by Ashley Munoz
I was verbally spouting off self -encouragement while I watched the jeep in front me. Since I took the bus or rail system most days while I lived in Chicago, my driving skills were a little rusty. Careful, nervous, and borderline dangerous was how my mother described my driving. Every time she said it, I would threaten to pull over and let her drive, then she’d side eye me and start speaking in tongues. As if her prayer language to God would somehow hurt me. Whatever. Once I felt confident I was doing everything correctly, my mind wandered back to my resume. Although the listing of my accomplishments did help to pump me up, it also served as a reminder of getting let go in the first place. I wish I could just shrug my shoulders and be done with it, but it still hurt. Five years of loyalty to one of the top marketing firms in Chicago and I was phased out, like an afterthought. Idiots. Oh well, it ended up working out, in the sense that I had to leave regardless. I shook my head and refocused on my list of qualifications. I started to decamp from the resume specifically, and focused instead on my overall awesomeness:
“I am a tall person, so I can easily reach things on top shelves and I won't need to ask for help. I am a go-getter, I normally have a great attitude, and am eager to start assignments. I am strong, I am confident, I can do anything! Stay in the zone, stay focused…”
I was starting to rattle the facts off louder and louder, when I noticed a motorcycle behind me. I have about zero knowledge of motorcycles, but this guy's bike seemed extra loud, like he was revving up his engine on purpose to get my attention. I double-checked my speedometer and tried to take comfort at the sight of the black needle hovering right over the sixty-five mark, but at the sound of his revving engine, I was nervous again. Motorcycle Guy seemed to be impatient as he started tailing me pretty closely. Maybe that was just my ‘careful and nervous’ driving again though. I situated my rear-view mirror, so that I could see him better. He was making me so nervous that I couldn't focus on mentally psyching myself up or do anything other than watch him tail me. He couldn't pass me. There was a solid yellow line and even if he could, the car I was behind and the traffic coming from the opposite direction would make it impossible. I stopped myself from looking down at my speedometer again.
"I'm going with the flow of traffic, asshole," I said to my mirror, as I continued to watch him. What was this guy's problem? He wasn't wearing a helmet; instead, he had a black bandana folded around his head. It wasn't covering his hair, which I could see was a dirty blond color. He had a leather jacket that looked simple and classy. To top it off, he was wearing motorcycle boots and dark sunglasses. I put my focus back on the road and tried to ignore him. That didn't last long, though. He started drifting from one side of the lane to the other like it was a joke to him, or like I was wasting his time. He lowered his legs from the foot bar and had them hovering above the ground while we were still pushing sixty-five miles an hour. Was this guy crazy? My stomach knotted with anxiety.
I had no idea how to make this guy go around me. “Just ignore him Ramsey, don’t look behind you again,” I said out loud. This self-talk thing was totally working. I stared at the blue jeep then biker guy throttled his engine… again, and now I was looking at him… again. I noticed there was a car coming towards me in the opposite lane and was a decent distance away, but not enough room to pass. I saw movement in my rear-view mirror, biker guy was going around me. So fast, it all happened in a blur. All I heard was his loud engine and, in a split second, I realized the oncoming car was too close. The car in front of me was too close, and motorcycle guy was trying to squeeze in… oh my gosh. I was going to die!!
I slammed on my brakes, causing my whole body to jolt against the seatbelt. I gripped the wheel, but felt my car slightly lose control as I tried to stay within the lines. Tears built in my eyes and I was positive the car behind me was going to hit me as he laid on his horn. I barely saw the motorcycle asshole jump in front of me, because I was watching my side mirror. Thankfully, the Honda Accord behind me only had to swerve slightly to his right to avoid hitting me. My heart was hammering, but I ignored it as I tried to regain my speed and position on the road. I double-checked and saw that it was still a solid yellow line in the middle of the road.
