The Wild Ride
Itâs been a while. Stories have swirled through my head but never made it to the keyboard. Itâs as if the virgin territory of my new study forebodes me. Itâs time to break this cherry.
Light a cigarette, Joyce, and get going.
I was nineteen, and I was in loveânot with a man, but with a voice. Lou Rawls owned it. It was his, but I embraced it.
. Play him as I write.When he came to Boston, I took every chance I could to listen to him. It was in a dark, dusty little joint in the underbelly of a building on Boylston Street. It was small and cozy. Probably not the venue for which he was hoping.
I had been able to get there for a few nights, but funds were running tight.
Waitâthe music stopped:Â
Ahhhhâback to the story.
There was only one way Iâd be able to get into Boston this night. I got on the highway and stuck out my thumb.
My first ride was a coupla jocular drunks. They sat in the front while I sat in the back. They scared the everlovinâ bejesus outa me. As they passed their jug back and forth (I declined to partake), they kept asking what I would do if someone pulled a knife on me while I was hitching. I expected to see a flash of steel at any moment.
(I could kiss those guys now.)
âIâd jump out of the car,â I said.
When we pulled into the parking lot of the Flamingo on Route 1, we said our goodbyes and I started breathing again. You guessed itâthe building was pink, and a popular little destination for those looking to hook up. It was famous for the simple fact that there were phones on the table facilitating loving connections.
I strolled back to the highway and put my thumb back out there. An older gentleman stopped almost immediately. I felt lucky.
Letâs call him Charles. I never did ask his name.
Charles was friendly and conversant. He was on his way to Chelseaâhe lived there with his elderly mother. He had a pleasant look about him; very disarming. I talked about myselfâhe listened and through in snippets about himself.
I noticed Charles drove by his exit.
âOoohhh you going to take me into Boston? I asked.
He did not reply.
The rest of the way he was fairly quiet. I noticed nothing amiss. We were on Storrow driveâalmost to my exitâwhen I heard him say, âDo you know what this is?â
I turned my head; saw his face and it. Above the neck, I knew I was looking at pure evil. His kind face had screwed up into this-thisâthing. Lying across his lap, nestled in his left hand was a gun.
âA-a-aâgun,â I said.
âGet under the dashboard,â he said.
âThe gunâIâm afraid,â I squeaked.
Something I had learned throughout my terrifying childhood wound through my mind.
It wonât help to beg. It wonât help to beg. It wonât help to begâŠ
I slid my way up against the door and snuck my hand onto the door-latch.
âGet over here,â he demanded.
âI canâtâthe gunâIâm afraid,â
He grabbed the steering wheel with a couple of fingers holding the gun, reached out his right arm, and made as if to swoop me up against him. At that second, I lifted the handle and rolled myself out of a moving car on to the gritty asphalt and into moving traffic. Death-by-car tasted more palatable than death-by-psychopath.
I slid for a while, protected by my leather midi coat and leather shoesâmy Lou Rawls best. The asphalt did a bit of damage to my buttocks; one of my shoes scrapped off; my head had a goose egg, but otherwise, I was intact.
A VW Bug screeched short of mashing me into the pavement, but I could see only one vision in my headâthe gun.
âHehadagun. Hehadagun. HehadagunâŠâ I repeated over and over again to the couple who had emerged from the Bug to help me. The words rat-tat-tatted out of my mouth like ejections from a machine gun. A Police Cruiser swung in front of me, and I screamed, âThere he goes!! Get him!!â
But the police were tasked with taking care of me first. I mourned that fact because I saw more victims in this manâs future.
They drove me to the hospital, and I was checked out. A detective came to collect me, but I couldnât do a composite. I was focused on the fact that his face changedâjust like my motherâs often did.
Ironicallyâmy mother had saved my life.
Sometime later, I hesitantly told my mother she had done so.
âYou saved my life, Mom. You taught me not to beg,â I said.
A pinch of amazement and confusion waved through me as I watched a sense of accomplishment spread through her face. Her face glowed with her grin. If I had been afraid of offending her, all that washed away. It would take years before I understood the rest.
There had been a serial killer roaming the highways, picking up hitchhiking girls, killing them, and burying them someplace in Rhode Island. I think we met. After I got away, He must have changed his tactics because no more girls traveling in that fashioned disappeared.
Thereâs one thing I know about psychopaths: They never, never stop.
Copyright 2018 Joyce Bowen
https://www.linkedin.com/in/joyce-bowen/
https://twitter.com/crwriter1
https://joycebowen.wordpress.com/author/joycebowen/
https://medium.com/@joycebowen
"""""
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Comments
Joyce đ Bowen Brand Ambassador @ beBee
6 years ago #14
I'm trying, Todd--I'm trying. And Thank You!
Joyce đ Bowen Brand Ambassador @ beBee
6 years ago #13
Thanks, Jerry Fletcher
Joyce đ Bowen Brand Ambassador @ beBee
6 years ago #12
Not just guys, Paul \... Psycopaths are about power an control. It's the beggin and pleadin that gets them off most.
Joyce đ Bowen Brand Ambassador @ beBee
6 years ago #11
Yup--get that, Cyndi wilkins
Jerry Fletcher
6 years ago #10
Cyndi wilkins
6 years ago #9
Joyce đ Bowen Brand Ambassador @ beBee
6 years ago #8
You're welcome, Donald \ud83d\udc1d Grandy PN. Get that heart out of your throat? Yea--as a writer, I find that people have their own reference points for fear. If people "got it", we'd ber able to solve so much.
Joyce đ Bowen Brand Ambassador @ beBee
6 years ago #7
Thanks, Ken Boddie. I think I might have used my thumb once after this event, but trembled so much, I never did it again.
Joyce đ Bowen Brand Ambassador @ beBee
6 years ago #6
Thank you Ali \ud83d\udc1d Anani, Brand Ambassador @beBee. It's been so long since I posted online, I forgot all the bells and whistles. Also--a good editor is a writer's best friend. I think I finally corrected all my slips. Take a peek.
Donald đ Grandy PN
6 years ago #5
Ken Boddie
6 years ago #4
Ali Anani
6 years ago #3
Joyce đ Bowen Brand Ambassador @ beBee
6 years ago #2
Thank you, Pascal. It's nice to finally be able to tool around the keyboard.
Pascal Derrien
6 years ago #1