by P. Dangelico
My temper is on a hair trigger and it comes up quickly. It’s close to midnight, I haven’t eaten anything outside of a free bag of potato chips in ten hours, and I know I have a two-and-a-half-hour drive ahead of me. A debate is not what I’m looking for right now.
“I’ll take my chances,” I tell her, my perkiness and fake smile fading along with my patience.
“They’re sayin’ a nor’easter––a bad one.”
My smile drops like a brick. “Duly noted. Can I get a car please?” I shove my driver’s license and credit card at her in the hopes she’ll stop giving me the weather report and start printing the rental contract.
But Delores is not deterred. Oh, no. She adds a disapproving head shake to her repertoire and presses on. “With a cyclone bomb.”
“Look––” I start, taking a deep breath to bank my frustration. “Delores, right? I’m not some showboating tourist, okay? I grew up around here. A few feet of snow are a walk in the park for me. We’re good, alright?”
Delores and the patronizing look on her face are turning out to be more annoying than the grilled cheese kid.
“We got one econ rental left. It won’t be good in the snow, but it’s all we got.”
A smile of pure unadulterated triumph breaks across my face. “I’ll take it,” I nearly shout, close to double-fist pumping the air.
She hands me the rental contract on which is written…Nissan Cube. I glance up into Delores’s determined expression and it tells me that if I say one word, that precious Cube is no longer mine. Needless to say, I’m not taking any chances of getting stuck in Albany with my almost maxed out credit cards. I mumble a thanks, and ten minutes later I am hustling out to the underground parking garage dragging two large suitcases behind me to claim my bright orange Nissan Cube.
As I pull the Cube out of the underground garage, snowflakes fall gently on the windshield. It seems everyone is watching the same weather report because the streets of Albany are nearly deserted. The light from the street lamps catch the snow, the night alight with a romantic glow as I navigate the backroads to the thruway. There’s something magical about softly falling snow and a tickle of hope stirs in my chest. Or maybe it’s wishful thinking. It’s in my nature to be positive.
Life is a journey someone much wiser than me once said. And if that’s true, then maybe mine is destined to have few more twists and turns than most.
Every Day Is A Winding Road by Sheryl Crow comes on the radio. I turn up the volume, breathing a sigh of relief that for now the worst is behind me. And as the orange Cube chugs up the thruway, I sing along. Who the hell knows. Maybe Sheryl is onto something.
The worst is most definitely not behind me. In fact, it’s on me, over me, and under me. I’ll be picking it out of my teeth and underwear soon. Half an hour into my trip, I am getting creamed by the worst.
Let me just say this, a cyclone bomb is not something to trifle with. Officially, I am a showboating tourist. I am a trash-talking, know-it-all, showboating tourist. This is not the first time my mouth has gotten me into trouble––no surprise there––but it has never put my life in actual jeopardy before.
I don’t remember snowfall like this. Even though it has technically been eight years since I’ve lived here; I don’t remember anything like this at all. And here’s more bad news––it’s getting progressively worse the farther north of Albany I drive.
A two-hour trip turns into a hair-raising, anxiety-inducing four-and-a-half hour one, most of which is conducted in near whiteout conditions with me bent over the steering wheel, clutching it like it’s the last roll of toilet paper during a worldwide pandemic. The entire way I’m talking to the car. It’s all I can do to keep the nervous breakdown at bay.
“What a good girl you are. So handy and brave…Look at you, defying the odds…They said she couldn’t do it, but she persisted…”
Only by the grace of God do I somehow make the turn onto 73 west headed toward downtown Lake Placid. It feels like a race with time; the closer I get to my destination the more brutal the conditions get.
Inching my way down the two-lane highway, the snow banked up the sides gets higher and higher until it closes in around me and I can’t see the road anymore.
That’s when all hell breaks loose.
It happens very fast and simultaneously very slowly––like I’m stuck in a bad Fast And Furious take. The little orange car that can just can’t do it anymore. As my heart pounds with fuel-injected fear, the Cube starts fishtailing, the back wheels spinning and spinning. I freeze, unconsciously holding my breath, because doing anything else is beyond my pay grade.
