Confident that I could get home by traveling in the opposite direction and catching a bus at another station, I walked to the platform on the other side, and hopped aboard with a shit-eating grin.

Apparently my smug confidence angered the commuter gods.

No sooner had we left Dupont Circle when the conductor announced a faulty train in front of us. However, we were still inching along the red line, so I continued to read my book, assuming the delays would be short. A few stations later and there is another announcement. This time there was a disabled train in front of us, and our train would have to push it out of our way. Um, okay. So, we push this train to the next stop, only to be rewarded with its entire cargo of sweaty tourists and frazzled commuters being squeezed onto our already crowded train. “No big deal,” I think to myself. After all, it’s only two more stops to Friendship Heights.

And the commuter gods laughed.

At the stop just before Friendship Heights our train—including the entire other train of red, white and blue-clad monument gawkers, which had been crammed into ours—is off-loaded! Another set-back, but nothing my superior commuting self can’t handle, I think to myself as I bound up the escalators to the street level to catch a 30 bus to take me the last few miles.

After squeezing onto a bus, and finally getting to Friendship Heights, I grab a cold water from a vendor and locate the RideOn bus that will take me to Silver Spring. I settle into a seat in the last row and sigh, believing that the worst is now behind me. I sit back and enjoy the laughing Spanish voices of ladies near me who are handing out free condoms (condones) to me and the other men. Everyone seems in a good mood despite the high temperatures and the ozone alert, and I allow myself to smile again.

Again, the commuter gods were quick to remind me who is boss.

As we stopped to let some passengers off, I feel a sudden thud, that moves me forward in my seat, and people on the bus start screaming. A car has slammed into the back of the bus, and judging on the lack of screeching, it has done so at full speed. People hurry off the bus, still chattering nervously. As I exit I see the car that hit us, and it is obvious that it—and its driver—have suffered significantly more damage than the bus. It isn’t pretty. A woman who believes the liquid coming from under the bus is gasoline starts yelling about getting away from the scene, while many of the passengers begin to walk down Connecticut Avenue—hoping to catch the next bus a little further down the road. Until emergency crews arrive and block the road so that no one, let alone the next bus, can get through. “Time to hoof it, I guess,” I mumble to myself.

The walk to East-West highway is a little less than 2 miles or so, but with the temperature in the mid-90s and a Code Red smog alert, it seems much further. Eventually I arrive at a bus stop where I am informed that I can catch a J-bus to Silver Spring. I smile, nod, and say thank you to the person relaying this news; but I avoid even thinking that I am home free.

For the most part the rest of the journey goes smoothly. The bus somehow avoids being stuck by lightening or careening over some cliff, and we arrive in Silver Spring. However, the accident has made it necessary for Metro to use buses to get people around the closed station, and traffic slows our arrival at the station.

Eventually we get off the bus, and I stagger home in the heat and heavy air. And I swear I hear laughter.