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A Second Chance
By
OldMack©2005
It was snowing hard in Frisco, Colorado. Cold air was sliding down the mountains to the west, moving the storm toward the Skelly gas station where we had filled the tank of the Volkswagen beetle and parked it two nights before. Chris and I were on opposite sides of the car, standing on crusty old snow, scraping the accumulation of ice and snow off the top of the car and the windows. The wind was calm at that moment, but the temperature was dropping fast.
The sky above us was clear and ice blue. The sun had just cleared the 12,000 foot summit of Berthoud Pass to the east. The glare of sunlight reflected from the snow on the car was nearly blinding. Glancing over my shoulder the approaching darkness of the storm was menacing.
“We’d better get a move on, Chris.” I said aloud. I knew that she was aware of our situation. Words were unnecessary. She was using a scraper on the windshield. It was nearly cleared.
“Do you think we’ll make it?” She asked.
“We will, if we get going right now. Just pop the ice off the windshield wiper on that side, and we’ll haul ass.” More superfluous comment; she was already doing it. Sometimes I think out loud, speaking just to hear my brain rattle.
The car had been parked at the Flatland Five truck stop and restaurant in Dillon for two days. We had parked it and walked to the house of a friend to visit and use their shower, when the first storm came through. Like it or not, they were stuck with us until it passed.
Our friends put us up in their guest room. We had worn out our welcome long before the weather cleared. We all had stories to tell; we hadn’t seen each other for several years and a lot had happened. As usual, I had monopolized the air time with my stories. Our friends had little to say after telling us about the ski resort being built at Breckenridge and how it might impact their otherwise peaceful part of the planet. Their main concern was the logging of slopes for ski runs and the influx of construction crews and tourists. He was the principal of the high school in Frisco, and his wife was the local librarian. Our migratory ways baffled them, but neither of them would dare express judgments about how others chose to live their lives. As we were leaving, we hugged and smiled and pretended that it had been a lot of fun. It was too cold to tarry with long farewells.
Chris opened the passenger’s door, kicked the snow off her boots and climbed into the car. I got into the driver’s seat and slammed the door so hard it rattled the windows.
I inserted the key in the ignition switch, said a silent prayer, and twisted it. To my great surprise and relief the engine started instantly. While the engine warmed up, Chris was arranging a blanket over her legs. My feet were so cold they ached. We pulled out of the Skelly station just as the layer of high lenticular clouds put us in the shade.
The road was plowed and sanded, but there were patches of black ice. To the right of the highway the mountainside dropped away steeply. There were no guard rails, only the mound of snow left by the plow stood between us and the void.
It was just past noon when the storm caught up with us at about the eight thousand foot level. It was suddenly as dark. I switched the headlights on. The air from the heater was all directed to the defrosters, yet the windshield was icing up.
“At least we have a tail wind,” I quipped, trying to relieve our tension. Chris wasn’t laughing; her anxiety was palpable. I could feel myself sweating even though it was well below freezing inside the car.
“Would you light a cigarette for me, Chris.” I said. I didn’t dare take both hands off the steering wheel. She lit two Winstons, stuck one in the corner of my mouth, then cupped hers in her gloved hands as if it might warm them.
“Look out for that bus!” Chris shouted. From the passenger’s side she could see farther up the road as I maneuvered the car around a tight, blind curve to the left. I eased off on the gas. The tail lights of the Greyhound bus were barely visible and less than fifty yards up the hill from us. I down shifted to first gear, and slowed to a crawl. I exhaled my pent up breath in a whoosh, fogging my side of the windshield. Chris reached across me and quickly cleared it with the palm of her woolen glove.
We were crawling up the straight incline behind the bus, maintaining just enough distance between the rear end of the bus and the front bumper of the beetle to keep its tail lights in view.
Suddenly, out of the blackness and swirling snow above a pair of headlights flashed into view. The brake lights on the bus lit up. The oncoming car was fishtailing out of control.
Just then the car coming down the grade skidded sideways, shot through the snow bank and into the abyss, I stepped on the brakes. The beetle skidded. I turned the wheel. As we seemed about to crash into the back end of the bus, the engines began to hammer like a burp gun. Something had broken, but I still had enough power to make a sliding U-turn. My heart was pounding almost as loud as the engine.
“Oh shit! Something broke!” I hollered. I gave a quick glance at Chris. She was bracing herself for a crash, both hands gripping the handle on the dash board, face pale as ice.
I switched off the engine. It was reflex action; what you do in an airplane when preparing to make an emergency landing or controlled crash. You turn off the Master switch to prevent a fire.
We were now rolling down the grade, heading back towards Dillon, in second gear, and the engine was still making the machinegun noise. Chris hadn’t spoken. Her cigarette was clamped in her teeth. She was still holding on with both hands. There was an inch of ash on her cigarette. I suddenly realize that I too had a cigarette in my lips, and felt the heat of it.
“Chris. Grab my cigarette. It’s burning my lips.”
