Snow Day: a Novella

Snow Day: a Novella by Dan Maurer Page B

Book: Snow Day: a Novella by Dan Maurer Read Free Book Online
Authors: Dan Maurer
panting and rattled breathing, but I could still make them out.
    “Screw you, Kid! You little –”
    The sound of both the angry man and the angry alarm were cut off when the door idled shut with a metallic ca-chunk.
    For the moment, I felt safe. The lot was empty. Looking up at the windows of the other apartment buildings that circled me, I saw only a few windows glowing with yellow light behind pulled curtains, but no prying eyes. No one’s attention had been drawn by the hellish buzzing alarm. There was just the distant sound of infrequent, slow moving traffic from Columbia Avenue that drifted to my ears. My only company was a few gas guzzlers from Detroit, dark and quiet like sleeping beasts waiting for their masters, who no doubt sat sipping axel grease back in the Columbia.
    The snow came a little stronger now. It soaked my hair and plastered it to my scalp, but as cold and uncomfortable as that was, I didn’t care. There was something about being outside and free and alive. I didn’t dare risk walking back out on the street; ol’ George was still parked in front of the Columbia and there was no getting past him, so I started walking toward the back of the parking lot where a fence and a four-bay detached garage stood. I thought there might be a way around, through, or over it; if so, I could cut across several backyards – assuming no more pesky dogs – and over to East Glendale and home.
    I walked to the far end of the lot, passing the back door of each shop in the building to my right, past Al John’s, past the Fabric Shop, the Taxi Stand, and then Mr. Schneider’s barbershop, now no one’s barbershop.
    The landlord hadn’t yet leased the place to another tenant, nor cleaned it out. The barber pole, still lifeless, remained, as did the red and gold lettering on the front window. It had been five months since Mr. Schneider’s disappearance, yet if you peeked inside, as I had the day before, you could still see the barber chairs standing open like inviting hands, and the barber’s instruments all lined up neatly on the shelf in front of the mirrors – scissors, combs, electric shavers – all waiting to be fingered lightly and selected carefully by a skilled hand. They were dust-covered, no doubt, after all these months, but still; it looked as if someone – sadly, not Mr. Schneider – would open the shop the next day and life at the Summit Avenue barbershop would continue.
    The garage was just outside the barbershop’s rear fire exit, beside the dumpster. I’d never noticed it before when taking out the trash, but I looked at it carefully now, like a man puzzling a problem. Get up on the dumpster, then to the roof of the garage, over the fence to the tree behind and down into the dark backyard beyond. It was the perfect plan, if only I could get on that dumpster. I was searching fruitlessly for a box or trash can to help me mount the dumpster, when I heard it, soft and metallic and gentle.
    Ca-chunk.
    I turned and saw it – the panic bar on the fire exit of the barbershop. Someone had pressed it and pushed open the door, but just a crack.
    Who the hell would be in the barbershop? Did someone bump against it, lean against it?
    I glanced around, still alone. The snow continued to fall. Holding my breath, I listened hard, and the sound I heard turned my stomach. It was the throaty, ugly rumble of a car engine in need of a new muffler. The black Plymouth was turning into the parking lot.
    The cone of light from the headlights washed over me, blinding me for a second, before the driver snapped them off and slowly idled across the parking lot in my direction like a growling black animal.
    “Over here!” came a whisper-shout.
    I turned to look, blinked hard to shake the blindness from my eyes and saw him. It was Tommy. He had now pushed the barbershop door open wide and was standing at the threshold, waving me into the darkness beyond. Wouldn’t you know it; the son-of-a-bitch had a key to his dad’s

Similar Books

Maybe the Moon

Armistead Maupin

Virgin Territory

James Lecesne

Kiss Me Like You Mean It

Dr. David Clarke