Wicked Ride

My hands gripped the bottom of the van seat so tight that my fingernails poked straight through the leather seat. Our driver making a hard left secured them in place as she cut off a pickup truck. The truck’s occupants, convinced of its right of way, like synchronized swimmers made the exact same hand gesture in perfect execution. How could they not see it in my eyes, the desperation, the helplessness?!How could they ignore my plight?  I’m sure they would have helped if they knew that five women had just been kidnapped. Our hands and feet bound with duct tape and our bodies slammed into a white hot rocket that now barreled down on an elderly couple from New Jersey. We were too close to see their license plate but their screams held a thick Jersey accent as they spattered out of the car window. I couldn’t look! I closed my eyes and prepared for impact trying to remember something, ANYTHING, about the first aid class I had years ago.  What’s the point? We had broken the sound barrier at the St. Augustine exit and our driver hadn’t used the brake once since pulling away from ground zero. God have mercy!

I wish the above were true. If it were then I would not have to admit that the five of us willingly and under no duress entered the van and secured our seats for a nearly lethal day trip to Jacksonville. Names have been changed to protect the guilty, we shall call her Dolores. After arriving at Dolores ‘home on time and excited for our trip to Jacksonville to see the play Wicked, Dolores wanted to show us around. One of my fellow hostages mentioned that we really needed to have left 15 minutes ago if we were to make it to the play on time. I was unclear if that hostage rubbed her the wrong way or if Delores was secretly an exhibitionist because she snapped back that we had plenty of time and as a capstone said, “I can get to Jacksonville from Palm Coast in 45 minutes”. Fortunately, we had an accountant in the group who then stated the mathematical impossibility of such a claim complete with verbal graphs and charts. An intuitive I’m not, but, an eerie feeling disturbed the air and squeezed its way across Delores’ face. It was the kind of feeling reserved for the criminally insane or those who can rotate their head in a 360 circle.

At this exact moment the good sense of 5 intelligent women exited stage left. We packed in the van like lambs to the slaughter. Why we bothered with putting on seatbelts that day is still a mystery but like kamikaze pilots wearing helmets we strapped ourselves into one wicked ride.

It soon became clear and should have been our first clue that Delores was not kidding by the way she laid rubber in front of her house. The smoke from her burning tires lofted so thick in the air that neighbors began pouring into the street like ants from under a burning log wondering whose house was on fire. Dolores waved madly as she made her get away. The on ramp to I95 was a blur. This blond bombshell maniac now had a deadline to make come hell or high water. We were 2.87 minutes into this drive when all five of us came to the same conclusion; our driver was not following proper road etiquette. She bobbed and weaved in and out of traffic like Dale Jr. minus training, experience and male packaging. Dolores cut people off at every turn and with such precision that there is a new definition for tailgating; the amended dictionary now uses the term, “to Dolores."

It’s true what they say, when facing death with people you form a bond like no other. There was a lot of bonding going on in the van that day. Delores, unaware of the deepening relationships occurring between her hostages huddled over her stirring wheel drooling with anticipation as if possessed by a legion of moonshine runners from the back woods of North Carolina out running the law.

She soon locked onto drafting behind semi-trucks but I’m sure it was less about saving precious gas and more about bragging. Her eyes bounced off the clock every 4 seconds making sure to adjust for road kill, slow drivers, puppies and small children. The hard rights and lefts had us slamming into each other constantly, except for the hostage who rode shotgun. She is the one who would see the end coming first and had the white knuckles to prove it. At one point I began to pray that she would take her shoe off and smack Delores so hard on the head that it would knock her out, at least we might slow down enough to survive impact but no luck, my telepathic skills lay like jelly on the floor of my mind.

We careened off the exit ramp to Jacksonville almost hitting a homeless man with a shopping cart and then bucked on the seats hitting pot holes that either weren’t too smart or fast enough to get out of the way. Delores did a sideways slide into our parking spot then blurted out, “SEE, JACKSONVILLE IN 45 MIN!” Not everyone heard her boast as most flew out of the van clutching the one life they had left and not one bemoaned the ones sacrificed on I95, even the feral cats watching from the street seemed impressed. I heard Delores because I stayed behind in search of my stomach that had squeezed between the seats when it saw the homeless man.

