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“Room—room—let me off!”
As I attempt to get off an undersized elevator that has just gotten four people too (and four men) too crowded, I try and get my way off of it when suddenly I hear the guy explaining the fact that the lady freaking out is a PTSD survivor get interrupted by this chunky, scruffy-looking bastard suddenly speak up:
“Ignore that bitch, she just don’t like people, with her dumb-ass, black-legged, uppity—”
“Hey, man, don’t talk what you don’t know!” I snap back.
“Shut yo’ nappy-head ass up,” the dick says.
“Man, fuck you!” I say as the elevator closes. I can still hear him when the elevator kicks up and moves again, so I fire off a last “Fuck you!” for good measure.
My next door neighbor—both of them, actually—would probably be very confused had they heard me cursing like that when I finally managed to get onto the eighth floor and into my apartment. Fact is, once the rage at that narrow-minded wide-assed prick wore off, I was terrified again. There were a few too many people on the elevator, and no matter how much I tried to say that this reaction my body was having was all in my head, it wasn’t working. If there hadn’t been the second elevator coming, I would have climbed up the stairs—all the way from ground level—just to avoid being shut up in small crowd again. Righteous fury died off as soon as I got into my unit, and I was glad I spent my $8 discretionary for the paycheck on Bob Marley sodas and my meds.
It’s not wide knowledge in my building that I’m a PTSD survivor—no one needs to know that sort of thing unless it’s asked for or if…well, if something like that on the elevator happens again. And if it happens, I ask that it not be bandied about, because there will invariably be dicks like that guy. …if he finds out I’m going to bullshit something about a hard and fast tour of duty that wrecked my head, because he had that same air that I got off of my ex—the one that eventually escalates into “Just freeze, and it’ll be over faster and you won’t get quite as hurt by it.” (Disclaimer: THAT DOESN’T WORK.)
My mind keeps blanking out now. I’m not sure what I should do or if I should do anything in the first place. I’m kind of wanting food, but after that I kind of think the egg sandwich this morning might be enough—but then I remember how that could go all slippery-slope on me and that I need to keep fed.
…see, this is why Bob Marley sodas were invented.
*pops a top*
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