THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, March 24, 1996 TAG: 9603240035
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: ELIZABETH SIMPSON
LENGTH: Medium: 63 lines
I bought something for my own protection last week.
I never thought I would own one. It's small, sleek and feels heavier in my hand than I expected it to. It's small enough to conceal in my purse, but big enough to make me feel safe, even a little cocky.
``Do you know how to use it?'' the woman at the counter said.
``Sure,'' I said, convincing neither of us.
I hope I will never have to use my new purchase, but I am willing to suffer the consequences if I do: an outrageous phone bill for yacking on my new cellular phone.
I didn't want to buy this latest gizmo of the electronic age. The fact that the woman who bought one right before me was wearing a fur coat should have told me something: I am way out of my league here.
I didn't buy this phone so I could look cool weaving in and out of traffic while chatting on the phone. (Doesn't anyone read the instructions? They say not to do that.) Nor do I hope to impress friends by taking a call over lunch. I couldn't hear the darn thing ring over the din at McDonald's anyway.
I wish I could say I bought it because I have a big important job, and my boss needs to stay in touch with me. But I'd be lying.
No, I bought this pricey piece for one thing: Peace of mind.
I had to stop thinking that my car would never break down. Or that if it did, it would break down within walking distance to my house. Or if it didn't stall in a convenient spot, only nice people would stop to help me.
If Robin Flanagan were still alive, she could tell me that's unrealistic thinking. Her car broke down on Elbow Road in Chesapeake last December, and she was brutally attacked by a man she thought was stopping to help.
I almost bought a cell phone after reading about Robin, who committed suicide a month after the man slammed her in the head with a baseball bat.
But Alicia Reynolds was the person who pushed me over the edge. She's the 25-year-old woman who disappeared three weeks ago along U.S. 29 in Culpeper County. Only her car, her coat and her credit card have been found. State police believe she was abducted.
I resent feeling like I need a cell phone. But I bet that of the estimated 30,000 people a day who are signing up for this service in this country, a lot are women.
Women like me who are afraid of being taken advantage of while stranded. Mothers like me who want to be reached in case there's an emergency with their children. Women who hate paying money they can't afford for something they hope they never use.
I've been stranded plenty of times in my life and accepted help from strangers. The guys in the white truck who picked me up on a dusty interstate in Oklahoma. The teenager in the pickup who gave me a ride home in Louisiana. The man who kindly stopped for me while I was trudging along in a Missouri snowstorm.
Every time I accepted a ride I thought to myself, ``I really shouldn't be doing this,'' and every time the friendly stranger turned out to be - amazing - a friendly stranger.
My purchase last week was not based on likely scenarios, but on that one-bad-chance-in-a-million that you read about in the newspaper.
If you see me stranded along a road, don't bother to stop. From now on, I'm keeping the windows up, the doors locked, and my cell phone charged. by CNB