I told myself repeatedly over the few days before I rode public transportation to Gala Theatre that Friday night, I would not be intimidated by fear or a number.
I will ride and I will not drive, I said firmly.
And so I did.
The getting there was the easy part, on Metro from Tysons and then up 14th Street on Bus #52 from the McPherson Square station.
At Gala I saw a wonderful flamenco performance, and wanted to stay for the Spanish Embassy reception afterwards, but the back of my mind rumbled with the gnawing realization that public transportation awaited me at 10:30 at night in the edgy neighborhood.
I skipped the reception at the end of the show and left the theatre and crossed 14th to wait on a bus. Nearby, lights on a police car blinked.
I was happy to see the car and thankful for the upcoming DC mayoral election, for, with the uptick in crime, Mayor Bowser just might have instructed the police to have “all hands on deck.” I hoped so.
At the corner only seconds passed before I was joined by another rider, a woman ranting and raving about Taco Bell: “I didn’t get fired!” she exclaimed. “I quit!” Over and over. She walked back and forth in front of me like a caged beast.
OK, I said to myself silently; I understand. But, where is the bus?
There it was, ambling down the street at last, although only a few moments had passed since I had begun my wait.
We boarded, and I took a seat opposite the rear exit in case a sudden escape became necessary. The woman sat at the front and continued her loud rants.
Another passenger sat across the aisle from her and pulled a liquor bottle out from his jacket pocket and offered her a drink.
“I don’t need that!” she bellowed.
We passed the Taco Bell a few seconds later, and she pointed to it and screeched: “It’s gonna kill someone!”
I tried to look ahead and out the windows, to avoid "engagement" and locking eyes with anyone.
When you ride a bus at night, you expect these outbursts. They are common.
The last three times I went to Mosaic Theater on H Street (pre-covid) the police were always involved in some form or fashion with activities on the free trolley car.
But that was then, and this was now.
14th seemed loaded with police cars every few blocks with red lights blinking on their car tops. I was grateful. Who wants to "defund the police"?
The bus continued its ramble down the street, stopping and starting to let passengers off and on, while the man and the woman continued their exchange which escalated quickly, and he pulled out a cigarette.
Was he going to light up on the bus? What would the driver do? But, behind his hard plastic window and from all I could see, the driver was oblivious to the action behind him, likely used to it all.
When the man called the woman the “n” word (he was black, too), the woman became enraged. Their conversation grew louder, more heated and indignant until she challenged the man to a fight.
On the bus?
They stood in the aisleway, apart, weaving back and forth in time with the bus’s motions and, began to dance the fighter's dance, yelling their words of conflict and hate.
This performance was more than the flamenco, and it was free!
But, at the flamenco, I wasn't afraid, like I was on the bus, sensing danger since I was within arm’s reach of the two fighters who moved in a semi-circle gnarling at each other, like they were in a boxing ring.
Where was McPherson Square?
I decided to get off at the next bus stop wherever it might be, and the woman got off with me, shouting: “This is not my stop!”
In my haste to cross the street and get away, I was too alarmed to look back to see if she re-boarded. Several blocks remained until the Metro station.
I hurried and descended to Metro's catacombs, happy to be safe.
Safe on the Metro?
The train was practically empty when it arrived and Yeeks! I was the only person to board the car.
I will not be afraid or intimidated, I said to myself. I will not; I cannot. But, I was. And still, I cannot stop; I will not.
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