Trek to Quik Check

02-16-79

A cold wind rips through this city in a gale, shaking the walls of my cold water flat and chilling me deep to the bones even as I sit right up against the Depression-era stove that supplies these two rooms with its only heat, and keeps the pipes from freezing.

Passaic is in a deep freeze, and forecasters predict it will get worse, long before we can expect a thaw.

The temperature has been so low for so long the river top a block away has frozen over into blocks of ice, as if some giant dumped his ice tray in it.

Naturally, Paul calls me to ask for a ride to the store.

Even in good weather, Pauly doesn’t walk to walk to the Quik Check, located across the river and down River Drive from where we live.

He perpetually manipulates a ride from one of us living in this complex of flats we have accidentally converted into an artist colony – Pauly is the painter, Garrick, a jeweler, Lewis, the photographer, with me desperately trying file the role as writer.            

When Garrick, Lewis and I are not around, Pauly will even convince Hank – living many miles away in Haledon – to drive all the way here just to drive Pauly the three blocks to the store.

Tonight, I am last on Pauly’s list since I’m still peeved about the trip to the library he made me take earlier this week when the frigid weather encased my car in ice; Pauly convincing me about his desperation to get to get up to the good side of Passaic. I scraped enough of the windshield clean, so I could see the street and not kill any fool stupid enough as we were to be out on such a day, only to find when we got to the library, none of Pauly’s books were overdue, and he didn’t find anything worthwhile to check out.

I haven’t talked to him since.

This time on the phone from the apartment upstairs in the building next to mine, Pauly really does sound desperate, starving even, since he rarely cooks, and relies on whatever sandwich the deli makes, usually turkey and swiss on rye.

“Garrick isn’t home,” he tells me, and we both suspect, Garrick is off visiting some relation elsewhere in the state, ice storm or not.

“What about Lewis?” I ask.

“He’s on vacation.”

“And Hank?”

“The little snot says he’s snug under his electric blanket in front of his father’s new color TV with his favorite shows coming on.”

“You mean he won’t come?”

“He says it’s too dangerous, but I know he’s lying.”

“And you want me to drive you to Quik Check?”
“Yes.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not? You’re home. I’m calling you on your home phone, so I know you’re there.”

“My car is in the shop. I told you that.”

“I forgot,” Pauly mumbles. “I guess I’ll have to walk.”

This is such a shock, I can’t speak for a moment.

“So, do you want me to pick you up anything?” Pauly asks.

This sudden offer of generosity shocks me even more than his proposal to walk.

“Really?” I ask.

“Well, I figure I’m going to have to walk there anyway – alone.”

He emphasizes the word “alone” knowing perfectly well I will feel guilty and I do. I’m not snug under an electric blanket. I have a black and white TV I can’t see anything on but snow. So, I have no excuse other than to inform him about the temperature and how likely we might lose fingers or toes making the trek there and back.

I glance over at my coat, hanging on a hook near the door. 

I do not want to go out into the cold; but I hear his sniffle on the other end of the phone – crocodile sniffles rather than tears – as if to imply he might be coming down with something. At this point, I get his gambit.

“You really can’t expect me to go to the store for you?” I say.

“Did I say that?” he asks, his indignant tone as phony as his sniffles.

I glance at my coat again, and the gloves handing out of each pocket, so worn several fingers have holes in them, a pathetic defense against whatever chill I will encounter beyond the door.

“So, what do you want?” I ask.

“Maybe you can keep me company.”

“You want me to walk with you to the store and back?”

I am even more shocked at this than at any of his previous out-of-character remarks.

“Yes,” he says.

A minute passes, and then I hear myself sigh – it escapes me without intent – and I say, “All right.”

“Great!” Pauly yelps. I’ll meet you at the downstairs door in five minutes.”

I hang up the phone, telling myself I’m crazy. I’m not toasty the way Hank must be, but I’m not chilled to the bone yet. I’m tempted to call him back and tell him I’ve changed my mine. But I already know that if I do, a pathetic Pauly will end up knocking at my door. I can never refuse him when I have to stare at him eye to eye.

I grab my coat and gloves, feeling cold even before I open the door, and then make my way out into the alley.

Ten minutes later, Pauly stumbles out the door from the apartment upstairs.

“I really do appreciate this,” he says. “But I sure wish you’d picked a better night to get your car fixed.”

“Me, too,” I mumble, following him into the chilly night like explorers going to the north pole. “I just hope they’re not out of turkey or Swiss or rye.”