th Street, then there aren't lights to deal wi-"
"Is no problem."
"Actually it kind of is. Just drop me off at 67th Street."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
"Is no problem."
"67th Street, please."
"....Hokay."

We pull a death-defying U-ie and Alex is chain smoking like an Indonesian toddler, visibly displeased with how this night has turned out. That makes two of us, pal. He casually misses the first opportunity to turn onto 67th Street, holding onto hope that I'll change my mind and be the drugged out Princess Leia to his Jabba the Hutt.

"Right there."
"Huh?"
"67th Street is right up there. You can pull over."
"Is okay, I take you the whole way."
"No no it's really, really fine. Right there is fine."
"You sure?"
"Riiiiight there."

He stares at me for a solid ten seconds and then slowly pulls over, passing over the first option of the vacant fire hydrant space because that would be illegal.

Before he can child lock the doors and strangle me with his Brooklyn Nets lanyard, I say, "Alright well great thanks so much have a great night!" leaping out of the car and race-walking in a zig-zag up the street, as you are supposed to do to wild predators. I never looked back, but I know he waited in that spot until I was completely out of sight.

And that is how I escaped the Fuber, or the Fake Uber. As always, I'm sure a certain level of naïveté contributed to this mess, but I can't help but wonder when my nine cat lives will run out and I won't have the opportunity to write about my death-defying adventures for you folks.

I need a chaperone.

Rules for Riding the Metro

The Washington, DC Metro system is an enigmatic entanglement of day-old newspapers, single-tracking delays, and suffocating BO. Nowhere near as old as the New York City Subway or even the Chicago L, we can basically think of the Metro as the sullen youngest teenage sibling of America's rapid transit systems that listens to Mae and rebels by not showering. It's a great way to get to work every day!

Every day.

As long as everyone is following the unwritten rules of public transportation (no eating, no staring, no noise whatsoever, etc.), the commute is perfectly fine. However, there are certain, specific rules that are just as inherent but apparently much more difficult to follow, and failure to adhere to those rules will definitely get you yelled at by strangers (or worse, seriously mean-mugged).

If you don't feel like reading the following rules and are planning on riding the Metro or one of its national affiliates sometime in the near future, for the love of God wear deodorant, or, at the very least, keep your arms at your sides. Seriously, how and why do people smell SO BAD?!

Don't be a hero, use the handrail - Core strength is seriously lacking in the DC/Maryland/Virginia area, and instead of going home and doing a 30-second plank every night, residents of our community instead opt to turn into the human incarnation of that Boneless Girl computer game that was popular in the Myspace era. I don't want to touch the poles either, but I ain't too proud to grab on when the Metro car operator is touchy on the brakes and the danger of flying headfirst into Yarn Lady's crochet needles is imminent. If you can't be confident that you'll stay solidly on your feet for the duration of the ride, suck it up and hold a handrail while you wait for a seat to free up. Soft knees, people, soft knees.

Don't be a statue - Personal space does not exist here. As someone who has spent the better part of a 45-minute commute with her shoulder involuntarily cradled by a sumo wrestler's belly button, I can attest to the fact that trying to fight the inevitable is pointless, and getting all up in someone's business is just the way it's gotta be. When I go to sit in the open seat next to you, mooove, bitch. Pretending that by not moving a muscle to accomodate my presence in your bubble you somehow "win" for the day is a huge waste of passive aggressive energy that you could instead use against your wife at couple's therapy. Forcing me to sit on half of your thigh and/or briefcase is a very odd way to stand your ground, and you're automatically worse than the "You can't sit heeah" kid from Forrest Gump because you're not even enough of an asshole to say it out loud.

Do announce your weekend sexcapades to the entire car - Technically you're not supposed to (read: shouldn't) talk on your phone, but if you're going to do it, make it entertaining. Do I want to hear you loudly gush about your upcoming trip to Kennebunkport? Nope. Will I completely ignore the third chapter of The Green Mile to eavesdrop on your convo about "Kevin" and how you totally told "Kevin" off at Barcode on Friday but whoopsies ended up going home with him after Spider Kelly's on Saturday and now he wants to hang out tonight but then what do you do about "Brad"? Keep it comin'!

Do check your AARP card at the door - I love old people, but only when they're actually old. Remember the, "I like eggs" grandma from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory? She is my fave. Along the same vein, Grandpa Joe (the one who miraculously dances around after years of bed rest when chocolate is mentioned) is the worst kind of old person. They're wrinkly enough for one to correctly assume that they're at least 65, but they're walking around without so much as a limp and know how to operate an iPhone better than I ever will. Just because there is a sign that says "Reserved for the elderly and disabled" does not mean you deserve it, and asking me to give up my seat for the sole fact that you were born before 1950 is absolutely absurd.

