THE WILLIAMSBURG BRIDGE

I spent a big chunk of my 20s grazing danger. Inserting myself in situations that could easily end in catastrophe. They didn’t, so now they serve as entertaining stories.

I lay in the back of a taxi somewhere in Williamsburg. I kept trying to look out the window, but struggled to keep my eyes open. It was around 4:20 a.m., and safe to say I had more tequila shots than I could count. 

“You have to pay me now before you fall asleep,” the taxi driver said. 

I might have been intoxicated, but I was still Mexican, which means I was raised skeptical and paranoid. There was no way I was going to pay him right there. I knew that if I did, I wouldn’t wake up in front of my house.

“No, I’ll pay you when you drop me off,” I responded, more awake than I had been the whole ride.

He stopped the car. 

“You pay me right now, or you leave the car!”

I opened the door with no hesitation and brought my beaten-up flats into the hot, summer streets. I barely had time to shut the door before he accelerated and disappeared into the distance.

‘Oh well, at least I got a 15-minute taxi ride for free,’ I thought.

I started walking through the streets, hoping another taxi would drive by and take me home. I had no phone battery and no way of checking the map or ordering an Uber.

But I was certain I would reach home. 

As if  planned by destiny, when I looked up, a huge, dark, green sign displayed the words “Williamsburg Bridge.”

‘That will definitely get me home; I walk through the bridge, jump into the first subway station, transfer as many trains as I need to—after all, if my two years of living in the city have served me for anything, it is to know the subway system as if it were the croquis to my house—and before I knew it, I would be sound asleep in my Upper East side studio.’ 

At this time, I did not yet know how long the Williamsburg Bridge was. 

I secured the straps of my black mini dress and began my journey. I could see the sun sneaking out through the Manhattan buildings, which only reassured my series of questionable decisions.

Twenty minutes passed by, and the only sound in sight was the crash of my rings against every one of the metal bridge bars. Just then, an electric city bike stopped next to me as a man raised his helmet to analyze my state. 

He did a 360 check-up before opening his mouth.

“Ma’am, are you okay? Do you need some help?” he asked.

“Yeah, I am just having a midnight walk,” I responded. 

This conversation repeated itself about three or four times throughout the night. Bikes, motorcycles, and cars stopped to ask if I was doing alright or if I needed their assistance. I dismissed them all with the same smile, as if walking this bridge at 5 a.m. was always my plan.

Every time I approached the situation with the same fear of someone actually leaving their vehicle and doing something to me.

Can you blame me?

In Mexico, there are 11 feminicides every day. Even worse, only 3% of them get resolved. I grew up to what I was born to: a pessimist who holds trust for no one. The idea of taking a taxi alone in the middle of the night, as a woman, is not practical, let alone walking by herself. 

I remember taking my first taxi in another country. After high school, I took a gap year in Spain—a country that is relatively safe for women. I had a panic attack and wept the whole way home. The driver showed not one ounce of interest in me.

New York is definitely safer than Mexico, but if someone were to have made a move for me right at that bridge, there would not have been much I could have done. While the alcohol was not as prevalent in my body anymore, I had no way of defending myself, definitely nowhere to run to.

My blurry watch indicated to me it was almost 6 a.m., and I saw the end of the bridge. The sun-kissed Manhattan streets were well in sight, and still, with every step I took, I only seemed to get further away.

I wasn’t even supposed to go out tonight, but 3-Dollar-Bill has a way of persuading me.

3-Dollar-Bill is the largest queer venue in New York City, a place for self-expression, celebration, and probably the bar I frequent the most in my 20s. It opened its doors in 2018 and quickly became known for its exotic performances, joyful live music, flamboyant atmosphere, and extremely heavy drinks. Coincidentally, every time I go there, I kiss three girls, take too many shots, and leave my apartment vacant for the whole night.

I had been outside of my house for more than twenty hours as I took my first step back into the city. I calculated I can walk to ‘Chambers’ station from there, take the express 4 train to 86th street, and be ready to collapse in bed in about twenty minutes. 

Destiny decided to interrupt again as a taxi rushed right in front of me. Out of instinct, I raised my hand, and he immediately pulled into the curb. I opened the door, got my dirty dress into the back seat, and told the taxi driver, “3rd avenue and 93rd street, as fast as you can, please,” and shut the door. 

It was past 7 a.m., and my see-through front door was in sight. I paid him 43 dollars for the express ride. I don't remember opening the door, running up the stairs, or getting into my apartment. But I woke up to a stranger taking a call in my living room. 

I was too exhausted to care and fell back asleep. Either way, that catastrophe is meant for another time.