Domestic abuse, sweet sweet reefer, and a trip to Roanoke

The following story is absolutely true. I couldn't have made it any stranger if I tried.

It was late 2006. I was finishing my one and only semester of grad school (don't ask) at Virginia Tech. I had just finished a lengthy and poorly-written paper for my literary criticism class, and I was walking out to my car, which was parked in a gravel lot behind my duplex.

The lot behind my place was adjacent to a small, rectangular house, where this guy Sean lived with his two kids. As I made my way to the car, a woman I'd never seen before walked out and tried to get my attention.

She was probably 5'6", very skinny, reasonably attractive, and she had a black eye.

"Excuse me," she said, "can I ask you a favor?"

Always wary of questions from battered women, I hesitated.

"It's just that, well, I'm living here on Blacksburg with my boyfriend, who's also the father of my two kids." Uh oh, I thought. "And he really beat me up last night. I was wondering if you could take me and the kids to a battered women's shelter in Roanoke."

For those of you unfamiliar with the geography of southwest Virginia, Roanoke is a bustling metropolis located about 45 minutes from Blacksburg.

As if I had any other options as a human being, I told her I would be happy to give her a ride, but I had to run to class and turn in my paper first.

She said that was fine, she was hanging out at Sean's (who was her friend, not her abusive boyfriend) so her boyfriend wouldn't find her. I told her I'd come get her after my class.

So I go to class, and if you think I was able to concentrate on the neo-feminist postmodern movement, and what it meant to us as a society, you're wrong.

I get back to my place, go over to grab the chick (if she told me her name at any point, I don't remember), and her two kids, and we roll.

She has two daughters, one probably about four, one about two. She tells me that she has a friend on the way to Roanoke that she can drop the four-year-old off at, so she won't have to bring two kids to the shelter.

We drop off the kid, and begin the magic carpet ride to Roanoke.

As we drive, she tells me about how this guy beat the shit out of her last night, and she showed me the big knot on her head, as well as the black eye which I could plainly see.

While driving, I let her use my phone to call her friend who was taking care of her older kid, so she could let her know where she would be. After hanging up, she told me not to answer my phone if a strange number came up, that her boyfriend might try and track her down.

Great, that's just what I need. A domestic abuser with my phone number.

As get closer to Roanoke, she asks if she can stop by her friends house to get the number and address for the women's shelter.

So we stop at her friend's house, which happens to be in a trailer park, and I wait for about twenty minutes while she and the kid go inside.

She gets out, and mumbles some excuse about not being able to find the shelter. She then proceeds to ask me if I smoke weed.

I would be lying if I told you I wasn't surprised to say the least. But I would also be lying if I said I told her no.

So we start smoking on the way back. Meanwhile in the back seat, her kid found a flashlight I had back there, and she started playing with it, turning it on and off.

And the chick started yelling, "Stop that! Don't you know what we're doing up here? We're smoking weed! Don't you know that it's illegal? You don't want mommy to go to jail do you?"

As stoned as I was, I was barely able to contain my hysterical laughter at this ridiculousness. And no, I didn't feel particularly guilty smoking around the kid, although in retrospect I probably should have.

So we get back to Blacksburg, and I drop her off at Sean's house. She asked me if she could borrow some money, since she didn't know when she would be able to leave town.

At this point in my life, I'm a grad student whose appetites for drugs and alcohol far outweigh the meager income I take in delivering pizzas. So it's not like I have any money to give. I think I had a few ones in my wallet, which I gave her.

Looking back, a few things stick out to me:

Was I just a chauffer to take a car-less woman to get some sweet stinky reefer? If so, then who beat her up?

Why did she give up on the idea of the battered women's shelter so fast?

Later in the evening, while I was drunkenly recounting the story, my phone rang with a number I was unfamiliar with. I didn't answer it, but someone grabbed my phone, and picked it up.

Remembering the chick's warning, I grabbed the phone and gave a shaky, "Hello?"

"Hey, is _____ there?" I guess I did get her name at some point, I just can't remember. Reefer will do that to you.

"Uhhhhhhh.....no. You have the wrong number." I'd like to think I said this quietly, yet defiantly, so that no question would exist as to whether I had helped this chick, thereby keeping me away from a chick-hitter, but we'll never know.

I never heard from the dude or the girl again. I hope they don't know how to read blogs.