"Shit! You asshole! It was a double line!" I slammed my hand against the steering wheel and screamed at the motorcycle in front of me. He probably couldn't hear me, but he had a good view from his side mirrors of my crazy eyes, and insane hand gestures, including the middle finger that I slipped him several times. I committed the back of the bike to memory: it was a solid black frame, except for two silver wings that fanned out on either side. I swore, right there in my seat, that if I ever saw this man again, I was going to rip out his throat. Which was an exaggeration, of course. Sort of.
My face and neck were red and blotchy, I could tell from the heat that was locked inside my chest. I wanted to calm down. I needed to calm down, but that asshole started to casually swerve side to side in front of me, as if he hadn't just nearly ended my life. You're being dramatic, Ramsey, I could almost hear my mother accusing me. My grip tightened the steering wheel in rage. I had this dark part of me that wanted to ditch my interview and follow him, track his ass down, and taser the shit out of him. I huffed out another long sigh and tried to regain some composure.
I finally lost sight of that guy after he passed another two cars and I had to take my exit. Once he was out of sight, I began a few breathing exercises and tried to relax my shoulders. I took in the beautiful scenery along the exit for the shopping complex. Tall, green trees were modestly spaced alongside the road as I came down the ramp and turned right. I knew that I was close, but just to get back into the right headspace:
“Ranked MVP two years in a row in women's college soccer, winner of the Landry cup my senior year, averaged most shots per game for two seasons straight…” I finished by listing off a few more soccer stats from my glory days in college because soccer could always made me feel better about myself. I needed a big dose of confidence after that shit show of an almost car accident. I did a few more breathing exercises and told myself that I could do this. Just as I pulled into the parking lot, a brief flash of sunlight glared off something chrome, snagging my attention.
No. No freaking way was that asshole here! He was sitting there on his bike, staring at a cell phone. I plastered on the World’s Creepiest Smile and let out the most murderous laugh. I knew that I needed to reel in the crazy leaking out, but I was too far gone. I parked a few spaces away from him and unbuckled my seatbelt. Before I exited the car, I pulled the skinny flashlight taser out of my purse and held it in my hand, you know, just in case. I breathed in and out a few times and dug deep for some courage. Sure, I didn't want this guy to ever do what he did to anyone else, but I also had a vendetta against him, so I pushed forward, despite my nerves. As I walked, I looked around for possible witnesses, just in case this guy decided to kill me for yelling at him. I noticed there were about half a dozen cars in the parking lot and remembered the bar was open and probably had patrons inside, day drinking. I breathed through my nose and quickened my steps. I was wearing ballerina flats instead of heels because of the long drive, but my strides were cut short because of the gray pencil skirt I wore.
Even so, I walked towards this seemingly dangerous stranger, completely undeterred. He was standing near his bike, taking his bandana off and unzipping his coat. He was wearing a white, V-neck t-shirt underneath, and he had tattoos running along his arms as well as one that traveled up from his chest, onto his neck. I hated that the tattoos made me curious. I didn't need to be curious about dangerous strangers.
Once he caught sight of me, he did a double take, lowering his head, then lifting it again, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Without his bandana, he looked younger than I thought; I could see that he was probably in his late twenties or early thirties. Without the sunglasses or cloth on his forehead, it left his face smooth and clear. I could tell from here that he had dark green eyes. He seemed tall too, broad shoulders and str
ong arms. His gaze took me in from my feet, all the way up to my hair, where he paused, causing me to feel a twinge of self- consciousness as I closed in on him. My hair has always been thick like a sheepdog's, but light chestnut brown and way past my shoulders. I took the time to dry and straighten it this morning, which was no small miracle, but a freaking huge one. I also twisted two braids to look like a headband on the top of my head. I thought it looked cute, since I pulled my entire look from Pinterest, but the way he was staring at me made me think I overshot it.
I was just a few steps away from his bike now, and I realized too late that I was too close. I could smell the man, and I will note that it was not a bad smell but for safety reasons, I backed up a few steps. Then I planted my feet, looked the jerk square in the eyes, and laid into him.
“Hey!" There was no response, he was just watching me, like I was crazy. I pushed past my nerves and continued, "You nearly ran me off the road back there.”
