On Vulnerability: Two Night Rides

I.
It is 9:30 in the evening, and I have just realized that I (stupidly) left my bag in a town 20 miles from home. 30 hours have elapsed since the leaving, and yet, I (stupidly) have it in my head that I should drive out there and see if it's still there, in the park where I left it. Wallet, phone, keys, checkbook, everything is in there. You're driving, J. says.

9:30 in the evening in farm country is late. If you are waking up at 3:30 or 4am, bedtime has long passed. 9:30 in the evening in farm country is also dark. Living in the city, you forget about dark. You forget about deserted. The roads are windy and narrow, I am worried about wildlife. I drive like an old lady (without a license, which is in the lost bag), leaning forward, hands on 3 and 9. Dark, windy roads, no docs, no money. J. is dozing off. You think: God, we are really wolf-bait out here in the universe. We are alone, it is dark, we are essentially unknown. I am an "undocumented" Oriental girl out here in the pitch black, I have no identity, nothing to verify my existence.

And then, running out into the middle of the road... a wolf. No, sorry, no, not a wolf. A fox. Shit. I break hard and swerve and semi-close my eyes. "Did I hit it? Did I hit it?" "No, he made it," J. says. Phew. My heart is beating hard. Then, "Wait, are you just saying that?" "Did you hear a thump under the tires?" No. No, I did not hear a thump under the tires.

In town, no bag. (No flashlight, either. Stupidly.) No one is around, nothing is open. The state trooper knows nothing about local police matters. We drive back.

II.
It is 9:30 in the evening, and we are coming out of the movie theatre downtown. We've just seen THE FRENCH CONNECTION, which I've never seen, and I'm a sucker for a good late '60's car chase (although this one made me, literally, nauseous). It's been a while since I've been "out" in the city at night, among the urban throng, the young and viviacious and stylish. It is anything but dark out, it is bright and busy and noisy. Feels sort of weird.

We get on the bike. The motorbike, that is. Forgetting that we'd be commuting back this way, I am wearing (stupidly) slip-on sandals and a skirt. Oh, well. I put on my helmet, hike it up and get on. It's crazy out for a Wednesday night, we think it's because of the cabbies strike; they're protesting the installation of GPS in all NYC taxis - invasion of privacy, etc., they want to be able to be off the books, off the charts. The streets are full of taxis with fares, they're taking people (off the books) and likely charging high flat rates. Everyone's ornery. It's a little scary.

We speed up 6th Ave then head east at Columbus Circle to Central Park West. I'm holding on tight, tighter than usual. I wonder if J. will cut across the park at 96th, or go through Harlem. He decides on the latter.

The phone rings. I reach into the backpack pocket and pull it out, I see that it's the # of the local PA police I've been calling about my lost bag. J. asks do I want to answer it (do I want him to pull over). We're in East Harlem, on a side street, so I'm thinking nah, um, that's ok.

"Nah, that's ok."

Back in the Bronx, the phone rings again, same number. Kindly Officer P. informs me that they've recovered my bag, the cash is gone but everything else seems to be there. Could he fed-ex it to me, I can't really drive out there without a driver's license, and I'm kind of marooned here without any docs? Yes, he says, he can fed-ex it, it's not standard procedure, but it seems clear it's my bag, and he's got a friend who can do the fed-exing off the books, so yeah, no problem m'am, you have a good night now.

I sleep better tonight, not realizing until morning how poorly I've been sleeping the last few.