“Do you think you could give me a ride home?”
It was that innocent and seemingly innocuous question that damn near brought me to Death’s doorstep. It wasn’t a hitchhiker on the side of the road or a straggler outside of a gas station. It was a stranger, sure, but it was one who was fairly close to my circle of friends, and I never saw it coming. My best friend always told me that my kindness would be the death of me. I’ve forgiven cheating ex-boyfriends, abusive friends, and betraying family members. I’ve given friends rides to and from and I’ve stayed up all night to talk an acquaintance out of suicide. I ordered a pizza for someone who’d just lost their job and couldn’t afford a meal. I was always blessed growing up and one day, finally having realized the magnitude of my blessings, decided to start paying it forward whenever I was physically and financially able.
The incident occurred about four or five years ago on a quiet Friday night. I’d opted for a night in with Netflix and snacks rather than going out for drinks and karaoke. I was living with my parents at the time and my mother was visiting my grandmother, so it was just my father, the pets, and I in the house. I found myself curled up in bed having a little Guy Ritchie marathon, since my dad was sprawled out on the couch watching some classic Batman films from the golden era. I was about twenty minutes into Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels when I heard the familiar sound of a Facebook Messenger notification chiming on my phone.
I reached over and opened the message, seeing it was from someone I knew of, but had never actually met before; his name was Alan. We had a moderate handful of mutual friends and despite never seeing him before in my life, I’d accepted the friend request he sent a few weeks back. He seemed to talk to some people I knew on a regular basis, so I figured he just wanted to expand his circle. He posted some rather funny memes and the often relatable millennial joke posts here and there. I’d never actually talked to him before, but we’ve mutually liked each other’s content. I was a little surprised to actually receive a message from him, especially around 10pm on a random Friday night.
“Hey.”
Simple and innocent enough, I supposed.
“Hey man, how’s it going?” I replied, keeping it chill and casual, plopping my phone back on the bed and resuming my movie.
He responded almost immediately. “Good. Hey, listen, I’m at my friend’s house and everyone is drunk and shit. Do you think you could give me a ride home?”
Weird. I literally didn’t know this guy whatsoever other than having mutual friends and completely out of the blue, he messages me, of all people, to ask for a ride. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little annoyed at the idea of having to leave the house, but more so for someone who’d have the…audacity…for lack of a better word, to ask me to.
On the other hand, it was kind of late and fairly cold outside, buses had already stopped running, Uber and Lyft weren’t a thing in my town back then, and getting a taxi could be expensive.
“Where are you?”
“55 Spring Road. I live at 93 Juliet Street.”
With a quick search on Apple Maps, I saw that he wasn’t too far away and surprisingly lived a couple of miles north of me. I figured it wouldn’t take all that long to do him the favor, and at least he wouldn’t have to walk in the cold or get a ride from someone who’d been drinking and endanger both of their lives.
“Give me a few minutes to get dressed and I’ll let you know when I’m there.”
“Awesome, thanks!”
I had a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach, but I was diagnosed with anxiety and it always made a point to resurface when it came to meeting someone new. I threw on a pair of jeans and a hoodie, slipped into my “going wherever, I need shoes” pair of sneakers, and collected my wallet, phone, and keys before heading into the living room to announce my departure. Despite being an adult, I always made a point out of mutual respect, to inform my parents where I was going and for what reason.
As I climbed into the cabin of my SUV, the feeling in my stomach grew stronger and I couldn’t figure out why my internal monologue was telling me to abort mission, go back upstairs, ignore any messages Alan sent, and apologize in the morning saying I fell asleep. I shook the thought and started the commute.
When I pulled up to the house and parked across the street, I noticed that the only source of light was coming from one of the windows on the third floor. Even with my windows closed, I could hear the unmistakable sound of drunken youthful banter. I messaged Alan to let him know I arrived and a moment later, a figure appeared in the window and seemed to be looking down at me. In that moment, I was thankful that my windows were tinted as dark as legally possible, so there was no way whoever that was could have seen me staring back, trying to make out his features.