My voice came out shrilly and louder than I intended; I sounded like a panicked teenager. He just continued to stare at me, then he looked behind me, where my mother’s Explorer sat. He had this squinted look in his eyes, like the sun was blinding him, except that the sun wasn't currently out, it was hidden behind a group of clouds. He didn't say anything, so I kept going.
“Seriously, what is your problem? You passed me on a double line when it wasn’t clear to pass and made me slam on my breaks. Do you even know how to ride that thing?” I gestured toward his bike, hoping to get him to respond. He looked at my hand that was stretched out toward his bike, then back up at me. He sighed dramatically, like he was irritated beyond belief. Screw you, buddy.
“Listen, lady, I don’t know what your problem is, but you can chill the hell out and lower your voice,” he snapped at me. His face was now portraying a level of anger, which I would assess as royally pissed. I clenched my fists at my sides, squeezing the taser tighter, and took a step closer.
“My problem? My problem is that you don’t know how to drive that stupid bike, and you nearly caused me to wreck my car when you whipped in front of me. I think you owe me an apology.”
As a rule, I normally hate those people who spout off exactly like I was doing right now, but my anger had taken on a life of its own. The motorcycle jerk looked like he might kill me. The side of his jaw kept ticking, and his eyes were narrowing in on me. My hand was getting sweaty and I felt like the taser might fall out completely, so I gripped it again, resisting the urge to wipe my damp hands on my skirt. Pull it together Ramsey.
“Well, as far as I am concerned, you owe me the apology for not passing the idiot in front of you when you had the chance and kept going ten miles under the speed limit. I had an appointment to keep with someone, and I like to honor my appointments, not that I owe you even that much. Why don’t you get out of here and go pick up your kids from soccer or whatever it is you do,” he clipped, and then he turned on his heel and walked inside.
His words actually stung a little. I hated to admit it, but they did. I looked back at my car and realized that driving my mom's SUV with a soccer ball sticker in the back window from when I was in high school, was probably not the best idea. I should have just called a taxi or an Uber, except I didn’t have the money for one. My face felt flushed and I tried to ignore the dig of being compared to a soccer mom. Not that being compared to one was embarrassing, but the fact that I wasn't even in a relationship and I was going to be completely alone once Mom died; made me realize how truly sad I was. How broken. I needed to shake his comment off and get back in the zone. I decided to head to the bathroom to check my face before stepping into my interview. Hopefully, I wouldn't run into that guy again. I couldn’t be held accountable for what I did, if I ever encountered him again.
I made my way through the parking lot and took a second to look around. There were three large cottonwood trees that lined the oval-shaped lot, green grass ran along the ground that bordered it, and tiny purple flowers were still peeking through the back brush. The bar that I was applying at was in a secluded corner of the shopping complex. Further down, I could see a gym, coffee shop, small grocery store, and a burger joint. Since this was a bar, I could see why it was further out. I was applying for their accounting position, but I would take anything they gave me, even the bartending slot that I knew was available. As I crossed the black asphalt and started walking on the smooth sidewalk, I noticed how nice the outside of the bar looked. It wasn't old or haggard-looking, like some bars tended to be. It was all whitewashed stone with massive glass windows, it had fresh clean trees and well-trimmed bushes out front with those same purple flowers scattered everywhere. Above the doors, sleek black signage displayed the word “Jimmy's.”
I walked through the shiny glass doors and silently padded into the entrance. I stopped mid-step because the entire space was absolutely stunning. Soft lighting fell gently over the darkly-stained wood floors, and the walls were the same whitewashed brick as the entrance. I saw a long, curved bar that was black and contrasted nicely against the wall of liquor with glass shelves and white paint opposite of the bar. The lighting was strategic and inviting, there were tables, soft couches, and chairs spread throughout the room, with another bar on the opposite side. The entire back wall was encased with windows that looked like they opened to the back patio, where more seating was laid out. It was so nicely put together that my head started pounding as adrenaline hit my system. This was exactly where I wanted to work. I noticed a black sign that said ‘Restrooms’ and headed toward it. There were a few servers milling about and one or two customers lounging at the bar, but no sign of the jerk. Good.
