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Description
Brandilyn Packer
Professor Steve
Writing and Composition II
20 July 2008

Painful Memories

When the doors of my train open I ran as fast as I could without disturbing the flood of passengers coming in. I dodged, ducked, and dived as I looked at my cell phone: 7:29pm. I could still make it. I ran up the escalator while a string of apologies fade behind me. I walk through the exit doors only to watch as the 33 Briarcliff/Chamblee bus turns the corner out of site. It is 7:31pm. The next bus does not arrive at Lindbergh station until 8:15. I had a long, lonely, lethargic wait ahead of me. I walk past several other waiting buses, feeling the heat from the exhausts.

I walk to the 33 benches and sit on the very end of the very last bench and wait. A Hispanic man wearing a bulbous grey hoodie walks up to the bench and sits a respectable distance away from me. It takes me several minutes to fully understand what he asks me—“when does the bus come”—due to his strong accent and lack of English words. He asks me my name, if I go to school, what I do, if I am married. I gave him my common pseudonym, “Brandi”; “yes, I go to school”, “I freelance posters”, “no, but I am engaged”—which was a lie; I developed funny habit of turning my class ring around so it looks like a wedding band; it usually keeps guys from hitting on me after they see my “engagement ring.” The man kept asking questions which took a long time to translate due to his horrible broken English.

Thanks to my active listening, the time flew and the next thing I knew, the 8:15 Briarcliff bus had pulled up. Everyone patiently waited for those on the bus to slowly clamber on out with their overloaded bags and strollers of screaming children. As soon as the last person tapered off it was like a bunch of cars merging into traffic as several people tried to jump on board so they would not be one of the unlucky few standing the long bus ride. I sat down in an empty row and the Hispanic guy sat on the row across from me. Those unlucky few ran around trying to find empty seats and miraculously, everyone did. I noted that the usual people for this route were on: “Cupman” who was up front with his festering smelly trash bag who was contently chomping down on a Styrofoam cup—thankfully he only smelled of rotten banana peels that day–, the Gay-Guy-That-Works-At-IHOP-With-The-Crazy-Hair who was sitting in front of me wearing his stylish suit, and several others who my roommates and I lacked names for.

As the route droned on for twenty minutes we finally reach La Vista, the Hispanic projects. The bus that once was full was now almost empty. The remaining occupants now had a bit of elbow room and empty seats. The Hispanic man from earlier turned said something I did not understand but he suddenly got up and sat next to me. He started asking the same questions as earlier and I gave him the same answers. Then he started to ask new questions and all I could do was laugh and exclaim, “I do not understand.” Then an awkward silence would follow.

I noticed that he was constantly fidgeting with his pocket. I thought about how strange that was but did not really think about it until after I got off the bus. When we rounded the curve past Cliff Valley Rd, I pulled the string to signal the bus driver to stop. I informed the man that I had to get off. He sat there a minute almost as if he would not move. He asked another question that I could not understand and told him that I had to get off here.

The man finally moved to let me out. I stepped out and went to the back exit which was conveniently behind my seat. I stood at the door waiting for the bus to stop; waiting for the green light to turn on…when the bus buzzed passed the stop. It seems like the bus driver forgot that I was standing at the backdoor again.
“BACKDOOR!” The bus driver quickly slammed on the brakes, which jostled the occupants and slammed me against the plastic panel that prevented me from crashing into the empty seat. The bus stopped just in front of the entrance to my apartment. I was quite happy that I did not have to walk that extra 500 feet on the edge of a busy road. I stepped off the bus and out onto the curb.

“Hey!” a voice yelled over the roaring of the bus and the wind. An act that I regret, even now, I turned. A hand grabbed me and pulled me towards the owner’s body. I froze. I was face to face with the nice Hispanic guy that I had been talking to moments before. Only then did I realize that when the bus driver stopped that he was not in his seat when I hit the plastic panel. Only then did I take in his suspicious acts that he had committed on the bus ride.

His face was mere inches away from mine. His breath, I now noticed because of our proximity, smelled of alcohol. His arms drew me in closer, tighter. Then, I noticed his beady brown eyes. I was sickened at what I saw in his eyes and knew what his intentions were.

My mind was like an interstate highway; important information cruised the speed limit while panicky dangerous thoughts were speeding ahead. However one speed abiding, important thought did come to mind: him fidgeting in his pocket and the strong possibility that he had a knife.

