It was an hour past my 25th birthday and I was certain I would be dead before the clock struck two.

I slid my driver’s license under my sweat slick bra band with vivid visions of this attention to detail aiding Benson and Stabler in identifying my torso in a ditch. Heart slamming in my chest with each rubbery legged step on asphalt, feeling simultaneously lightheaded and laser focused on the men walking ahead of me.

Tunnel vision… parking lot lamps hazily lighting what appeared to be an endless path. My husband at the time was engaging the leader of our bedraggled mini parade in airy small talk as I internally screamed that we should make a break for it while we had the chance, willing him to hear me telepathically.

(Isn’t that the first rule in stranger danger scenarios?! Don’t talk to anyone you don’t know? When does that rule cease to apply?)

Apparently 26, because my ex was about to get us murdered for making the bold choice to scoff in the face of every public service announcement and after school special produced in the late 20th century.

Our two friends trundled along in the death row queue in front of me with no apparent awareness of our obvious impending doom…

I found myself in this predicament because the train we were on had to end its journey one stop before we were supposed to get off. A storm had blown a tree over the tracks and we were at the unexpected end of the line… damp and bedraggled NYC tourists, exhausted and thrust out onto a dark, unfamiliar train platform.

It was the early aughts and cell phone batteries were less powerful, rendering us stranded, distrustfully eyeing the graffiti adorned, greasy payphone. (Did I even have change? If so, what is the cost of a modern day call? I DIDN’T HAVE THE CAPACITY TO STRESS ABOUT ANYTHING ELSE!)

A slim man of Asian descent in his mid-thirties had disembarked behind us and overheard our distressed murmurings about needing to get back to our car at Poughkeepsie station. He tapped my husband on the shoulder and quietly offered to drive the four of us there, despite this being his actual scheduled stop. The trio of dudes were overjoyed and eagerly accepted the ride.

I, however, am not a very trusting person by nature. I have also been trained since childhood to view unknown men gesturing toward a vehicle parked at the furthest spot available from a train platform betwixt the witching hours as an imminent threat. Couple that with intense anxiety exacerbated by exhaustion and you end up with the perfect cocktail of hysteria.

Trudging ever forward toward my demise… Eyes roving wildly to try and take in landmarks to describe to police if I managed to escape the bunker shackles I was surely going to be put in.

We finally made it to the car. Obsessively repeating the license plate number to myself I swallowed dryly and slid into the backseat, sandwiched between the guys.

Assassin level scanning the interior for potential weapons for self defense, nervous sweat coating my upper lip, body completely tense. Everyone began engaging in pleasant small talk which in my state all sounded sinister and foreboding.

You from around here?

(Don’tanswerthatdon’tanswerthat first rule of conversation safety is not revealing personal details that would indicate that you are a tourist!)

No, we’re from Buffalo.

(Really?!!!)

Oh! Never been! I’m from right here. I live with my mom.

(Aaanndd there it is… Welcome to my Hitchcockian nightmare!)

You want to listen to some music?

(If I use this loose center seatbelt as a medieval flail I could probably land it on his temple…)

He turned on a radio station that would likely play at a dentist’s office. Whitney’s plaintive queries about how best to determine the level of her beau’s emotional investment provided a chilling soundtrack to the dark streets passing outside the window.

Is that music okay for you?

(Yes. Yes. It’s perfect. For the love of God let me concentrate on my surroundings, so I can recall well lit areas after I push this bro out the door to tuck and roll.)

After what felt like 3 weeks, but was likely roughly 30 minutes, we arrived safely at our car without a single incident. I was so tightly bunched up I had to slowly slide my way out of the backseat like a slug gliding on a trail of flop sweat. Once I had gathered my thoughts, I reached into my purse to give him gas money and he refused it with a small wave of his hand.

No, please. I just did what anyone would do. Take care!

And off he drove into the darkness… tail lights sending us home with a friendly wink.

Would anyone do that though? We toss around “compassionate” as though it’s an easy personality trait to have. It’s like a standing ovation or the word stunning – overused and watered down. It’s treated like a commonly occuring characteristic such as trustworthy, reliable, innovative… but in reality it’s not something easily taught and rarely possessed. Feeling bad that someone is struggling is sympathy. Recognizing and acutely feeling the suffering of others is empathy. Compassion is the desire to alleviate that hardship. Not everyone has the capacity and for those who do, so few actually move beyond feeling compassionate for others into actualizing it. If each of us exercised that in some small way every day, there would be so much more light in the world.

Dear Louis,

I appreciate your willingness to extend some compassion to me despite my mistrust and fervent attempts to deflect it at every turn. I strive to pay it forward whenever I’m given the opportunity.

PS – I’m sincerely glad I didn’t choke you with my sock.

A little about Lindsay:

Lindsay Masters learned the fine art of storytelling from her father, Jim Masters. His heavy influence on her taste in well written literature, television, movies, and live theater (especially of a comedic nature) have all informed her appreciation for pieces that truly bring the audience along for the ride. This is her first ever published work* and she hopes it won’t be her last. 

*Self-published works during the late 1900s include a book about photosynthesis entitled Mable the Maple composed on a Commodore 64 and a prolific amount of Buffy the Vampire Slayer fan fiction posts.

Submissions for the next Voices Project topic – Inspiration – are due by August 1, 2023. We hope you will consider submitting your work to us at thevoicesproject2023@gmail.com .