I leave Ainsley, Kate and Wynn, board the M4 bus and begin my 45 minute journey back to the Heights. I find a seat mid-bus on the right side. The bus is unusually full for 10 pm on a Wednesday night. I pull a book out of my bag and turn on my iPod. The nice thing about riding the bus late at night is the traffic is light (for Manhattan). And because I do this commute several times a month I don’t notice the bus cruising along Madison Avenue, turning onto 110th Street and cutting north at Broadway through the 120s, 130s, 140s, 150s, and finally into the 160s where it turns west again onto Fort Washington.
Except tonight the driver doesn’t turn at 165th Street. But everyone else on the bus notices and someone yells, “Hey Driver! You need to turn at 165.” “No, I don’t,” the driver yells back. Because we are 10 blocks from the George Washington Bridge my first thought is that he’s an MTA employee gone rogue. And this renegade is taking us to the Bronx or Jersey, where he intends to hold us for ransom that he won’t get because the MTA is broke. “Yes, you do have to turn at 165!” another woman yells. “The route says turn at 168, so that is what I am gonna do,” the driver shouts back. “That’s the old route! The new route is west on 165!” “What? This an old map? Shoot! This isn’t my normal route,” the driver shares.
He slams on the brakes and yanks the bus diagonally across Broadway until we are in the left lane. We are ready to turn onto 168th Street when at the last minute the driver flips the biggest u-turn I have ever witnessed. My right boob is crushed into the side of the bus with my nose pressed up against the glass. Ooo, the window stinks.
The driver cuts off a gypsy cab, almost clips a hydrant, miraculously avoids another bus and then heads south. “Gotta make all the stops! Goin’ back to 165!” the driver announces and grins at us. None of us are hurt or maimed, but he has silenced two dozen New Yorkers. We’re also VERY lucky that once Broadway hits the Heights the road is W-I-D-E. Because it not only takes skill, but space to whip an accordion bus 180 degrees.
Once inside my apartment I sit down at the computer and check for Town and Country's response. (I know bad and stupid Desi Girl). But on one of our three dates, Town and Country and I chatted about palm readings and psychics. He said he knew of a good one. So a few days ago I emailed him for the contact information. I don’t totally believe in astrology. But I find it interesting that a stranger can read my energy or that my life is literally written in my hands. Staring at the computer I know while I am stubbornly steadfast, I am wantonly weak. And this HAS TO BE the last email I send him. EVER.
I bet no man had the audacity to tell Durga where and when to meet him. And I feel confident that Durga never contacted a man who rejected her. I am sure she was too busy saving mankind from itself to give a man the chance to reject her. Besides, she is not the pining type. She’s the type of woman to lock eyes with a man across the bar and buy him a drink of her choosing. I need to get strong and independent like her because I am tired of dejection and relationships on his terms. I need to live a life, this life, my life, on my terms.