Once inside the bathroom, I gripped the black countertop and stared into the mirror. I looked the same five feet, eight inches, but swore I felt shorter after my verbal sparring match with the jerk. I exhaled, then wet a paper towel to pat my face down. My watery blue eyes looked darker than normal with my black tank, red sweater, and my tanned skin from the recent summer sun. Although since I was half-Cambodian, I usually had a tan, regardless of summer, thanks to my mother's heritage. My hair still looked fine, no flyaways or frizz, so I applied some more lipstick, double-checked my teeth, and exited the bathroom.
I flagged down one of the waitresses. "Excuse me, where can I find Jimmy Stenson?"
She smiled and pointed me down the hall opposite where the bathroom was.
"Thank you," was all I got out as I headed for the hallway she had gestured towards. I gave myself a quick mental pep talk about how to be awesome and reminded myself how badly I needed this, then I fixed my skirt and stopped outside a black door that said ‘Manager.’
I knocked and heard a muffled yell that sounded like “Come in,” and since he should be expecting me, I opened the door and walked in. The office was smaller than I expected; a modestly-sized desk sat in the middle with a laptop perched on top, there was a fancy water cooler sitting in the corner, and a few black filing cabinets that lined the back wall.
I focused on the center desk, where I saw a white piece of paper sitting in front of the man I just yelled at in the parking lot. I felt my gut tighten and my face flush, then inwardly I hoped that maybe the guy I yelled at was Jimmy’s cousin or a bartender using Jimmy's desk. Maybe Jimmy the owner was late, or in the bathroom?
I cleared my throat and while he was still looking down at the paper in front of him, I decided that even if this guy was Jimmy's cousin or bartender, I would be professional and push through. I stepped forward, and with a strong voice, said, “Hi, I am looking for Jimmy.”
The man nodded his head and took a second to look up. “You found him, you must be Ramsey, I was…” His voice trailed off as his head tilted up and he saw who was standing before him. I didn’t know what to do. I stood there, frozen, as he looked at me. His stare turned into a mean glare, and he gawked for a second or more before his eyes returned to his laptop where he continued to type like I wasn't there.
I gathered the courage to speak, “Is the intervi
ew over then?”
Jimmy, I guess is the jerk’s name, owner of the bar, looked at me again, but still didn't say anything. I turned my back to him slowly, and just as I was about to walk out, he spoke up and said, “Are you still holding your taser, or did you leave that outside?”
How did he even know I was holding one? My face heated but I tried to ignore it. I turned back around to face him and replied with hesitation, “I, uh, put it back in my car.” It was actually tucked in the back of my skirt, like you would a gun, and my sweater was covering it up, but I felt like he might call the cops if he knew that.
He seemed to smirk, but it quickly disappeared. “You're here, we might as well interview.”
This was so awkward and weird, I just wanted to leave. I couldn't possibly work for a man like this, but I wasn't a quitter and I already went through all of this just to be here, so if he was willing to let me do the interview, then I would take it. I took a seat in front of his desk while he was shuffling around some papers that seemed out of place. He scanned down one page, and then looked up at me with those gentle green eyes.
“I have to trust the person doing my books, completely, without question. I don’t get that vibe from you, and I see here that you were fired from your last job. That tells me the rest of what I needed to know. Sorry, doesn’t look like this is going to work out.”
His words echoed through me and clamored around like a small stone, skipping over rough water. The memory hit, like a punch to the gut.
“Doesn’t look like this is going to work out,” my mother said to the room, then looked up at me, making sure I heard her declaration. She was informing me that she was done.
Unwilling to acknowledge her or her declaration, I moved my eyes to her gown. It was white with small blue symbols splattered everywhere. There was no order or structure to the blue symbols, they just seemed to exist wherever they were printed. It was chaos.