don’t stop believing

With my favorite song blaring on the radio, I was singing along, hoping to squelch the anxiety I was feeling.
I tapped the steering wheel to the rhythm as I hummed along.
As I cruised down the freeway, I wish I felt trapped in this four door bubble forever.
Somehow, despite going 70 miles an hour, I felt safe, I felt free from the office I just left.
Free from the emails.
Free from the projects on my desk.
Free from the meetings on my calendar.
It was like a getaway, a sweet escape when I could slam my computer shut, close my office door and leave.
I breathed in deeply as I focused on maneuvering through the traffic ahead.
It was nice to concentrate on something so simple.

As I slowed down for the normal slog or rush hour traffic, I glanced at my gas gauge.
Shoot, I forgot I was beneath a quarter tank.
I probably should take the next exit and get gas so I don’t have to worry about it in the morning.
I changed lanes quickly, merging into the right, and then I got off the freeway, making my way to the gas station.

Still humming away to the song on the radio, I pulled in to the next available pump.
There seemed to be quite the crowd forming at the station, but I tried to ignore it.

I opened my car door into the bitter cold, and there was no radio or thoughts of my own to distract me from what I saw next.

“Hey, put that away,” said a masked man in camouflage carrying a large gun.
A slim man in a black jacket held up a selfie stick, filming the masked man, not saying a word.
I could see that he was staring intently at the other, not backing down.
Five other masked men in camouflage appeared, yelling at the guy in the black coat to stop recording them.

I stood frozen to the side of my car, my eyes moving back and forth from the black coated man to the armed ones.

Part of me wanted to step in between both and mediate.
Part of me wanted to think I could stop it.
I imagined myself stepping forward in slow motion and putting space between both, trying to calm both down.
But it was in my head.
I did nothing.
I stood there and just gawked like it was some show.

And it quickly escalated.

One masked man shoved the one with the camera.
He stumbled, shouting something I couldn't make out.
His selfie stick and phone went flying, shattering to the ground.
I gasped, putting my hand to my mouth, shocked by what I was witnessing.

Then, all six of the men were on top of the one with the black coat, seemingly tackling him but I couldn’t make it out.
I again willed myself to step forward, to pull them off him.

But my arms and legs felt heavy, like molten steel bolted to the concrete.
The only thing I wanted to do was flee.

Instead of stepping forward, instead of protecting that young man, I somehow managed to open my car door, climb into the driver’s seat.

Behind the shield of my car’s window, smudged and dirty with the haze of salt from the freeway, I could see the blurred figures of the masked men now carrying the young man in the black coat, who now hand handcuffs on, to their vehicle.

Staring blankly ahead as I watched the men get into their SUV, and turn their right blinker on to get back on the residential street.

Before I could think straight, I started my ignition, and got behind them.
My gut said to follow them.
I don’t know why.

Sweat started to trickle down my forehead, my eyes wide.
Instead of rhythmic tapping, I now gripped the steering wheel tightly with a ferocity I didn’t know I had as if letting go would mean I lose my concentration on the car ahead.
I glanced around, side to side, and in my rearview mirror.

The anxiety returned.
It hadn’t left but it was different – like a deep pit mixed with an aching fear.

Suddenly the safety, the freedom I felt in my own vehicle with the open road ahead began to feel like a prison – death box that anyone could slam into at any moment to make me veer off course.
I clenched my teeth, shaking my head, shaking my body, trying to rid myself of that thought.
But it lingered under the surface — this mix of fear and an overwhelming feeling of being watched.

I turned on the radio for a distraction.
The lyrics “Don’t stop believing” blared through my car’s speakers just as I made sure to turn left to continue following the ICE agent’s vehicle ahead.

I thought I knew what I believed in driving down the freeway earlier.
I really did.
But I started to question everything.