A Walk In The Snow
By Solomon Rothman

Pissing on the hot steam pipe hissed into the hall, creating the acrid odor any kid who grew up in the tenements would never forget. It gave me a feeling of power. It was my way to stink up their lives as they had done to mine.

Never looking back, I tear-assed down the worn marble steps, intently trying to hear if anyone was behind me. But I only heard echoes of myself. I escaped through the twisted, black wrought iron and glass doors, and out into the street, only to be stopped by a wall of rushing snow that filled the air in every direction. Not a footprint, not a mark of any kind, and it was all mine. My eyes touched the round mounds of softness all at the same time.

It was The Bronx of the 1940’s, a winter’s twilight just before the early rush of workers on their way home from the Simpson Street train station. The streets had become something else –- not the streets I knew. Their hard, concrete angles had begun to melt away, softened by the rolling snow. The world around me didn’t exist anymore, only the intimate closeness of the untouched snow. I can still feel my child’s feet crunching into the snow as I plowed through its building thickness on my way to the Boulevard. The streets were empty of traffic. What little there was, was silenced by the white fluff, except for the occasional muffled clanging of an invisible trolley.

A flutter of animated colors on the snow drew my attention. I tried to turn my head to see where it was coming from. My head swiveled under the hood of my wool jacket and all I could see was the hollow darkness inside. I tried repeatedly, but the jacket stood its ground and refused to budge. I came to the conclusion that this alien life force and I had to work together. So I turned my whole body and we both moved as one piece towards the origin of the colored lights.

The reflecting colors were coming from a toy store window, which was haphazardly filled with Christmas decorations. Clumps of snow were still clinging to the tips of my galoshes when I stepped out of the snow and onto a slushy, marble-like vestibule between the store windows.

Inside one of the windows was a mechanical Santa Claus, worn and faded. One of Santa’s eyes winked as his heard dropped spasmodically to his chest. The silent Santa, separated from his laughter, beckoned me to the window. And a wonderful window it was, filled with toys that my sister and I never ever dreamed of owning.
In our home, we never celebrated Christmas, Chanukah, or birthdays. The only time we ever saw any kind of a present was when either of us was sick, and then it would be a coloring book or a joke book.

When I stepped back onto the street, I looked up and saw the thick, rushing flakes falling from the sky and the wind brushed the snow across my face. The street lights carried the white specks to the ground as I continued my trek to the train station. I wore my scarf like a mask wrapped around my face, only showing my eyes and part of my nose. Breathing and re-breathing my hot wet breath sharpened the smell of each store as I passed by. The barber shop and its perfumed tonics. The deli’s knishes, kishka, and its spicy garlicky salami, frankfurters, pastrami and corned beef. Then came the bakery where the cakes and breads were all freshly baked behind the swinging doors that led to the back of the store. I could taste the air of warm fragrances that played with my senses.

Strung across the streets along Southern Boulevard, from Westchester Avenue to Hunt’s Point Palace, were crispy clear red, green and white lights shaped like stars, dangling above my head. They went way into the distance, getting brighter as they got smaller and closer together. The Boulevard wore them like a promise, a promise that something special was going to happen.

The falling snow had shut out the sky with a gray-white, glowing haze that surrounded the streets and touched the roof tops. It felt like this small section of the city had chunked away from the rest of the world and was the only place that existed. Every store was dressed with Christmas lights blinking into the outside air. The colored lights and their vivid brilliance bounced off the snowflakes flickering down onto the streets. They sparkled on the snow drifts like shadows of color. Flakes landed on the tip of my nose and melted away. The air smelled fresh and bright. The streets were alive and breathing. Everything tickled my heart.

It was dark by the time I reached the train station and my reserve heat was dissipating. I was beginning to feel the cold. I stood leaning against a steel post at the bottom of the El, with my gloved hands buried deep into my mackinaw pockets waiting to surprise my Mom. After awhile I wandered over to the Brighton Cafeteria, right next to the station.

The Cafeteria had two entrances that we kids used from time to time as a short cut from Southern Boulevard to the Westchester Avenue side. The busboys in the Cafeteria didn’t care much for us cutting through and chased us when we tried. I had a sneaking suspicion they enjoyed the chase. Eventually, it became a game between them and us. But what an exhilarating game.

Standing outside the Cafeteria windows, I lost myself in the reflections of people and automobiles passing by. When the image of a car reached the wide curve at the corner of the window, it bunched up into a squashed, little stubby car that abruptly slowed down to a crawl. Reaching the other side of the curve and back onto the flat window, it pulled away, stretching to its normal size and speed. It gave the illusion of being larger then it was and took off like being shot from a rubber band.

Inside the Cafeteria there were old men with gray beards who spent hours sitting at tables over a glass of tea. I swore I could remember seeing one of those men at the same table for days at a time, sitting and reading his yiddish newspaper. Why would any of them want to stay in a lonely place like this and never go home? Were they being held captive by the busboys?

The Cafeteria doors opened, releasing one of the prisoners. Also escaping was the overwhelming odor of a soup kitchen. In those few seconds before the doors closed, I could hear the hollow echoes of shuffling trays, clanking spoons, forks and glasses – an operetta of sounds vibrating off the tile floors and high ceilings.

Pressing my head against the window gave me a better view of the Cafeteria. The walls were painted with touches of pastel-like reds and yellows, but it was mostly dark green and blue that controlled the mood, muting all the other colors. The long walls were broken into large, rectangular panels outlined in thin molding. Within each panel there was a painted mural. One of the murals was a huge, floating, naked man with round, bulging lumps for muscles and black hair screaming out into space. His body was wrapped around a twisted horn that hid his genitals. His wide open eyes stared wildly down at the opening of the horn, watching fruit flying out from its center.

The painting drew me in. Around the edges of the naked man, a halo of light began to glow and throb, as if he was about to pull away from the wall. He knew I was watching him and his wild eyes turned in my direction, staring back into mine. I tried to turn away, but I could feel him looking at me, forcing me to watch him climb down off the wall. He was coming for me. I jumped away from the window. The cold heat of blood rushed back into my forehead and I ran back to the station, distancing myself from the painting’s control.

At the bottom of the station stairs, I heard the growing rumble of an approaching train. Its massive armored cars screeched to a stop and pilled at the wood and steel, causing the platform to lurch forward. The entire station moved under my feet. It was alive, moving on its own. It was as if the train was an insect that had crawled on the station’s back, awakening the giant out of its sleep.

The wooden platform above filled with a herd of shuffling feet rushing to the exits. A flood of people overflowed onto the metal steps. All the men wore hats, but not just hats – they wore fedoras. My eyes squinted and strained, searching between all the bobbing hats that swayed from side to side, bouncing down the steps.

The trains were coming faster now. As soon as one pulled out, another was right behind it. After about the eighth train and still no Mom in sight, I began to worry that I missed her. Maybe somehow she had passed me in the crowd and at this very moment was on her way home without me. What if I left now and she was on the next train? I stood there frozen in my indecision, waiting for just one more train, then another and another. They came and went and not a sign of her anywhere.

Not knowing what to do, I became desperate and thought I had lost her forever.

TO BE CONTINUED: The balance of this story is written in language and situations not recommended for children.

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© 2003 Sol Rothman