Story about the dangers of life in a big city.
I’ve never felt more alive than the night I had a knife against my throat. It was late sometime around 2:30 am. I remember because the bar next door had just closed for the night. The last of the drunks spilled out into the street in front of the restaurant. After they cleared out I figured it was safe to venture out into the parking lot and make my way home. Just as I grabbed the door handle I was stopped dead in my tracks by a group of junkies rushing the door from the other side. About 6 or 7 of them pounding the glass begging to “use” the bathroom. The other waitresses gathered behind me as we waved them away. It took me a few minutes to get my nerve up again. Glory, the head waitress came over and told me we’d walk out together, “Come on, baby girl we outta here.” We walked down the graffiti smeared narrow path leading into the underground parking. We happened to be parked next to each other that night so, we drove out together. Caravan style. She headed toward downtown and I jumped on the freeway.
It was the usual speedway at 1am on the Nimitz 880. I did my patented move of getting all the way over to the left lane for about a half mile then, jerked back over to the right lane at lightning speed. Just in time for my exit to the hell that is Fruitvale and E. 14th Street.
Part 2 Coming Soon. Stay tuned.
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