The Road to Cordoba

(Mark Peterson - Redux - )

"You can do it, baby," the driver said, as if urging a burro. I was tempted to caution that giving it gas would only dig us in deeper but knew to keep such opinions to myself. "Come on, baby!" He ripped the floor shift into reverse, slammed it back into drive, back into reverse and into drive again. "Go, go, you got it," and, as if it was listening, the car rocked forward, grabbed and kept rolling.

"Thought for a second we were stuck," I said.

"No way, my friend, and, hey, you're here to push, but not to worry, there's no stopping Thomaso tonight."

I unwound the scarf from my head and massaged my frozen nose and ears.

"Yo, man, you wearing perfume?" he asked.

"It's the scarf," I said.

"You in that scarf, man! When I saw you in the street, I thought some poor broad was out alone, you know? I told myself, Thomaso, the world is full of babes tonight. So, my friend, where you headed?"

"Rogers Park," I said. "Just off Sheridan." I couldn't stop shivering.

"Man, you'd a had a tough time getting there tonight. Whole city's shut down. What you doing out so late? Getting a little, dare I ask?" He smiled conspiratorially. His upturned mustache attached to his prominent nose moved independently of his smile.

"Drinking. With the Bears," I added.

"You mean like the football Bears?"

"Yeah, Jimbo and the guys."