Open to the Public

Ooohh, the joys of public transport. How I’ve forgotten its many a’splendid gratuities. Like when some morning commuter decided to up and fall asleep at the wheel, mosey up onto the tracks, and take out an electrical box in Norwalk, thereby stalling all inbound and outbound trains by more than an hour. I’m not even anywhere close to Norwalk. But still – I sit. And wait. And watch the flickering signage spew delay notification after delay notification with such transfixed perplexity that can only be likened to that of an over-caffeinated, trust funded gambling guru watching the wall street ticker thirty seconds before closing time. If only I’d have known it then.
Or when the security guard speeds up to me in his turbo powered golf cart, screeches to a halt, and barks out for me to move “away from the platform” with my cigarette. And it’s not that I’m upset that others are upset by my smoke – because believe me, I get it. It’s a nasty gross disgusting habit and if I was better than I am I wouldn’t be doing it in the first place and wouldn’t want to be stuck standing next to someone who did. But/so, because of this, I wasn’t anywhere near the platform. I was, in fact, standing in the middle of the street. Apparently, those five steps that landed me, officially, on the “other side” marked the cessation of my fellow commuters breathing in second hand smoke, as opposed to – you know, the healthier, smog filled Riverside County air. Maybe they should put one of those yellow lines or something on the pavement. You know, so idiots like me know exactly where I’m allowed to slowly kill myself. Or, according to the man who had covertly sidled up to me with his own cancer stick, make myself uglier. Yeah. Because, didn’t you know, smoking causes women to have more pronounced wrinkles. Which men find unattractive. Thereby preventing them, the women, from finding a husband. Because this is – as you well know – every woman’s number one priority. Well, I joke (sarcastically) back, thank god I’ve pretty well got the husband thing on its way to being covered, then. Wiggle the engagement ring. Fake a smile. And that’s when he says it. The thing. You know, the one I should have known was coming – “that’s too bad girl – cuz I’d still take you home.”
Oh, swoon.
Thank you delayed train – for having orchestrated this meeting. Knowing that I’m still fuckable despite my future wrinkles was totally worth it.
But, you know, I WAS standing there. All… sexually, and stuff. So – you know – my fault. My bad. Sorry, creepy dude, for getting your hopes up.
Hey man, it’s cool though. Because Tom still rides, and I met him years ago. Buddy system’s a go on all points – I mean, that works, right? It’s about protection, after all. Strength in numbers. So imagine my sense of security this morning when his booming voice carried itself over the meticulously hair gelled quaff of a forty something, tote bag… toting, overly cologned man of indeterminate origin. Because there he be. My knight in shimmering armor.  Same cul-de-sac baldness. Same Rayband aviators. Same camel colored trench coat. Last I saw him was… wow… five, six years ago? Hasn’t changed much, despite the passing of so much time. Although this morning he was sans golf clubs. And the cowboy boots had been replaced by squeaky loafers. And, I’m glad to say, he was without the matching ranchero hat. But then it hit me – I wonder what ever happened with his son and the girlfriend. See, back then, they were still teenagers, on the cusp of twenty-something-hood, and had decided to get married. According to Tom, the whole engagement happened one night when they decided they’d like to finally have sex and, being the good Christians they are, knew God would smite them if they didn’t first tie the knot. But despite their, let’s just say it, sexually charged immaturity, Tom fully supported the proposal because, while his son was, of course, brilliant and quite the catch, and the girlfriend may have been “dumber than a box of rocks,” she was “damn nice to look at” and, clearly, she’s about to open that door. And at least now he could rest assured that his son wasn’t gay. Kaiser Tom, ladies and gents. Forever oogling his son’s arm candy. Maybe I should steer clear of him, as well.
Speaking of Christian virginity, Sean, I noticed upon boarding the train, was there, too. Same train car. Same worn out bible he’s been “reading” since I braved the train back in 2007 – ceremoniously perched open on his lap. Although… see, I watched him this morning. Total stealth, mind you; he had no idea. And not once, during the whole forty-five minute commute, did he ever turn the page. Methinks the passenger doth not truly ingest the good word like he’d have you believe. Too busy sneaking glances up the pencil skirt of the lady sitting across from him. Oh Sean, you devout servant of his lordship, what fancy images of sugar plum fairies and candy striped angels have you dancing through your head all the morning long? Hopefully he never gets to Deuteronomy in that there book of his.
