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faye
I clutchthe railing of the swinging tram as it plummets from the hospital high on the hill down, down, down toward the Willamette River, and question the choices that lead me to this point. A murder of crows flutters past, their bird brains possibly smarter than my own. After all, I’m trapped in a death car, and they’re not.
Nobody else in the tram seems bothered by the sheer unlikelihood of this form of transit, neither my cohorts nor the doctors and patients that ride with me to the worst parking garage on the face of the planet. As we hit the support post and prepare to swing forward like a giant metallic yoyo, I have one thought that gives me solace: if today’s the day that this thing drops and kills us all, at least I won’t be leaving behind a grieving special someone.
That got dark. Fast.
I pull out my phone with my free hand.
ME:I hate public transportation.
ALY: Oh, Faye. You’ve done this twice a day for a year and a half. You’ve got this!
CARO: Is a gondola considered public transportation?
ME: Technically, yes. It’s like an elevator.
CARO: Remind me to tell you about the time I got trapped in an elevator with a sheik in Dubai.
CARO: It was… very hot.
ALY: I don’t think that’s what she needs right now.
CARO: No, it was so fucking hot in that elevator. I sweated so much I didn’t pee for a week after.
We hit the second bump and I’m not prepared for it. My knees buckle and I topple into a nurse leaning against the side of this death vessel. Judging by the stares and looks from three of my cohorts across the tram, I must’ve made a sound.
“It gets easier,” an older gentleman says.
“I’m not sure about that,” I say. I’ve done this song and dance before.
They mean to be reassuring, but if they push it long enough I’ll tell them that I’ve been doing this for three and a half semesters of med school and I’m still scared shitless every time. And yet, I’m always one of the first in the tram. I can’t get away from the hospital—from med school—fast enough.
“It will, I promise,” he says with a kind smile that pushes his well-defined laugh lines into his gray sideburns.
My phone buzzes again.
“Thank you,” I say as I open an incoming text.
ZEKE: Boston game tonight. You in?
I smile as I text my best friend, despite the fact that I’m currently suspended over the highway. I actually wouldn’t mind going to his hockey game, but it’s been a day and I don’t want to deal with the crowds and traffic.
ME: Can’t tonight, but beat them hockey-sports-style.
ZEKE: If you sat with the WAGs you’d learn better trash talk
ME: As I am neither your wife or girlfriend, I’ll stick to my excellent trash talk
ZEKE: Even Sarah has better trash talk than you
ME: Your sister-in-law is scary when she’s in the zone. Glad she’s not my dentist.
ZEKE: Stop deflecting. Your trash talk borders on criminal
ME: Criminals are excellent trash talkers