“He has a knife,” my mind was screaming. “You have to get home alive; you have to see your parents one more time; your annoying brother; Jeff—the love of your life—; Flame, the guys at Legends; your best friends home and Atlanta.”

The man was babbling in Spanish. I could not understand what he was saying. I tried to get away. I struggled to get away and told him that I have to go home. He was trying to kiss me, face, neck and other places, but what little thoughts that I had kept me sane enough to try and block his acts with my hat—Thank God for that hat. An incident that lasted a few minutes seemed like years that grew into centuries.

Cars passed by and saw what was going on. The cars began to stop and look longer and longer. The man panicked. He asked for a number; this psycho after torturing me wanted my number! However, my dulled, shocked, confused mind complied. I had him hold a pen while I fished out paper from my bag and wrote a number: 867-5308—Thank you Tommy Tutone, I am sorry that I had to change the last number! The man was happy and left. As calmly as I could, I walked up to the gates. I looked over my shoulder and saw the creep wave. Wave!! I ran as fast as I could all the way to my door. It took ages before I could fish out a key. As soon as I got inside and locked every door, I ran around the apartment for thirty minutes trying to find my trusted roommate. I had forgotten that she had to work that night. I sat on my bed and cried when I could not find her. I called Jeff after I realized it was going to be a while before Jenn would come home. Jeff tried to convince me to call the police and my parents, but for whatever reason, I relented. When Jenn came home 45 minutes after the incident, she finally convinced me to call my parents and the police.

I learned later that my description matched several other similar descriptions in the South Atlanta area. The man is still at large.

--------------------------

I never traveled MARTA at night and I always carried pepper spray after that. I also convinced and bought all of my female friends some. To this day I still hold the case number card in my wallet, a daily reminder of the incident that had changed my life forever and thankfully I never saw him again. I, also, still have the index cards with the scrambled information from what happened. My mom forced me to write just in case I ever needed to remember. What she never realized—and still does not—is that it has never left me; the memories randomly creep upon me with just as much lividness as when it happened. I constantly tell myself, “Not many have lived through such an event and be able to return to tell the tale.”

Description
Brandilyn Packer
Professor Steve
Writing and Composition II
20 July 2008

Painful Memories

When the doors of my train open I ran as fast as I could without disturbing the flood of passengers coming in. I dodged, ducked, and dived as I looked at my cell phone: 7:29pm. I could still make it. I ran up the escalator while a string of apologies fade behind me. I walk through the exit doors only to watch as the 33 Briarcliff/Chamblee bus turns the corner out of site. It is 7:31pm. The next bus does not arrive at Lindbergh station until 8:15. I had a long, lonely, lethargic wait ahead of me. I walk past several other waiting buses, feeling the heat from the exhausts.

I walk to the 33 benches and sit on the very end of the very last bench and wait. A Hispanic man wearing a bulbous grey hoodie walks up to the bench and sits a respectable distance away from me. It takes me several minutes to fully understand what he asks me—“when does the bus come”—due to his strong accent and lack of English words. He asks me my name, if I go to school, what I do, if I am married. I gave him my common pseudonym, “Brandi”; “yes, I go to school”, “I freelance posters”, “no, but I am engaged”—which was a lie; I developed funny habit of turning my class ring around so it looks like a wedding band; it usually keeps guys from hitting on me after they see my “engagement ring.” The man kept asking questions which took a long time to translate due to his horrible broken English.

Thanks to my active listening, the time flew and the next thing I knew, the 8:15 Briarcliff bus had pulled up. Everyone patiently waited for those on the bus to slowly clamber on out with their overloaded bags and strollers of screaming children. As soon as the last person tapered off it was like a bunch of cars merging into traffic as several people tried to jump on board so they would not be one of the unlucky few standing the long bus ride. I sat down in an empty row and the Hispanic guy sat on the row across from me. Those unlucky few ran around trying to find empty seats and miraculously, everyone did. I noted that the usual people for this route were on: “Cupman” who was up front with his festering smelly trash bag who was contently chomping down on a Styrofoam cup—thankfully he only smelled of rotten banana peels that day–, the Gay-Guy-That-Works-At-IHOP-With-The-Crazy-Hair who was sitting in front of me wearing his stylish suit, and several others who my roommates and I lacked names for.

