Misery at the Mercy of the Metro

I left at 5:00 pm sharp. Sharp, you hear me? Determined to have a peaceful and productive evening that leads into a peaceful and productive weekend.

But the WMATA is the veins of satan himself and so I was made to wait. And wait and wait and wait. Forty minutes passed before I gave up and thought if I caught a ride to the next station, I could surpass the BS. As satan’s veins would have it, both lines that I needed to get home were experiencing more than major delays. Like ranch, I dipped (remember that Weezy line?) and ended up paying for a trip I never took.

Both Uber and Lyft treated me like an ugly step-cousin, insisting that I pay a minimum of $27-$29 to take me three miles. The same middle finger that flicked them off rubbed my left temple when I bounced to my sister’s voicemail twice. I relinquished my pride to walk past those WMATA station attendants a third time, when my sister finally called me back. She said she was only fifteen minutes away, which is a lie if you’re anywhere in Northern Virginia during rush hour. I loped back up the escalator, skipped across the street, and settled in a spot where I would be able to see her Kia zooming up Wilson Boulevard.

At first there were only five tiny ants. One on my left hand, one on my right wrist, and a few on my jeans. I named them all WMATA as I smashed them. Except for one, who I dubbed Friday Evening Productivity. It kind of looked like I’d been stabbed in the butt the way I leapt from my seat and screamed. I’m an idiot, I thought. Because who sits on a flower box with an open lunch bag containing an orange? Little WMATAs and Friday Evening Productivities were everywhere. In my bag, on my purse, on my orange!

I spent the rest of my time waiting for my sister atop a cement stool of sorts, emptying my lunch bag and smashing baby ants. I started typing this out when I grew tired of convincing my mind that every itch was not an ant and being 50 percent wrong I was tired. I was cranky. I was itchy. I was angry at everything I couldn’t control.

She arrived in a cloud of smoke and trap music. I kinda liked the stunned looks on peoples’ faces when I opened the door. More smoke. More music. We drove.

“Well if it makes you feel any better, ya look good,” she said discarding her cigarette. I knew she wasn’t lying. She’d left off the sarcasm we usually use to season our speech when we want to tear each other down.
I’m home now, watching the progress of  Pete the Pizzamaker, who is crafting the instrument that will satiate my emotional appetite. It has really just been one of those days. But, according to Pete, Sheikh left Dominos with my order at 7:22, and he’s on his way to make it all better. Happy Friday, y’all.