Do not impact my day with your unforseen sickness - True Life: I was riding the Metro home a few months ago, standing up against the door in a mildly-packed car. Either I hadn't eaten enough that day, or my scarf was tied too tightly, or I have brain cancer (thanks WebMD), but whatever the problem was, I suddenly felt as though I was going to faint. Super dizzy, hot flashes, weak knees, nausea, the whole shebang. I had never experienced this before so I was a little scared, but I white knuckled the pole and stared intently at the floor to fight the sensation for one single, solitary reason: I refused to delay my commute home. If I passed out, they would have to stop the train, unload it, call an unnecessary ambulance, and all of the fellow riders would hate me. Too much. A little syncope never hurt noboby! Should you ever feel as though you're going to puke, implode, or die, here's the simple fix: don't. I am not missing my Zumba class just because you can't maintain consciousness.

If you think I've forgotten a critical Metro-riding guideline, please let me know. If you see something, say something, amirite?

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With a Sense of Fear and Irrationalitaaaay

I got my hair cut last week. Considering the obscene amount of hair I have and the fact that my desire to be pretty is consistently beaten out by my desire to stay in my comforter cocoon for-ev-ver, I ask for lots of layers so the lion's mane essentially styles itself. To do this, stylists use a razor comb, which thins out the ends of your hair as they brush it through. An effective tool? Yes. Source of debilitating fear? Oh. My God.

Sadists.

Paranoid seems like such a dirty term; I prefer "cautiously attentive." When the perfectly capable and steady-handed Irena brought the razor comb towards my precious head, all I could imagine was her slipping on a stray squirt of mousse and skinning me like a prize buck (is that the correct simile? I don't hunt). There is so much that could go wrong there. I held my breath for the better part of the experience and obsessively stroked the back of my head when she was done to see if I could feel any strategic cover-ups of a now-bare scalp. Irena spared me. This time.

I realize that this is completely ridiculous and a huge waste of energy, but I can't help it; there are some things out there that will always terrify me for no reason. Actually, there are lots of them. I should be committed.

Whoa, you win.

Getting a pedicure, the nail technician will rip my big toe off - Nearly fifteen years of dance left me with manly calves and disgusting feet. Bunions, calluses, weird toenails -- I gave up my dream of being a flip-flop model many years ago. Does that mean I'll stop forcing a sweet, innocent lady to tend to my toes with a pumice stone and a prayer? Nevaaa. I have a lot of weird habits that arise when I get my toes done (giggle fits, restless leg syndrome, etc.), but as soon as I see the technician break out the toe separators I completely freak out. One of these days, she will definitely shove that thing in there too hard and completely crack my bunion in half, alleviating the need for the surgery my mother so desperately wants me to get but also guaranteeing that I'll chop both of my feet off to prevent this from ever happening again.

Water fountain backwash - When I was in third grade, someone told me that when you turned on a water fountain, the leftover water from the previous user was saved up and was the first bit of water that came out on the next use. So basically, if you didn't let the water fountain run for a few seconds before you started drinking, you just drank water from the mouth of Frank Farter. Between my youthful gullibility and the fact that a kid could rightfully earn himself the nickname Frank Farter, I hardly ever use water fountains these days. 

Stranger hiding in the house - I really shouldn't live in a multi-level house. I can't handle the possibilities. When I was little (...and also to this day...), I was convinced that a family lived in the crawlspace in our basement. They didn't do anything bad, per se, but they were there and probably judged harshly when I broke something on the computer that caused it to function improperly for the next 10 years (Hey family! Five year secret!). This delusion was amplified when I saw an episode of CSI where the killer hid out in his victims' attics and drove them crazy to the point of committing suicide. CSI is real, so you can imagine how this affected me. No matter where I am, if there is an air vent above me I am 99% positive there is a psycho staring right back at me, plotting his next move. And now you are too.

Burning off my eyebrows - I don't smoke, so that alone has cut my need to own and/or know how to operate a BIC lighter in half. The other half has been taken care of thanks to, of all things, America's Funniest Home Videos. Clip upon clip is shown of people lighting candles on a cake, with the audience howling with laughter when the lighter all of a sudden flares up and poor little Suzie gets a Barbie and a lack of expression for her birthday. People are always losing their eyebrows! Why is no one else worried about this?! I can usually keep my cool in these situations, but you'll notice I'm usually standing at least eight feet away from the fire starter with brow corrector in hand.

Getting T-boned at an intersection - First of all, this has actually happened to me, so maybe it's not so irrational after all. In that incident, the car was totalled but the driver and I weren't seriously injured slash dead so in my mind it was just a practice run by God. Any time I pass through an intersection, with a bright green light and everyone else using blinkers and abiding by every driving law in the book, I still tense up to prepare for impact. I'm just convinced that someone's brake will spontaneously combust and they'll come flying straight at me. Most of the time, when approaching the intersection, I'll instruct the drivers around me (aka scream), "STAY THERE. EVERYONE BE COOL. MAKE GOOD DECISIONS," until I've safely made it through. Long story short my friends don't ask me to drive anymore.

From this list, you can infer that I've never seen any of the Final Destination movies, because I would never leave my house for the rest of my life. I swear I'm normal in most other aspects, but you can never be too careful. Or on too much Xanax.

 

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