Snow Day: a Novella by Dan Maurer Page A

losing George, but getting out of the Columbia without someone stopping me. I was a minor in a saloon, after all.
    I took a deep breath, then pushed the phone booth door open and stood up with the receiver still pressed to my ear.
    “Yeah, Sorry, Mom,” I said to the dead line, loud enough for the rest the patrons to hear. “Yeah, I know I’m late. I’m on my way home now. I’ll see you in a few. Bye.”
    I hung up the phone, stepped out of the booth and stole a glance out the front window. There, parked at the curb, was the black Plymouth.
    Ol’ George was still waiting for me; there was no going out that way. I turned to the man behind the bar with the tattooed forearms. He was staring needles at me while wiping a dirty mug with a dirty dish rag.
    I said: “Mister, you got a john in here?”
    My brass clearly surprised him because he stopped wiping the mug and just stood there for a moment, not saying anything. I think he was genuinely surprised that a ten-year-old could have the balls to walk into his place like he had every right to be there, like the kid wasn’t putting his liquor license in jeopardy, like strange 10-year-olds waltz into corner bars every night.
    He didn’t answer at first, and the big man with the plaid sports jacket didn’t turn around either. He just kept his eyes forward, yet in his mirrored reflection I’m sure I detected the faintest smirk crease his lips.
    The man with the tattooed forearms eventually said “Yeah,” and jerked a thumb in the direction of a doorway at the back of the room. “Back there.”
    I headed in the direction of his thumb.
    “Do your business and get out,” he shouted after me. “This ain’t no friggin’ playground.”
    As I started down the length of the bar, I let my eyes pass over the man in the plaid jacket one more time. I saw his expression change. He was looking into the mirror behind the bar, but he wasn’t looking at me. He peered across the room, through the blotches of condensation on the plate glass window that read THE COLUMBIA in reverse. He was looking at the black Plymouth parked at the curb. The cab was dark, its headlights glowing, wipers pulsing back and forth rhythmically.
    It was snowing again.



9
    I BENT OVER IN THE PARKING LOT behind the Columbia, my hands on my knees, ready to yak. My heart pounded. I took deep frantic breaths, sucking in gasps of fresh oxygen from the January night as snow lightly flaked down on my head. It was an immediate respite from the rank, thick air in the Columbia and I savored it. I’d escaped the bar without being stopped by the man with the tattooed forearms. As I passed through the doorway he had indicated, I continued down the hall, my heart beginning to race, my steps quickening. I first passed the Men’s room, then a small office, my steps quicker still.
    “Hey, kid. Where the hell you going?” the tattooed man shouted.
    Was he following me? And where was ol’ George? I broke into a run, raced past a storage space, a stack of empty liquor boxes toward the fire exit and my freedom. By the time I reached the end of the hall, I hit the fire exit at a dead run, slammed the panic bar with both hands and rocketed through the door.
    The Columbia was located in the same building as the barbershop, just several doors down. Apartments on the second floor, retail space on the first floor, identical layouts in most of the shops – thank God for the architect’s lack of imagination. I guessed correctly that the Columbia’s back room layout would be the same as the barbershop’s and just followed the map in my head to the exit and my freedom. What I hadn’t counted on was the alarm on the Columbia back door.
    Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!
    It cut the air with an angry electronic buzzing like an alarm clock from the seventh level of Hell. The man with the tattooed forearms was shouting. His words drifted out weakly from inside the bar. They were distorted in my ears by the alarm’s buzzing and my own