Not a Tornado, Just Seemed Like One

The wind is a bit blustery in SoCal today. I had to hold on to my beanie to keep it from being blown away. Windy days forever will remind me of the morning I thought I was going to be blown off a bridge.

In January 1993, I was on my way to work during the beginning of a destructive windstorm in Tacoma, Washington. I worked at an aerospace company located on Puget Sound. To get to work, I had to take a bus into town and walk over the 11th Street Bridge, aka the Murray Morgan Bridge.

At the Lakewood bus stop, the velocity of the wind didn’t seem that bad. However, when the bus arrived at my Market Street destination thirty minutes later, the wind was blowing so hard I wondered if I would be able to get my morning caffeine fix. Struggling against the wind, I finally reached the Judicial Annex Café, where I ordered my usual early morning snack—coffee and croissant.

Twenty minutes later, I exited the café on the lower level. Out on the sidewalk, I hesitated before going any father. I decided to wait, hoping the wind would die down enough for me to make it to work safely.

Another café customer had the same idea. We stood close to the building and watched a variety of trash and other items swirl around us. “Is this a tornado?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “The wind always blows off Puget Sound.” (Well, yes, but it usually doesn't blow that hard.)

As if on cue, a humongous green rubber trash can came tumbling down the street, followed by a newspaper vending machine. The man scurried back into the café.

I should have scurried with him, but I waited to see if the wind would let up. A few minutes later, it didn’t seem to be blowing so hard. If I hurried, I figured I could get over the bridge without getting blown into the Sound.

I speed-walked down the 11th Street hill to Pacific Avenue, which was about two blocks away. So far, so good. But a few minutes after I got on the bridge, the wind picked up again. I became a tad bit concerned when receipts and tissues began flying out of my coat pockets and out of the side pocket on my handbag. Good thing I wasn’t wearing a beanie that day; I would have lost it forever.

I was about halfway across the bridge when thoughts of Galloping Gertie (google it) entered my mind. I knew the 11th Street Bridge wasn't a suspension bridge, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I decided it was in my best interest to give up and head back to Pacific Avenue. I planned to throw myself on the mercy of the baristas at the corner coffee shop. I would ask to use the store phone and call my boss to let him know I was stranded at Starbucks.

I grabbed the railing and crept toward Pacific Avenue. I was all alone on the bridge during the morning rush hour, with not even one car in sight. I looked up and saw a seagull that appeared to be flying backwards. Strange, I thought. Why is that bird flying backwards? And then it dawned on me that, unlike hummingbirds, seagulls can’t fly backwards.

I was slowly making progress toward Starbucks when a red compact car drove by, made a U-turn, and stopped beside me. At that point, I didn’t care if the driver was a serial killer; I was getting into that car.

So I did. The driver turned out to be my boss.

Yikes! Two Guys Thought I Was a What?

A recent Facebook comment about a questionable area in a Certain City reminded me of the times I was mistaken for a hooker.

Yes, it happened twice, and in different cities, the first time in 1983, and the second in 1992.

One Saturday, after breakfast at Ken’s favorite greasy spoon, I asked him to drop me off at the Tucson Mall. He said he would do that after he got a haircut. I didn’t want to wait for him, so I decided to take the bus.

I had dressed appropriately for a cold February morning on the desert. I was wearing a pair of old, comfy jeans and a turtle neck top worn under a bulky sweater. The heavy wool car coat I wore over everything else made me look like I weighed about 300 pounds.

Unfortunately, I made the mistake of NOT standing next to the bus stop sign. I was standing about ten or twelve feet away when a man in a late model white car pulled up to the curb and parked in front of me.

At first, I thought he might be someone I knew from work or school, but when I made eye contact with him (which I probably shouldn’t have), I realized he wasn’t. I wondered what the heck the guy was waiting for. About two minutes later, it dawned on me.

Yikes! I was standing on the Miracle Mile, a road that people often referred to as Hooker Highway.

I forgot about going to the mall and fled to the barber shop. Ken walked out the door just as I got there. “Ken,” I shrieked, pointing back in the direction of the bus stop, “Some guy thinks I’m a hooker.”

Ken was not amused. I didn’t get to the mall that day, but I did get a lot of mileage out of that story. I often joked that I was going to have a T-shirt custom printed with the words: I am not a hooker.

I probably should have followed through on the T-Shirt idea. I could have worn it in January 1992, on the Sunday morning I walked Pacific Avenue in Tacoma. Hey, I was just doing a little amateur detective work.

I was minding my own business—well, more or less—when a man driving a beat-up blue car came along, slowed down, and stopped a couple of yards past me.

After my Tucson experience, I guess I should have expected that. I was a woman walking alone on Pacific Avenue, which, at that time, was Tacoma’s version of Tucson’s Miracle Mile.

But it was Sunday.

Oh, for gosh sakes, give it a rest.

This time, I didn’t hang around wondering what the man had in mind. I fled across the street to Denny’s restaurant, squeezed into the last available seat at the counter, and pulled a bus schedule out of my backpack. I sat there sipping really bad coffee for almost an hour until I could catch a bus that took me far away from that area.

In hindsight, perhaps I should consider staying out of cities with names that begin with the letter T.

 

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