Michele ruined my life today. She emailed several of us at work an article about how the TROLLEY IS SHUTTING DOWN FOR 6 MTHS.
SIX MOTHERFUCKING MONTHS.
THAT IS A LOT OF MONTHS.
In case you didn’t already know, here are some important facts:
- The trolley is how I get to work basically every single day now that Henry’s job sucks and he hasn’t been able to drive me.
- It’s way more stressful now that I don’t work late shift every day and have to deal with the morning rush hour crowds.
- It took me like 3 years to come to terms with commuting to work.
- I have major anxiety when my routine is changed.
- Horrible things happen to me a lot just on my walk to the trolley alone, such as ISSUES WITH CROSSING THE STREET and strangers wanting to talk, and then my day is ruined. You can ask Henry because sometimes he’s on the phone with me and witnesses the horrors! (Don’t let him tell you I embellish.) Sometimes I get splashed with water! One time I fell into a hole!
- I’m a little bit neurotic.
My first reaction was, “I have to quit my job.”
But then Todd verbalized some nonsense about TAKING THE BUS.
I whipped around in my chair and co-opted Henry’s method of laughing without mirth.
“Todd,” I said firmly once I stopped stuttering from all The Shock of the news. “I can NOT take a bus.” And then I had to tell him the now-legendary* tale of when I was 18 and met some boy at the mall (actually we met over the phone when I was a telemarketer for Olan Mills, lol) who then invited me back to his apartment on the Southside but we had to take the bus, he said, and I was all agreeable with adventure in my eyes.
Until it was 3am and I didn’t know how to get home so my mom had to come and pick me up.
I never took a bus again. I don’t understand the numbers and the letters and the routes. With the trolley, I have two choices: red or blue. And it’s a straight shot to where I need to go. No transfers or any such nonsense.
My only other brush with the bus was when I was a sophomore in high school and decided I wanted to join a gang, because that’s what all rich white girls do to act out: engage in back alley knife fights and terrorize the neighborhood shop owners. (But probably mostly just serve as a penis coozy for the “real” gang members.)
I had a friend named Jeremiah who lived in The City and he said he could get me into a gang, but I would have to TAKE A BUS from my comfortable suburban sprawl because none of my friends were interested in driving me to the hood to get gang-initiated.
“And that’s how I almost joined a gang,” I somberly wrapped up my deeply personal story.
“Wow,” Todd said with faux-amazement. “Your life could have been so different.”
“I know right?! I’d probably have a face tattoo by now, at least,” I mused, picturing all the battle scars etched into my body like a gritty street war constellation.
“Just make a bus friend,” Todd offered as a flimsy solution.
Todd, I don’t MAKE FRIENDS. I break them. (….?)
I’m glad that I have two months to fucking LOSE MY MIND over this before it actually happens. I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m still leaning heavily toward quitting my job.