My husband and I lived together before we were married.  I had a son already when I met him, for I was a whore.

One Sunday afternoon, my husband needed to attend a convention with a co-worker and offered to drive.   Then he remembered that he didn’t renew his license plates and since this was a convention for law enforcement officers, he would look like the king of the asshats if he drove his car there, illegally.  So… he asked if he could borrow mine.  I obliged and was trapped in our one bedroom apartment on a cold winter’s day with a 6 month old and a topless Jeep with expired plates.   Thank God for the cute pizza delivery boy.

The next morning, I was on my way to drop my son off at the baby-sitter’s before my workday.  About half way through the 25 minute commute, still on the highway, my car started jerking and the engine was knocking.  I pulled over immediately- the car stalled on an off ramp- in the ghetto- in 20 degree weather- with a 6 month old baby in the backseat- it had all the makings of  a Lifetime movie.

This was before cell phones, but I would later learn that the said convention that he drove my car to the day prior, was in the NEXT STATE.  And he didn’t refill the gas tank before letting me take it to work.   Leaving me to teach my 6 month old some beautifully colorful language that morning.

I stood in my Working Girl suit- shoulder pads included (screw off- it was the mid 90’s and we’re a little behind here in the Midwest)- with the car seat hanging on my arm cutting off the circulation, yelling at passers by- PLEASE HELP ME- MY BOYFRIEND’S AN IDIOT AND I’VE RUN OUT OF GAS.

Then a middle aged white man in a Honda Civic hatchback pulled over.  Every after school special I ever watched ran through my head as I asked if he could bring me to the nearest gas station.   He agreed.

He had glasses and messy brown hair and could pass for nearly every caucasian on the wall at the Post Office.  I was screwed.  He was definitely a serial killer- hopefully the baby would throw him off of his game, I thought.

I knew the area and suggested the gas station to the right- it was the closest.

“But you don’t have a gas can, we need to go to my house first and get my gas can,” he said as he plotted our murder and turned left.   I bet that’s what he said to all his victims.   I was definitely dead.

My heart raced and I imagined the news crews and the searches and people thinking how dumb I was for getting into this stranger’s car and how I sort of deserved to become a sandwich- simply out of stupidity. No one would ever know what an ASS my boyfriend was, leaving me to drive that distance on an empty gas tank, putting me and my son in harm’s way. No, people will feel sorry for him and respect his mourning process- never knowing that he was to blame!

I became more determined than ever to escape and survive.  People needed to know the truth.  I mentally planned out the best way to run in a tight pencil skirt and 3 inch pumps while carrying a baby in a car seat.

We pulled up at his house and it was the perfect time for my getaway.  But, well, it was warm in the car, and I figured, by that time, if I ran, it would just get uglier.  You know, sometimes killers take it easy on their victims if they don’t fight.  So I stayed.   And hoped he’d take pity on me and my baby.

I breathed a little easier when we pulled into a gas station.  My son was sleeping comfortably and, though I was a new mom, I knew you NEVER wake a sleeping baby.   So I stayed in the car  again and hoped that all the running that we had just done wore him out and he’d be too tuckered out to kill us today and would just bring me back to my car. And he did.  And I lived to tell the story,  just barely.