A few minutes went by before Alan finally responded saying he was on his way down, but the man at the window hadn’t moved a muscle whatsoever. Eventually, the front door opened and there was Alan, easily recognizable in the now illuminated porch light — probably motion sensors — looking exactly like he does in his Facebook pictures. He hopped down the steps, backpack over his shoulder, and made his way over to me, having been inside the only vehicle on the street with its headlights on.
He opened the door and climbed into the passenger seat, dropping his backpack between his feet. He greeted me with an oddly enthusiastic hello and leaned over to give me a hug. Weird, but my masculinity isn’t so fragile as to decline a hug from another guy. I started to drive off and glanced up at the third floor window again to find the man still watching. The fight or flight feeling in my stomach came back twice as hard.
“Thanks for the ride, man, I really appreciate it.”
“Yeah, no problem,” I replied, forcing a smile.
I kept the radio at a low volume and kept an eye on Alan in my peripheral vision. He would occasionally look out of the window, glance at me, and go back to the window. His right leg was bouncing up and down, as if he was nervous about something, and I noticed he kept scratching his thigh. In hindsight, they were obvious signs of nervousness or anxiety, but I had no idea why at the present moment.
“Nice car, by the way. What is it, a brand new X5?”
I nodded. “Yeah, it is. I just got it a few months ago.”
Alan whistled. “Damn, must have been expensive.”
I didn’t acknowledge the question. There was something about his tone and the implication of the statement that rubbed me the wrong way. It wasn’t unusual for people to question the cost of the BMW, but there was just something about how he said it that made me think he’d drive off in it given the opportunity.
I really wanted to ask him why he reached out to me, of all people, to give him a ride home, but I kept my mouth shut for a majority of the ride. His presence made me incredibly uncomfortable and I couldn’t wait to get him home and get myself home.
“I really appreciate you doing this, man,” he said, breaking the silence. “I really didn’t want to have to walk home.”
“It’s cool, no worries.”
“Do you do this often?” he laughed. “Give rides to strangers, I mean.”
I shook my head. “Not usually, no.”
Alan laughed again. “Probably for the best. You know, there’s a lot of crazies out here,” he said, in a dramatic, Joker-esque, sing-song manner. It made my stomach turn.
Without skipping a beat, I retorted, “Yeah, you’re right. That’s why I keep a gun under my seat. You never know.”
I looked at him in my peripheral vision and his expression was emotionless. He looked out of the window and remained quiet the entire remainder of the ride and didn’t look back at me once. As I neared his neighborhood, he pointed out an empty spot a few houses down from his.
“You can just drop me off here, man, it’s cool,” he said, hurriedly.
I obliged and threw the SUV in park. Alan immediately collected his backpack, said a quick thanks, and practically power-walked toward his house, disappearing into the driveway. I immediately shifted into gear and high-tailed it home.
The moment I left his neighborhood, I felt this overwhelming sense of relief. I don’t think he caught on that I was bluffing about having a gun under the seat, but something tells me that the comment deterred him from whatever it was he originally planned to do.
A few weeks later, I came home from work and my parents were watching the news. Alan’s mugshot was on Channel 6. He was arrested for brutally murdering a girl in our town after she’d picked him up and gave him a ride home. The girl, Allison, left her Facebook logged in on her laptop and her mother checked it when Allison wasn’t responding to text messages or phone calls. The police went to Alan’s house and found Allison’s grey Toyota, with her body in the trunk. Alan was arrested immediately, with Allison’s blood on his clothes and his hands. Inside Allison’s car on the passenger side was Alan’s backpack, which contained miscellaneous drugs and a bloody machete.
I went to the bathroom and barely made it before I vomited. My entire life flashed before my eyes as I was collapsed over the toilet. I didn’t dare tell my parents that he was the “friend” I gave a ride to a few weeks prior. I did send an anonymous tip to the police about the occupants of the third floor apartment of 55 Spring Road, which led to the arrest of a handful of men and a collection of controlled substances.
I can’t say what would have happened to me if I didn’t lie to Alan about having a gun under the seat of my car. What I can say is the fact that since that night, I do carry a gun now, and I’ve never given a ride to anyone I didn’t personally know.