The Road to Cordoba

(Mark Peterson - Redux - )

I undid the green scarf that I'd tied around my head babushka-style and edged onto a stool by the door -- as respectful a distance as possible from their disrupted conversation, but it wasn't far enough.

"Sorry, kid, private party," the bartender said.

"Any idea if the buses are running?" I asked.

"We're closed." He seemed morose. So did the Bears at the bar, who sat in silence as if what they had to say was too confidential to be uttered in the presence of a stranger. The team was having a losing season.

"Buy the kid a shot," one of the Bears said.

"Whatever you say, Jimbo," the bartender replied. He set a shot glass before me and, staring into my face rather than at the glass, filled it to the brim. Each man has his own way to show he's nobody's fool, and pouring shots was the bartender's: He knew I was underage.

"Hit me, too, Timbo," Jimbo said, and when the bartender filled his glass, Jimbo raised the teeny shot glass in my direction. "This'll warm you up. Don't say I never bought you nothing," he said, and we threw back our whiskeys.

"Much thanks," I said.

"Now get your puny ass out of here," he told me.

BACK OUTSIDE, I HOODED MY HEAD IN THE GREEN SCARF and watched a snowplow with whirling emergency lights scuff by and disappear up Broadway. Waiting would be deadly. I decided to walk to the L station on Wilson. Rather than wade the snow-drifted sidewalks, I followed the ruts the plow left in the street. I trudged head down, not bothering to check for traffic until I heard a horn behind me. Headlights burrowed through the blizzard. It looked as if the beams were shooting confetti. The car -- a Lincoln, maybe -- sported an enormous, toothy grille. Whatever its make, the style was what in my old neighborhood was called a pimpmobile. I stepped from the ruts to give it room to pass. It slowed to a stop. A steamed window slid down.

"Need a ride, man?"

I got in, my lips too frozen for more than a "thanks." The rear wheels spun. I sat shivering, afraid I'd have to leave the blast of the heater in order to push that boat out of the snow.