And then there’s the post-train ritual. A stuffy bus that spits and burps its way from the arrivals platform to a half a mile’s distance from my place of business – where I carefully unstick my feet from the goo ridden floor and cross the threshold, my converse hitting the pavement with a resounding, gravely crunch. And here’s where it gets interesting. Fo’serious, yo. Because I really don’t think I could possibly survive the remainder of my working day if not for the next few minutes in which I hoof it .8 kilometers, while trying not to get flattened by rogue semi trucks, run over by the working woman (who powers through the carefully manicured streets of Orange County, solo, in a 4×4 all-terrain vehicle meant to seat eight… comfortably), or too upset at the three or four different company trucks that practically slam on their breaks as they pass by so all three grown ass men can hang their bodies out the window, slobber, and drool while pointing out the fact that I do, in fact, have an ass – as most of the human population, you know, does. I guess I can blame it on the fact that they’re men, right? That they can’t possibly control their need to whop out some jungle crazed jibberish while banging the quarter panel of said vehicle so I’m sure to not miss their praise. I should be wooed, right? By the romantic flicking of their tongue – up and down – between what I should only interpret as the good gestured peace sign.
Think I’m kidding? I’m not. I’ve actually been told to take a cat call as a compliment. That – if I don’t, if I am offended by it, I’m a frigid bitch who really just needs to get laid every once in a while. Because while it’s not okay to smoke on that yellow line, it’s totally acceptable to teeter on it with sexual harassment.
All of this is, once again, what men do. I mean – you said it, right, Reader’s Choice? That this, my whole morning, comes down to the fact that I am a woman and I should expect this kind of behavior if I’m going to venture out into public and flaunt my sexuality. While drunk. At a party. Wearing a tube top and fuck me heels.
Only I wasn’t. In a faded pair of gray jeans, a dingy old black concert hoodie, my hair hastily pulled back in whatever bobby pins I could scrounge up from miscellaneous table tops this morning, and minimal make up, I wasn’t even close. Although… I was seductively sucking down the inhibitions minimizer otherwise known as AMPM black coffee. While on my way to fucking work.
Because you can’t go half way, kids. If we’re really honest with ourselves, we’d just admit to what we already know – that it’s a dangerous world out there. And around every turn – a delayed train, five steps further, young lust, a religious cloak, a half a mile, or a raging, alcohol infused party – lurks the potential for harm. And in knowing this, it’s my fault if I don’t prevent it every second of every day. Final Destination style. Just like Tom’s possible daughter in law, who decided she wanted to maybe have sex some day and so must endure the judgmental innuendos and probing eyes of her new father in law. Or Sean’s mystery rider, who – let’s face it – should have stuck with a pants suit.
Yeah people. That’s healthy.
Because, again, if we’re really being honest with ourselves, we’d admit that it doesn’t just happen at parties. To sexy women. Who are by themselves. And drunk. It happens to red-headed girls I went to high school with – when they go to Korea to teach English as a second language. One night when a bunch of her new coworkers invite her to a get together. A night on the town – to welcome her into their strange culture. And one of them decides to rape her. I mean – she should have known better, right? Unfamiliar territory. A few drinks. Sans buddy. She may as well have plastered a sign on her forehead the likes of the one her new boss held with her name on it as he stood waiting to pick her up at the airport. “Asking for it.”
Or it happens without the alcohol. To girls like Anna, who I took a women’s history class with at Chapman. She was raped at nineteen, clad in a grease stained employees shirt, while delivering pizzas to a bunch of college boys enjoying the trappings of a fraternity party.
And it happens to those like my dear friend, who was raped by her junkie mother’s junkie boyfriend and had her first son two months after her thirteenth birthday. And then her second at fifteen, fathered by her new foster “caregiver,” after she’d been disowned by her uber Christian family for having seduced her first rapist and bearing a child out of wedlock. Her third was by a foster brother in her fourth foster family in less than a year – a baby girl. And her fourth delivery, another little girl, was the result of a man twenty years her senior who’d picked her up after she’d finally had enough and ran away. Four babies. And she wasn’t yet eighteen.
Any second, really. It can happen. And we know this. Doesn’t matter that rape is an irrational act of violence. The rational act of planning and prevention always trumps such things, doesn’t it? We can’t claim ignorance. So we must share in the blame if we let it, right?
This morning I was lucky I didn’t let it get that far. Shit knows plenty of you would have blamed me if I did.