After our play had ended, we all faced the fact that we had to go home. The walk was slow and arduous, so slow that I had time to stop and tie my shoe and browse through Pinterest without losing pace. Every face I looked into donned a John Coffee walking to the electric chair stare. A thought climbed into my brain unassisted as we walked; I wondered if I tackled Delores to the ground could the rest start sheering off unneeded clothing to bind her?  We’d just toss her in the back and deposit her in her driveway then ring her doorbell and run away. Her husband would come to her rescue. The only reason I didn’t bring it up was that I wasn’t sure her husband wouldn’t just leave her there to rot; he’s driven with her too.

My plot sputtered to a stop with that uncertainty and we all took seats in death mobile, again, putting on our seatbelts (insert dramatic eye roll here). Delores suggested that we take the scenic route and no one seemed to mind or perhaps they couldn’t hear her over their pounding hearts. Either way, off we went in search of the scenic way home. Somewhere along the way Delores began to fumble in her console and pulled out a flask. A FLASK! She suggested we pass it around and enjoy the illegal use of alcohol while driving a motor vehicle. Okay, she didn’t actually say that but did motion it towards all of us and the implication was clear. No one was taking the bait. That didn’t sit well with Delores and she let loose with a loud, “WELL EVERYONE CARRIES A FLASK!” The five of us flask virgins crossed our legs and thoroughly disagreed with her. The subject was dropped and the flask put back in its holster without consumption.

Not content with how far the St. Johns River was along her chosen route; Delores began to suggest that we find the road that runs right along the river. We all whipped out our smart phones to locate this road. It didn’t exist on any satellite navigation system known to man, or, as I’ve often wondered, perhaps our smart phones were not as smart as they thought they were. Delores, who knows the road is there because….because….because? I don’t know why but was beginning to think she had access to the Vatican and all its secret road files as she was adamant that the road existed in a holier than thou kind of way.

Each road that she wanted to turn down verified our verifiable satellite information that there was no road by the river. And, yes, there were signs at every street reading NO THROUGH WAY. These signs appeared to be perfectly self-explanatory but not to Dolores. She insisted those signs did NOT mean the road ended, like it did. As my fellow hostages took on the debate about the correct meaning of NO THROUGH WAY; I decided to sit quietly and stitch my stomach back to my esophagus which is no small feat in a moving vehicle. Also, why on earth didn’t I have the foresight to bring my sewing machine; a zigzag stitch would make quick work of my internal organs.

Delores remained convinced her road was there, so convinced that she turned down one of these clearly marked streets leading to a NO THROUGH WAY, pulled over to a park and proceeded to ask directions to this non existing road. Not only was she not satisfied with the resident’s answer, emphasis on re-si-dent, but, after he told her the road did not exist and mentioned the NO THROUGH WAY sign, she drove off and found two other residents on the street who agreed with the first re-si-dent. She still did not relent on the meaning of the signs nor could she bring herself to admit defeat; she did, however, choose not to take the road that did not exist and that made all of us very happy.

It took us 45 minutes to drive to Jacksonville from Palm Coast; I have the near-death-contract to prove it, and, it took 5 hours to drive home. In the last leg of our journey Delores began squinting and squirming in her seat uncomfortably. She finally made a statement that was the icing on an already horribly disturbed cake. “I have night blindness and can’t see a thing”. At that statement every hand in the van went up to take over driving the death mobile but Dolores argued back, again, not concerned with the risk she was creating for us and everyone in the vicinity of the van. Dolores limped us back to ground zero. I recall the stench of burned rubber still hanging in the air as terrified neighbors’ grabbed their children and dove for their front doors. The death mobile had made it home.

There are moments when you realize that you should have handled a situation in a better manner. Here’s my moment. This story could have ended very differently. Granted, I embellished the actual events for story telling sake but the truth is that we could have all died that day as well as taken out other innocent people. Delores was reckless, reckless to the point of endangering many lives just to prove a point. I’m sure I’ll not do the same thing if faced with this situation again, but, it did make for an interesting day and I know 5 girlfriends who will never forget it.

Mona McPherson