Three letters in the mail, three indignities

So the letters my insurance adjuster threatened to send after I confessed all on tape over the phone arrived.

The first confirmed our phone call and reminded me of my deductible and rental coverage limits.

The second said, in ALL CAPS, IN A HUGE PARAGRAPH THAT WAS DIFFICULT TO READ, that they were PROHIBITED BY LAW FROM REQUIRING THAT REPAIRS BE DONE AT A SPECIFIC AUTOMOTIVE REPAIR DEALER. So I guess I can take it to that Mob place after all. Phew.

The third laid out the embarrassing details of the crash, in all their indignity:

• “This accident occurred when the driver of your vehicle struck the claimant’s vehicle while changing lanes” (I love the “mistakes were made” vagueness. “The driver of your vehicle” instead of “you”; and “struck the claimant’s while changing lanes” Instead of “YOU CRASHED INTO SOMEONE’S CAR, MORON”)
• “We determined that the driver of your vehicle was principally at fault because a duty of care is placed upon the driver of a vehicle making a lane change.”
• “This driver must yield to any traffic already in that lane.” (Really? I thought it was every man for himself, MAKE WAY! Bang-bang!)

You would think that, since I was (obviously) at fault, I wouldn’t be afraid to drive — I’d just be cautious, realizing that it’s within my control to be safe. It’s not like some idiot swerved into my lane to get to a gas station and HIT MY CAR. No, I was that idiot. Which somehow makes it worse. I didn’t see the other car. It’s as simple as that. I didn’t see the other car, so I didn’t signal, because I didn’t think anyone was there, and I swerved into the left lane to get to a gas station. So gas is both the figurative and literal reason that I’m screwed.

And there’s no reason to think it won’t happen again, even if I fix my mirrors ’til the end of time.

Which is why I’m petrified to drive, I’m not buying gas and I’m taking the goddamn bus everywhere.

I know this is penance but I don’t see how I’ll ever know when it’s done.

So how much money am I saving, exactly?

According to Metro.net and AAA, driving a car costs 54.1 cents per mile. My office is 7.35 miles away, so that’s 14.70 total miles a day, or nearly $8 vs. $2.55 per day to ride the bus.

Another way of calculating is to consider what I pay for gas. I usually fill up twice a month, at about $60 each time, so that’s $120 vs. $51.

To repair the damage to my car, the insurance appraiser says I’ll need to spend $900 ($500 deductible from me, $400 from them).

So maybe after ten months of riding the bus I’ll start to feel better.

Whee.

Trip 1 – Night

I left work 5 minutes early at the urging of my co-workers so I wouldn’t miss the bus. They are disturbed by my abrupt new habit; I can tell.

Suddenly I’m paranoid that I will miss the bus, so I run to the NE spot (again, my brain nearly explodes determining which corner this is) and wait for about ten minutes. An Hispanic woman and her loud, high-pitched, chatty child stand uncomfortably close to me. The child keeps moving into my space, back and forth, back and forth, while tugging on the strap of her backpack like a bungee tether. A hunched-over man joins us and asks if the bus is coming (it’s clearly not; he is looking the same direction we are), and promptly disappears behind the other side of the wall.

A moment passes, and then angry, tourette’s-like, repetitive machine-gun mutters of “cocksucker!” blurt over the wall. Why do possible schizophrenics always say “cocksucker”? Is it a thing they all agree to say, for maximum discomfort? The Hispanic woman and I exchange a look, complete with simultaneous widened eyes, giggles and embarrassed raised eyebrows. I decide I like her. But not her child, who keeps trying to step into traffic.

I look at my cellphone clock. The bus is over ten minutes late. A blur of green: It’s the Culver 6! Going up the street at a different corner. I’m at the wrong stop! I book ass to the other corner and hop on. I am so happy that Schizophrenic Cocksucker and Annoying Child are not going to be my “regular” companions each night after work. This time I ASK for a transfer and get a slip. I use it as a bookmark.

We drive up to Wilshire/Veteran and I get off and stand around for a while, trying to read. I have to keep reading the same passages over and over though because my mind is wandering, wondering when my transfer will arrive and fearing I’m not at the correct corner; but I am, and the bus comes, and NO ONE’S ON IT!

WOOT! Bus all for me! The driver is a younger Asian guy; he seems nice. I show him my transfer slip. Am I supposed to put it in a slot? There are slits for dollars and coins, but no electronic reader thing. He says to just give it to him, so I do. I’m a quick study. Tomorrow I will be at all correct corners with correct transfers and everything. I’m actually excited about tomorrow’s sojourn.

Bus all to myself doesn’t last; at the very next stop, like 10 people get on. Hey, some of them are white. How about that. Probably because we’re in Westwood. I sit by the window and read. I get through about 30 pages; not bad. The woman behind me is talking en espanol on her cellphone. I can’t read anymore; her words, foreign though they may be, are cutting through my brain. I wish cell phones were banned on the bus. Fun fact: Eating food is banned.

Someone to my right uses the phrase “my nigga.” I stare hard at my book, seeing nothing.

A woman gets on and sits next to me, but I’m not bothered ‘cuz my stop is coming up. I get home about an hour after I left work, which is 15 to 20 minutes later than if I’d driven, but for some reason I don’t care at all. It feels good to walk up my street. I must remember to bring a sweater for the evening ride next time.