This is where my luck ends. I never had much to begin with, but right here and now the little I do have peters out. The scream is stuck in my throat as the car slides sideways off the street, crashes through a pile of snow, and eventually into a cluster of pine trees. The driver’s side door slams into an unmovable object, and I slam my head into the driver’s side window.
Once the world stops spinning, I take a minute to assess the damage. Other than my throbbing brain, which I try and fail to soothe by rubbing, I’m alive and in one piece, seemingly unscathed for now. I say seemingly because it’s then I realize that I’m way off road, hidden from any vehicles passing, and the snow is coming down fast with flakes the size of frisbees. It’ll be mere seconds before the entire car is covered. The windshield wipers, working hard to clear the blanket of falling snow, just can’t keep up with the onslaught, and before long I’m sitting in a tin igloo––or a casket. Whichever.
I turn off the engine. The exhaust pipe could be blocked (who knew all the true crime documentaries I’ve binged would come in handy) and dying softly from co2 poisoning is not my preferred choice…not that I have a choice. The thought turns my stomach. I still have a ton of life to live. This is not how my story ends.
The temperature inside the car quickly plummets, and since I’m not a complete idiot, I decide the best course of action is to put on as many clothes as possible. Crawling out of the driver’s seat, I get in the back and start opening the suitcases, which is no easy task when I’m shaking, and my fingers are numb. Teeth chattering, I strip off my sister’s Canada Goose maxi coat and start piling on sweaters, undershirts––anything that I can cram on gets crammed on because it is flipping cold.
“I can’t die here. This is not how my story ends. Hell no. I refuse to die like Jack Nicholson in The Shining.”
Once I get all the clothes on, I lie down in the back, clutching my phone. Going out in this storm would be utter madness and I’m not desperate enough yet. I’ve got a large water bottle and a pack of strawberry Twizzlers to hold me over for the night. Besides, Nicholson’s frozen face keeps flashing before my eyes. No, the best course of action is to hunker down until the storm abates. After that, I’ll venture forth and see if I can flag down a state snowplow. This is a major road in and out of town; they won’t wait long to clear it.
The phone battery icon blinks green. It’s fully charged. And I have an extra battery with me. Little good that does me with a nonexistent signal, but at least I’m not one of those people on the evening news that finds themselves in dire straits with no battery juice.
The quote running in the byline flashes before my eyes. “Yeah, she died. But at least she had a fully charged phone and a back-up battery.”
That doesn’t sound great either.
Save for the dim light of my screen, the cab is dark and it’s getting colder by the second. My focus is waning, and the courage I’ve marshaled begins to slowly seep out of me. All that is left in its wake is a deep fear that I am good and truly screwed and I can’t talk myself out of it like I usually do. Trying to swallow the fear that balls in my throat only helps to drive it to the surface.
You know that oh shit moment? The one that inevitably everyone has at least once in his or her life. Like oh, shit, I shouldn’t have applied self-tanner the night before my big job interview. Or, oh shit, all that cheese and champagne a
t the big fancy New Year’s Eve party was a bad idea. Or oh shit, did I just send that pic of the suspicious beauty mark on my boob to everyone on my contact list instead of to my sister? Yeah, well, this is definitely my oh shit moment.
Even beneath the mountain of clothes I’m buried under, my body is shaking violently, my anxiety slowly climbing until I’m on the verge of tears. That’s when the thoughts sneak in. The bad ones. There’s so much I haven’t done. So much I haven’t seen. Too much I haven’t accomplished yet. I’m usually really good at getting myself out of trouble, but there is a very real chance I may not come out ahead this time and all those boxes I haven’t checked yet taunt me. What the hell have I been doing with my time?