Chris rolled down her window, tossed her own cigarette out into the snow before taking mine. She took a bit of hide off my lower lip with the butt, tossed it out and rolled her window up. The blast of icy, fresh air cleared my head. I concentrated on keeping the car on the road. The new snow was wet large flakes at first, then it became granular. Already the pavement was covered with an inch of the new powder
.
The traction was better, so I shifted into high gear to ease the strain on the clattering engine.
Ahead, on the left was the Skelly station. I geared down and turned into their parking lot. Just as I turned off the headlights, right back where we started, an emergency vehicle flashed by, heading up the grade.
“I could use a cup of coffee. Couldn’t you?” Chris asked calmly. We got out of the beetle and walked into the brightly lit Flatland Five restaurant, sat at the counter and told the owner what had just happened up the hill.
After placing cups of coffee in front of us, the owner of the restaurant wiped his hands on his apron and lit a smoke.
“My goddamned waitress didn’t show up again. I’m running this joint by myself.” He gestured toward the dining room, in which half a dozen men, presumably all truckers sat at tables with their coffee and the remains of their food on their plates.
“I have to cook, serve it and bus the damned tables myself.” He grumbled, taking quick drags on his smoke.
Chris smiled at him. “Hand me an apron,” she said. “I’m your new waitress. Mack here can cook. You bus the tables.”
“Aprons are on the shelf in there behind the sinks,” the owner said, as he stubbed out his butt. He looked at Chris as though she had delivered him from evil. “I’m George,” he said, flashing a set of buck teeth that had been hidden behind his black walrus mustache.
Chris made a shooing motion. “I’m Chris, this is Mack. Go bus the tables, George.”
Outside the snow continued to fall, but the wind had died down. The temperature was close to zero, and the snow was granular powder. I wished that I hadn’t swapped my skis and boots for gas, two cellophane wrapped sandwiches and a thermos of coffee in Arizona. You did, so forget the snow conditions, I told myself as I went into the kitchen.
At least it is warm. Before the doors swung shut behind me, I saw Chris walking towards the tables carrying a full pot of coffee. She moved like a ballerina.
II
George came into the kitchen with a tubful of dirty dishes and cups, elbowed me out of the way and set the tub on the drain board. I tied the folded apron on, washed my hands and took in the setup of his kitchen. To the right side of the range there were two burners for egg pans. Two flats of eggs stood on the shelf above the range. Good, cold eggs are hard to fry. The left side of the griddle was hot; the right side was warm. The spatula was hooked in the rail in front of the gas controls. All very handy, but the grill could use scraping. I ladled some cooking oil onto the grill and scraped it down with the spat. George had a rolled up burlap sack for wiping the grill, so I grabbed it and used it. The overhead duct sucked up the puff of smoke from the griddle.
I had maybe five minutes to get set up before Chris clipped the first order to the spindle above the pass through window. “Two over easy with ham and wheat,” she said.
George slid two slices of wheat bread into the toaster, while I cracked eggs into a pan. I was happy to see that George kept his pans buttered and warm. I turned up the flame under the pan. George had already flipped a couple slices of ham on the hot side of the grill. It was almost as if this dance had been choreographed and rehearsed. I flipped the eggs in the pan. George buttered the toast. I grabbed the spat and turned the ham. George motioned with his head for a platter, which were stacked to the right of the toaster on a side table with castors. I scooped up a platter, slid the eggs out of the skillet onto it and handed it to George. He had already sliced the toast. I picked up the ham with the spat and put it on the platter just before George pulled the ticket and placed the platter in the window.
Chris had the platter in hand almost before George released it and was gone in a flash.
George turned to me and showed me his teeth again. His forehead was sweating. He wiped it with his apron and said: “By Jesus that was slick!” I grinned at him.
“Okay, George, where do you keep the spuds?” I said.
“There’s bucket of grated potatoes in the walk in, back there on your left.”
“Got it,” I said, grabbing a two quart sauce pan as I walked past the pot shelves. George had a five gallon can filled with grated potatoes covered with water. I squeezed the water out of two handfuls and put them in the pot and dove for more. This is going to be fun, I thought, as I kicked the door of the reefer shut. We needed the money. A job is a job.
I ladled oil on the hot side of the griddle, waited a second until it began to smoke, then dumped a double handful of spuds on the spot. I used the spat to make a row of the potatoes, sprinkled them with salt and ladled some melted butter over them. While the spuds sizzled I turned to George.
“If you want to take a break, George, go right ahead. I think it’s under control back here.”
George had finished scraping the food off the dirty dishes into the garbage can with his hand. Now he was placing the stack into the tub filled with hot, soapy water. His rinse sink was filling and steam rose from the water coming out of the spigot.
“Go George. I’ll finish that.” I said.
George dried his hands on his apron, fished a pack of smokes out of his shirt pocket and started moving towards the swinging doors into the dining room. He looked back at me with the cigarette half way to his mouth and said: “You guys just saved my life, Mack.”
“Go, George. It’s under control.” I said with more enthusiasm and confidence than I felt.
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