Martin Needs To Leave The City

This is not New York City. This is DC. I should not be acting the way I have been acting, but the longer I am here, the more it sinks in that no one is going to tell Alma that they saw me misbehaving. For an evil little shit like myself, this realization is positively intoxicating. Add to this potent sense of freedom some actual physical intoxicants and my friends, you have a problem. That being said, the stories that follow happened on the job, my veins humming with nothing stronger than home-brewed coffee.

I am driving my two precious angels home from school, singing gently with them and enjoying the delightfully crisp fall day. We have just gotten out of Dupont Circle when before us weaves an un-helmeted bicyclist*. I am forced to brake rather violently, and, startled, I give my horn a gentle tap to let him know that he is not alone in the world. He turns his head around and gives me a MOST incredulous and unpleasant look, which bothers me mightily, and before I know it I return his look complete with my tiny middle finger thrust up into the air. He makes a full, lazy circle in front of us, pauses in front of the car, and spits ferociously onto my windshield. With impeccable Southern aplomb, I smile graciously, flip on the wipers, and wave gaily to him as I wash away his inconsequential spittle.

*I do NOT have a problem with cyclists or pedestrians. I have a problem with HELMET-LESS people who expect everything else with wheels to be in complete control of their safety.

This past week, I took Buddy to school in a taxi. I should have known from the first that I had gotten a "dud" cabbie; he wanted to chat.

Me: Please take a right on P St.

Him: I like to take Mass Ave, you see, it is much faster this way and...

Me: Turn right here.

Him: (bitches allllll the way the Georgetown about his "faster" route)

Him: 6.75, please, oh, you have a twenty? Oh, see, I don't have change for that, can I give you this ridiculous amount that will ensure me at least a five-dollar tip for this awful, annoying ride?

Me: No. Hold on.

Here's where it gets fuzzy. I am sure I gave him a twenty. When he finds me fifteen minutes later, after I've dropped Buddy off, he is sure I gave him a five. This has happened to me before (generally IN the cab, though) and I do not care to be bamboozled this time. The following occurs right outside of Buddy's school in full view of the parents waiting there.

Him: OH I am so glad I found you, I have been looking and looking and see, (does the obnoxious I'm-going-to-talk-fast-and-bamboozle-you thing)

Me: Wait, what? (I know that I am fallible and want to make things right)

Him: (Does not shut up, not for one second, not even to take a breath)

I realize I do in fact have a twenty in my pocket, and offer it to him, whereupon he starts into the no-change thing again. He will. not. Shut. UP. I think that's what did me in, was the constant and unrelenting noise. I burst horribly into tears on Wisconsin Avenue and said in a most deranged way, "Would you PLEASE shut the FUCK UP for one FUCKING MINUTE???" Well, dear readers, he did! For a moment. He began to open his mouth again, and I, bamboozled and frustrated, grabbed his arm, grabbed the eleven dollars he was proffering, and said, "Let's let it fucking go, shall we? I don't have the fucking time for this. Have a nice fucking day." This said in a shrill, odd voice, as tears streamed down my reddened face to fog up my glasses. I then snurfled and sniffed my way away from him, shoulders hitching pathetically occasionally. The fancy folk of Georgetown looked away from the sad little sight of me in my Walmart shoes, brown cords with said cord rubbed away, and saggy little zip-up sweatshirt splotched violently with tearstains. And folks? For the first time, I wasn't surprised that my obvious distress made me invisible.

I'm not sure if this is a surface coating of rage and insanity or the more pervasive crumbling and blackening of my soul, but all the same it merits at least a casual self-study. Just nobody tell my mom, okay?