“God, if you’re listening, I have a list…you there, buddy?” Fuck, I feel alone. My vision gets blurry as tears pool in the corner of my eyes. “Okay, here it is if you’re interested…I would like to meet my niece or nephew. You can’t deny me that.” The thought of never seeing Jackie again has me crying so hard my eyes hurt, and it’s so cold the tears sting. “Also, I would like to fall in love just once…and Ben doesn’t count. Fucking hell, this is not how my story ends! Sorry, I apologize for the salty language but I’m cold and you know how much I hate the cold…”
I can’t die like this, frozen, in the middle of nowhere, unemployed and broke.
“A Pulitzer would be nice. I’m not saying it’s a must, more like a wish if you’re in a generous mood tonight.”
It’s so dark that if I wasn’t exhausted from shaking I would be hyperventilating. As it stands my lungs burn from the frigid air. Shallow breaths are all I can tolerate. My eyelids feel like they weigh a hundred pounds. I’m tired, so tired of shaking, of feeling cold and anxious, of thinking about all the things I’ll miss out on.
I send my father and Nan a mental I love you. I tell Jackie that she’s the best big sister ever, even if it’s that bitch’s fault that I’m in this mess. Then I tell her I don’t want her to blame herself.
And the last thought that stays with me as I drift away. Not something deep and meaningful, nothing noble. All I can think is…fucking Delores was right.
The sound of scratching wakes me from a perfectly good dream in which I’m a human popsicle and Ben is licking me. It annoys me; that I’m being awoken. It’s the only thing giving me relief from the pain in my head and the cold making my skin simultaneously hypersensitive and numb.
My eyes slowly blink open to an endless void. I can’t see a thing. Which means I’m deceased––or on my way there. It certainly seems like it. I’m no longer shaking, and my body is dead weight. I don’t even try to move because I’m afraid I won’t be able to.
The noise gets louder.
Someone is outside the car, I surmise with what little ability to think straight I still possess. Suddenly, the windows on the side of the car I’m facing clear of snow and I can make out the faint outline of a person. By the looks of it, it’s a him and he’s large. The big guy is moving his arms and hands back and forth, quickly clearing snow off the Cube as more falls at an alarming rate.
This is interesting, I think to myself. I wonder what happens next. That’s about it though. I’m too tired to care or hold a thought in my head for longer than a second. It’s more an amusing distraction, an action movie I’m watching from afar.
The man furiously working to clear the snow looks to be wrapped in a rainbow flag. Huh, that’s interesting. With snow clinging to his head and beard, he reminds me of Santa. Also very interesting.
Big gay Santa’s got a really harsh look on his face, his brow furrowed deeply as he works. Maybe it’s more horror movie than action. If he says, “Here’s Johnny,” when he finally gets the door open, I’ll know I’m officially dead.
Gay Santa gets aggressive with the Cube and the car starts rocking. He seems to be upset that he can’t get the door open, and I’m no help. I can’t move. It’s just too much of an effort to pick up my head. Reaching over to hit the Unlock button would require a crane and I don’t have one handy right now. I’m rooting for him, though. Somewhere in the detached part of my brain that has split from reality, I hope he saves me. Mentally and morally, big gay Santa has all my support.
That’s when things escalate. He stops pulling on the door long enough to draw back his elbow and crash it into the window. It shatters loudly. Good thing I’m dead because I can’t afford to pay for that.
“Hey! Hey, you awake?” he says poking his big white head in the dark cab. His voice is raspy. Not your typical rasp, like when your throat is dry. That’s not what this is. This guy sounds like he gargles with broken glass and battery acid on the regular. Weird that I would think that while I’m deceased but this is where we’re at.
“Ma’am? Are you hurt?”
What do you think? Is on the tip of my tongue but it comes out as, “yeahlittleIdon’tknow.”
“I’m comin’ to get you.”
Reaching in, he unlocks the back door and pulls and pulls until it creaks open halfway. Then the unpleasant part. A very bright light shines in my face, forcing me to slam my eyes shut.
“Nahhoooo,” I hear myself cry out. The light hurts my head something fierce. I bury my face in the clothes I have piled over me. The sound of gay Santa sucking in a breath has me wondering what the drama is about.
“I’m getting you out. Just…gimme a minute.”
