It hits me that I’m really single on mysixteenthday getting homealone after work. I have to rely on public transportation since apparently my car trouble is worse than the mechanic thought it would be. My car exists solely to fuck with my finances when I’m at my lowest. I already had to do some girl math to make sure I have enough money for rent next month and realistically, I’ll need to move to a smaller place when my lease runs out in three months.
Three painful months of doubled rent and a drained savings account. It’s enough to keep me slaving away at work and distracted on the way home. On that sixteenth day I have to walk home alone, a weird guy gets off at my stop on the bus and follows me for three blocks until I stop at a corner store and start up a random conversation with the owner.
I assumed that would be the peak of bad shit happening to me. I shouldn’t have been that naive about the direction of my life considering everything I had been through up until that point.
Walking home alone isn’t scary enough for me to call a strange man up and make the situation scarier, but after the day the guy follows me, I spend at least an hour going back and forth once I get home over whether I should call Zebulon. And say what, exactly? I don’t know. I’m just overreacting to being alone when really I need to do something that single people do to feel less lonely. I could get a cactus, for example.
Another week passes with no real incident and I feel better handling the creepy guys on public transportation. I don’t need Rakeem. I don’t need Zebulon. Frankly, what I need is to get my car back, though I don’t have any idea how to speed up the process. The car is gone, I have my whole income stretched thin to make this break up work until I move, and I’m so tired of being the friend whose life is always in a mess.
You get to a point in your life where your friends all have their own stuff going on and nobody wants to hear about howyou lost your job, your car, your boyfriend, or anything else. Rana took me to the bar, and I appreciate her for that, but she can’t be there to help me with every single thing every single day. I haven’t spoken to her in two weeks because I know she’s buried underneath a huge amount of work for school and I don’t want to be a bother.
I’ve been swamped with work too, though mine contains a lot more blood and bodily fluids. Our friendship works because we both “get” the crazy hours and how working 12-hour shifts leaves limited time for a personal life. You want deep, real ass friends that you can bond with quickly and who understand that in this day and age, a woman has to hustle.
On Monday, around three weeks after the whole bar thing, my boss asks me to stay late at work. It feels like a blessing in disguise considering everything else going on, even if most people wouldn’t leap at the opportunity to add more work to their plate. Cindy’s kid woke up after she put him to bed puking so she won’t be able to come in until her husband gets back from Connecticut. He’s apparently a truck driver. I’m exhausted, but it’s nothing a little Dunkin’ can’t slap a band-aid on. It’s not like I have a boyfriend or kids to get home to.
I need the extra money, so I heartily agree to the overtime hours, ignoring the nervousness that accompanies me having to get home after midnight.
The last time I stayed past 10 p.m., Rakeem picked me up. I don’t mean to let my nervousness get to me, but the closer I get to having to walk home alone, the more stupidly anxious I feel. It’s beyond necessary, too. I’m a grown woman, I should be okay walking around alone at night. Plenty of women do it, right?
I text Rana forty-five minutes before midnight. Cindy’s husband showed up, so she’s on her way – about a forty-five minute drive to the hospital.
Me: You up?
Rana: Library. Studying. Law school sucks.
I’m happy that she’s awake and I have someone to message in case anything happens on the way home.
Me: You can do this!!
It’s impressive how successful Rana is. I don’t think I could ever survive law school. She claims that she had a good mentor, but I think she’s smart. In contrast to my poor decisions, Rana’s a freaking genius. I gave up everything to be with Rakeem. I turned down three job opportunities, a chance to move to Denver, and acceptance to a LPN-to-RN bridge program.
Back then I told myself that I was only doing it for love and that in my position, Rakeem would have done the same thing. He was never in my position.
When Rakeem and I moved in together, my life seemed planned out down to the details. I didn’t just trust him by chance. He made promises. He showed up for me. I thought he was going to be my person until the end. I was wrong. So wrong. My windpipe twists into an uncomfortable knot at my own foolishness, which embarrasses me more than I want to admit. I wasted my life on this man and he didn’t even care enough for us to have a dignified breakup.
Me: Heading home late tonight.
Rana: Text me when you get there! Should I call?
Me: I should be fine. Just wanted to let someone know.
Rana: You won’t get kidnapped.
Rana: Manifesting
Her message reassures me enough that when I leave, I send her one more message that I’m on my way to the bus stop and then I put my earbuds in. There’s nobody else waiting for the bus and I’m the only one to get on. Most of the seats are empty, so I choose one close to the front and close my eyes for the long drive to the station where I change buses to go to my little corner of South Boston.
I never had it in me to fall asleep on public transportation, even if I really need the rest. Then again, I never worked this late before losing both my boyfriend and my ride. It’s harder to stay awake this time and I almost miss my stop at the station where I have to transfer buses. I nearly miss a step coming off the bus which jolts me awake just long enough to wait for the last bus out to Randolph for the night.
This time, the bus isn’t empty. There are three men clustered near the front of the bus wearing Dickies work pants splattered with paint, brown work boots in various stages of wear, and face masks. Nothing crazy. I don’t want to walk past them and risk any type of harassment, but there are only three rows of seats between the men and the bus driver, so I choose just behind the bus driver.
For thirty minutes, I am totally on edge, but the men don’t seem to notice my presence. They get off with me at the bus stop in Randolph and peel off together in the opposite direction from the one that I have to walk home. So I’m alone. And I don’t know why that makes me feel so weird when it’s much better than walking behind or ahead of those three men from the bus.
Me: Got off the bus in Randolph
Rana: How long?
Me: 15 minutes.