My husband and I wonder if there’s a way to ride to work that doesn’t require a transfer. We input different addresses but no cigar. Tomorrow I will rule the bus system!

Pages read: 30 (45 total)

Trip 1 – Day

I got into a minor car accident on Thursday (it was completely my fault and completely humiliating) and I’ve been scared to drive ever since. What with the price of gas and blah blah blah, I decided I would take the bus to work.

If you are from L.A. you have gasped and recoiled at this point.

(“How?” asked one of my co-workers. Unspoken: “Why?”)

My husband is appalled, although he did used to take the bus when he first moved out here. Still, his route was a straight shot up Wilshire, literally 6 blocks or so, and his company paid for him to have a pass.

So I get on the bus and I over-pay (more on that later) and the driver
DOES NOT CORRECT ME. He’s probably thinking, “Dumbass whitey” and I
would not blame him, and indeed I am the only white person on the bus.

My first reaction upon entering: pleasant surprise to discover there
is honest-to-god air conditioning, and that it’s neither an arctic
blast nor tepidly warm. Also, my times to ride are slightly off-peak
(i.e. not quite rush hour) so it wasn’t very crowded…

…which is why it was creepy and weird when some old dude sat next to
me, considering there were tons of available seats. He was visibly
exhausted, and kept nodding his head in that way that people do when
they’re jerking in and out of sleep. When the bus moved from lane to lane, HE SWAYED INTO MY SPACE. Repeatedly. At first I felt trapped, frozen in fear. (Are we allowed to move around when the bus is moving?) But after his head hit my shoulder for the third time, I nudged him, got up, and moved a seat up.

Unfortunately that was right over the wheels.

Know how the streets in L.A. are littered with pot holes? Well, you can feel each and every bump way more in the bus than you can in your car. The entire bus was vibrating and crunching along really loudly.

Another reason I thought I’d take the bus (besides the cost of gas and my sudden terror of driving) was so I could ostensibly read while commuting. This morning I only got through about 12 pages of “Picture of Dorian Gray”, but in theory it’s a good idea to have a book. Once I actually feel comfortable about the transfer I’ll probably be able to concentrate better.

2nd pleasant surprise: electronic screens say which intersections are
coming up. So after we pass Beverly Hills and UCLA and junk, I start
to think, “Holy fuck, did I miss my stop?” which was Wilshire @
Veteran. I go up and ask the driver. He says we’re not at Veteran yet,
but that he “doesn’t go past Westwood.” This is troubling because
Westwood is the next stop and apparently now I have no choice but to
get off the bus.

Where the hell am I??? There is a memorial graveyard or
something up ahead, and some type of courthouse thing to the left (I have sudden memories of trying to get an emergency replacement passport so I can travel to England for my poor grandmother’s funeral five years ago).

So I just start to walk, quickly calculating in my head that I
probably have time to walk the rest of the way to the office in 40
minutes, but that by the time I arrive I’ll be a puddle of sweat and
funk.

Why did I choose the longest day of summer to travel on the L.A.
Bus System for the first time?

I walk a block or two, past a gym and a bank and stuff, and see Veteran up ahead. I am sweating profusely.

But the bus sign on the North East corner (trust me, it took a million
mental pictures for me to determine which corner that would be) only
appears to be for the West 20 bus, which is the bus I just got off of.
Meanwhile, the Culver 6 whizzes by and I realize that’s my
motherfucking bus. But I wasn’t standing in the right spot for it so
it didn’t stop. Now the sun’s really beating down and I’m wishing I’d
put on some sunblock. More busses that aren’t my bus come by.

A girl gets off one and actually asks me a question about the Culver City
bus. (Her: “Is it 25 cents?” Me: “It’s 30 for a transfer. Do you need
a nickel?” Me, thinking: “I’m the man! I actually helped that person!
I know the city busses! I’m one with the city of L.A.! I’m a local! I
rule!”) 15 minutes go by. She leaves! I am still waiting for the CC 6,
and it’s now 10:40 or so and I need to be at work by 11. I cannot
believe I missed the other bus and have been waiting in the hot sun
for 20 minutes as cars fly by, kicking up garbage into my face.

Finally the CC 6 trundles down the road and I get on and I pay 30 cents. I get
called out by the driver in front of everyone. She says it’s 75
cents. So not only did I give wrong info to that girl (when I was
feeling so giddy that I was able to answer her question), but now I
have to dig through my coin purse with a million eyes burning me and
frantically calculate how much more I owe.

Here’s the thing, though: I paid $1.55 at the first bus, because my
metro printout said it was $1.25 plus 30 cents transfer. And the driver
let me pay it without giving me the transfer slip! So the new bus
driver tells me I need to show her the transfer which
of course I don’t have.

So I’m totally embarrassed but I add the correct change and sit. We
head down Wilshire to Sepulveda and turn toward Olympic. I’m thanking
God I didn’t try to walk; it is FAAAAAAAAR; across Santa Monica Blvd.
and all.

It drops me about a block from work and I manage to clock in with a
minute to spare.

We’ll see if/how the bus is any different at night. It’s 50 cents less
on the way home for some reason, and you best believe I will be
getting my transfer slip this time.

Pages of book read: 15