The light disappears, and the pile of clothes on top of me is pushed off. I know this because I’m getting colder, which I didn’t think was possible. Shortly after that, there’s some ham-fisted jostling, and arms the size of tree trunks scoop under my knees and armpits.
Next thing I know, I’m ripped out the car with no warning. Falling snow covers my face, my closed eyes, clinging to my eyelashes. It’s cold and annoying and makes me turtle into my jacket. I feel bruised and battered. I may not be dead yet, but I’m too tired to stay awake. Last thing I remember is gay Santa murmuring, “I’ve got you. You’re safe now.” Then, “I’m sorry.”
I know I hit my head and I’m halfway to becoming a human popsicle, but he sounds drunk…or something.
Chapter 4
A bright light hits my eyelids. It might as well have pulled me out of the grave because I feel dead. Sore and in a bad mood, I crack open my eyes slowly and at first the strange surroundings startle me. Until I reach up and feel the protruding lump and subsequent throb on the side of my head. Then I’m reminded of the prior night’s events in high-definition.
I’m lying on a ratty oversized leather couch. It’s not entirely uncomfortable, however, so that’s good. And there’s a goose down blanket over me and pillow under my head. The pillow smells strangely similar to the Moroccan Oil shampoo I use. Don’t know why I notice that but I do.
I take stock of the room. This farmhouse looks ready to be condemned. The yellow 1950s wallpaper on the walls is peeling, water stains cover the high ceiling, and the fire place is in the late stages of decay; half the bricks are in a pile inside. As for the floor…gross. It’s an ugly wall-to-wall green carpet, torn out in some areas, stained in others with what appears to be paint of every color. Sienna, magenta, cerulean blue, and lemon yellow. A veritable rainbow of drips and drabs of bright color.
I’m still wearing all the clothes I had on last night so it’s a little hard to sit upright. And when I finally do manage it, by rolling onto my side and pushing myself up, I find the same colored stains on my sweater. Yikes.
My sister’s pink cashmere sweater has a big splatter of blue oil-based paint over one nipple and a yellow one on the sleeve. Jackie is going to be pissed. Then again, serves her right for what she did to me.
Gingerly, I struggle to get my broken body off the couch. First thing first, I need to find the guy who saved my life. Gay Santa. It’s all coming back to me now. The crash, his selfless act of bravery. There’s no doubt Gay Santa is the only reason I’m alive right now.
Passing a window, I can see the conditions outside are still apocalyptic. It’s sn
owing. And not just snowing; it’s snowing sideways.
This is not romantic. At all. The only stirring this elicits is nausea, a hypersensitivity of the skin probably due to a mild case of frostbite, and a reminder that I hit my head. I take back every nice thing I ever said about snow.
The good news is that this hellhole is warmish. The fireplace is out of service but the heat is definitely still working. The rest of the news is all bad. No bars on my cellphone and I can’t find my red Pumas anywhere. All that separates my bare skin from whatever died on this carpet is a pair of wool socks.
“Hello,” I half whisper as I slowly creep through the house. I’m not feeling half as courageous this morning as I was last night. Yes, he’s a big gay mountain man who saved my life, but I can’t be sure what his intentions are. He could have saved me for nefarious purposes. What I am sure about is that I’ve seen Motel Hell one too many times as a kid and I’m not keen on becoming beef jerky.
“Hello?” I whisper louder and get no response. The only sound that answers back is the howling of the wind outside and the creaking of this old farmhouse, which for the record is beyond creepy. I’m barely holding onto my imagination as it tries to run away with me.
Wandering, I enter another large room with the door wide open. It must have been a family room as some point, but all that remains now is a beat-up recliner sitting in the middle, a small side table next to it, and a brand new 60-inch flat screen TV mounted on the wall with a hockey puck stuck in the middle of it. It’s for moments like these that the phrase stranger than fiction was coined.
A sound alerts me that I am no longer alone. A snort of sorts. I walk around to the front of the recliner and discover gay Santa sleeping soundly. I clear my throat, hoping that’s enough to wake him, and get nothing in return. Not a twitch, not a lifting of an eyelid. No wakey.