Yesterday’s blizzard knocked New York off its track. Snow accumulation outside of Manhattan was John Holmes in depth. 12 inches and white. Few commuters risked the journey into the city. Richie Boy and I were the only ones at work in the diamond exchange. He supposed to be leaving for Palm Beach that evening. His flight had been canceled due to the storm.

“How am I going to get to Florida?” Richie Boy had shipped over $5 million worth of jewelry to the Antique Show in West Palm Beach. This was the most important trade exhibition of 2010. Only rich people had money and Palm Beach had plenty of those.

“Drive.” I joked although the airports were closed for the day. The trains to Washington and points south were sold out. A car seemed like the only option left.

“Drive?”

“Or wait to see what tomorrow brings.” The snow was falling heavier on 47th Street, although it was no blizzard of 1977. That storm left the East Coast under three feet of snow.

“How long a drive?” Richie Boy was serious. he hit the panic button fast. I called it Palm Beach.

“18 hours.” I had driven the 1400 miles between NYC and Miami a few times. The first time in 1971 I had been listening to the Montreal-Bruins playoffs on WBZ. The Bruins were leading 5-3. The station faded as we drove into the Florida Welcome Center. Free OJ for all visitors. Almost forty years ago, however the segments remained familiar; New York-Washington-South of the Border-Savannah-Palm Beach. I The phone rang. Richie Boy answered the call. It was a jeweler in Boston. His flight had been delayed until Friday. Richie Boy hung up and said, “I’m stuck here.”

“Only tonight.” Snow was dropping like clots of cream. We closed up at 3. Richie Boy went home. I stopped at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Terminal for clam chowder. it was the best in New York. The waitress claimed that they had never seen so slow a day.

“Not even during 9/11.”

The train back to Brooklyn was empty. I bought a bottle of wine and had a glass before trudging through the drifts to Ft. Greene Park. The slopes were alive with sledders and the fields were growing columns of snowmen. I returned home to call Thailand. Mem wasn’t feeling good. It was the beginning of the hot season. The temperature was already 34 Centigrade. I fell asleep early and woke up at dawn.

The morning sun reflected off the new snow atop the brownstones across the alley. The storm was over. I bathed in the tub listening to Gil Scott-Heron’s WINTER IN AMERICA. I had about another ninety minutes before I had to be at work. I spoke with Mem on the phone. She had fainted in 7/11. Her friends had taken her to the hospital. The landlady of the apartment building cared for my son. Mem was okay for the moment, but she was getting tests later on. I ended the call, telling her that I’d send money to Western Union.

The music changed to LIVING IN THE BOTTLE. i was in the mood to sing along with the chorus. The telephone rang again and I answered without looking at the number.

“Road trip.” Richie Boy was even more serious than before. No flights until Saturday. All the trains were booked. Driving was still the only option. “Don’t go to work. Pack a bag and get ready to drive to Florida. Suits and shorts. Be ready to go by noon.”

There would be four of us. Richie Boy, his wife, a female co-worker, and me. Neither of the women drove. I didn’t trust Richie Boy behind the wheel. All the driving was on me. I saw the open road. The stops. The speed. The big trucks. Bad music on the radio and then the first palm tree. I had driven across country over ten times. Tibet-Nepal once. Lima-Cuzco. Cancun-Tikal. So many road trips and I was always up for another.

“Count me in.”

I got out of the tub and put on Canned Heat. ON THE ROAD AGAIN. It was a theme song for long-distance drivers. I packed my bag with spring clothing. Flip-flops. I was working the show. Big money billionaires. Bleached blonde divorcees. Mansions on the sand.

The telephone rang again. It was Richie Boy. He had found an afternoon flight. I was going nowhere but 47th Street. I was already late and would be even later. I wished Richie Boy ‘good luck’ and hit the pipe. Green goo ganja and Blue Cheer’s PILOT. It wasn’t a road trip, but it was the best I could do on the day after a snow day.

ps Montreal came back to beat the Bruins 7-5.

I hate # 4 Jean Beliveau.

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