The Price I Pay

I’m sorry to have to inform you, my 3 readers, that I am going into hiding.

I may even have to change my name and have plastic surgery to alter my appearance.  I never thought this would happen to me; I’ve seen such things on the tv but thought it was all made up by people who want other people to think that with the help of the FBI and a  Board Certified Plastic Surgeon, they can start a new life.

First, let me give you a little background information.  Due to naive trust in a mechanic who speaks no English, drives a junk heap of a car, and has two pit bulls guarding his “office” in a run down quanset, my husband’s car has been out of service for almost 3 months, although he has sunk nearly 5000 pesos  $350 dollars in repairs on Sir Edward.  Each time the “mechanic” calls to say Eddie is ready, he’s proven wrong when the car stalls on the way home.  Meanwhile, Dr K has been using my car, Lola (whose “service engine soon” light is constantly on, and the engine races when put into “park”) to get back and forth to work while I take the bus to my work.  Not too much of a sacrifice on my part; I enjoy riding the bus.

So, the day before yesterday (Thursday, according to the calendar), as I was riding the bus after getting off work at 5:00 pm,  my blood sugar plummets.  I am a diabetic, and for some reason I took too much insulin to cover the carbs of the roast beef sandwich and handful of grapes I had for lunch.  Anyone who knows the symptoms of low blood sugar can relate.  Cold sweat, shakes, light headedness and panic.  I searched my purse for that omnipresent snack sized  candy bar–not there.  I was about to yell a desperate request to the other riders for something with sugar in it, but at that point the bus arrived at the main terminal.  I knew I had 15 minutes to wait till my transfer bus came, so I stumbled up the street to a coffee shop to get something to keep from going into diabetic shock.

(Just a note: when a diabetic’s blood sugar plummets, they lose all control of rational thinking. All they want is sugar.   Not a sandwich, like the one my husband tried to feed me a while ago when I found myself in the same situation.  Panic and anger made me knock the sandwich out of his hand and scream “NOT A SANDWICH! CANDY! I NEED CANDY!’ The poor man has never since made me a sandwich like that one, thin slices of ham and swiss cheese on perfectly buttered bread with the crusts removed, and cut into small triangles.  Took him about 10 minutes to prepare it. Meanwhile I was sinking, sinking….)

But I digress.

I run into the coffee shop, order a medium “Carmelicious” iced coffee and grab the first sugary treat in sight, a 3 inch square chocolate caramel brownie.  I explained to the girls behind the counter what I was going through, so one  chirped “Ooo, then you need extra whipped cream!”

I know, I know, I should have just had the “Carmelicious”, there was enough carbs in that drink to revive a legion of  Low Glucosians.  But, as I said, we diabetics lose all rational thoughts when we are trying to pump up our blood sugar.  So sue me.

I walked out of the coffee shop, munching that heavenly brownie and slurping my drink,  and right in front of me a brawl was ensuing.

Not just any kind of brawl. This was about 2 dozen people, male and female, the baby mammas and baby daddies and baby babies  that hang around the bus terminal all day, looking for drug deals instead of jobs.  Bragging about their latest tattoo or cell phone instead of bragging about making the dean’s list.  Just as I encountered the melee, I saw one young woman, about 6 ft tall and about 400 lbs, snatch a young mans hair and  beat him about the face like a punching bag.  Her girlfriends were kicking him and yelling into their cell phones at the same time.  Talk about multitasking.  The guy managed to sneak in a few wallops himself, smacking his attacker in the mouth and eye, causing blood and the F-bomb to flow.

The few of us not involved quickly got out of the way and observed from the safety of the bus shelter furthest away from the excitement.  Suddenly an older model Buick (snort) with spinners screeches up and 6 gentlemen  hop out and throw themselves into the fray.  Then one of my fellow observers said “Gun!” and we all crouched down out of the line of possible fire. Moments later 3 police cars pull up, the 6 guys hop back into their car and tear off, nearly hitting a large woman  riding a  scooter through the cross walk.  One cop chases and stops the car a few blocks down the street.  Meanwhile, a half-dozen men in blue break up what remains of the fight; the minute the fighters saw the flashing lights, they all took off in different directions.

One police officer was asking us (the bystanders) what had happened, and I was the unfortunate one who had witnessed most of it.  As I was describing the scene, the Amazon, trying to hide her bloody face with her knock-off designer handbag, and her entourage walk nonchalantly by us. I pointed them out to the policeman , and when they heard and saw me, they took off running around the corner only to be stopped by a couple other cops who were waiting for them.

Screaming, accusations, and handcuffing ensued.  A bus pulled up; not my regular bus, but I hopped on it anyway. I was not going to stick around for anything.  The bus took me about 4 blocks out of  the way of my usual stopping off point.  I was never so happy as I was  to walk the extra distance just to get away from the riot.

The next day I related the experience to one of my co-workers, who was horrified at what I had done.  She had at one time been a tough street fighter but had since cleaned up her act, removed most of her piercings, and got a full-time job and her kids back.  “You know, they’re going to hunt you down now, don’t you?” she said.  “They’re going to get their revenge, and they know what you look like and that you take the bus to work!  You better not go there anymore!  Do not take the bus, for Christ’s sake!”

Well, if I don’t take the bus, I have no transportation to work, unless God is kind and gives our “mechanic” the skills he needs to do his job.  Then we can once again become a two car household, and maybe, in time, Amazon Man Beater will forget what I look like.

Wish in one hand and crap in the other?  I doubt that our mechanic will suddenly learn the difference between a socket wrench and a light socket.  Plastic surgery would be a more realistic alternative.  Maybe they’ll trade that face alteration for a boob job, tummy tuck, and butt lift.  Sure, Amazon Man Beater will recognize my face  and get her revenge.  I can accept that.  But if I’m going down, I’m going down lookin’ GOOD.