As the route droned on for twenty minutes we finally reach La Vista, the Hispanic projects. The bus that once was full was now almost empty. The remaining occupants now had a bit of elbow room and empty seats. The Hispanic man from earlier turned said something I did not understand but he suddenly got up and sat next to me. He started asking the same questions as earlier and I gave him the same answers. Then he started to ask new questions and all I could do was laugh and exclaim, “I do not understand.” Then an awkward silence would follow.

I noticed that he was constantly fidgeting with his pocket. I thought about how strange that was but did not really think about it until after I got off the bus. When we rounded the curve past Cliff Valley Rd, I pulled the string to signal the bus driver to stop. I informed the man that I had to get off. He sat there a minute almost as if he would not move. He asked another question that I could not understand and told him that I had to get off here.

The man finally moved to let me out. I stepped out and went to the back exit which was conveniently behind my seat. I stood at the door waiting for the bus to stop; waiting for the green light to turn on…when the bus buzzed passed the stop. It seems like the bus driver forgot that I was standing at the backdoor again.
“BACKDOOR!” The bus driver quickly slammed on the brakes, which jostled the occupants and slammed me against the plastic panel that prevented me from crashing into the empty seat. The bus stopped just in front of the entrance to my apartment. I was quite happy that I did not have to walk that extra 500 feet on the edge of a busy road. I stepped off the bus and out onto the curb.

“Hey!” a voice yelled over the roaring of the bus and the wind. An act that I regret, even now, I turned. A hand grabbed me and pulled me towards the owner’s body. I froze. I was face to face with the nice Hispanic guy that I had been talking to moments before. Only then did I realize that when the bus driver stopped that he was not in his seat when I hit the plastic panel. Only then did I take in his suspicious acts that he had committed on the bus ride.

His face was mere inches away from mine. His breath, I now noticed because of our proximity, smelled of alcohol. His arms drew me in closer, tighter. Then, I noticed his beady brown eyes. I was sickened at what I saw in his eyes and knew what his intentions were.

My mind was like an interstate highway; important information cruised the speed limit while panicky dangerous thoughts were speeding ahead. However one speed abiding, important thought did come to mind: him fidgeting in his pocket and the strong possibility that he had a knife.

“He has a knife,” my mind was screaming. “You have to get home alive; you have to see your parents one more time; your annoying brother; Jeff—the love of your life—; Flame, the guys at Legends; your best friends home and Atlanta.”

The man was babbling in Spanish. I could not understand what he was saying. I tried to get away. I struggled to get away and told him that I have to go home. He was trying to kiss me, face, neck and other places, but what little thoughts that I had kept me sane enough to try and block his acts with my hat—Thank God for that hat. An incident that lasted a few minutes seemed like years that grew into centuries.

Cars passed by and saw what was going on. The cars began to stop and look longer and longer. The man panicked. He asked for a number; this psycho after torturing me wanted my number! However, my dulled, shocked, confused mind complied. I had him hold a pen while I fished out paper from my bag and wrote a number: 867-5308—Thank you Tommy Tutone, I am sorry that I had to change the last number! The man was happy and left. As calmly as I could, I walked up to the gates. I looked over my shoulder and saw the creep wave. Wave!! I ran as fast as I could all the way to my door. It took ages before I could fish out a key. As soon as I got inside and locked every door, I ran around the apartment for thirty minutes trying to find my trusted roommate. I had forgotten that she had to work that night. I sat on my bed and cried when I could not find her. I called Jeff after I realized it was going to be a while before Jenn would come home. Jeff tried to convince me to call the police and my parents, but for whatever reason, I relented. When Jenn came home 45 minutes after the incident, she finally convinced me to call my parents and the police.

I learned later that my description matched several other similar descriptions in the South Atlanta area. The man is still at large.

--------------------------

I never traveled MARTA at night and I always carried pepper spray after that. I also convinced and bought all of my female friends some. To this day I still hold the case number card in my wallet, a daily reminder of the incident that had changed my life forever and thankfully I never saw him again. I, also, still have the index cards with the scrambled information from what happened. My mom forced me to write just in case I ever needed to remember. What she never realized—and still does not—is that it has never left me; the memories randomly creep upon me with just as much lividness as when it happened. I constantly tell myself, “Not many have lived through such an event and be able to return to tell the tale.”