Comfort & Joy

I can’t believe I walked this far after the crash. Then, it had felt like nothing, this trek through the ancient woods. In truth, it’s miles.

How could I have done it?

On and on I go, until I truly begin to consider turning back.

I am all alone out here. In the time I’ve been walking, no cars have passed me, no headlights have cut down the pavement to show me the way back, even for a fifty-five mile-per-hour moment. Black clouds hang ominously low in the sky, make this afternoon almost dark.

Up ahead, there is another bend in the road.

“That’s it,” I say aloud. I will turn around if town isn’t around the corner.

Then, in the distance, I hear cars.

Thank God.

The walking is easier again, with the end in sight. I pick up my pace a little, until I’m breathless when I finally come to town.

I leave the two-lane highway and turn onto a pretty little tree-lined street called Azalea. I have gone fifty feet or so when it hits me.

The lights are out here, too.

The town is dark; buildings seem smaller without light, bunched together, as if they’re huddling to keep warm.

In the gray patch of the park, I see an old-fashioned phone booth on the corner. It’s something I haven’t seen in a while. In my part of California, the world has gone cellular, moved on from these glass-walled booths.

I duck inside, close the door behind me. No light comes on at the motion. I know before I pick up the phone what I will find.

It’s dead. There is no phonebook hanging from a rusty chain.

When I step outside the booth, thunder grumbles across the slate-colored sky. Lightning flashes strobe-like, electrifying the sleepy town for a second. Then it starts to rain.

Hard.

I grab my umbrella and pop it open. Rain is thunderous on the plastic dome over my head. I run across the park.

In town, the eaves protect me. I walk close to the buildings, seeing even in the shadows how well tended everything is. Holiday decorations fill every window. At a diner called the “Dew Drop In,” I see a “CLOSED: No Juice” sign that makes me smile in spite of how cold and miserable I am.

At the end of the street, I come to a four-way stop and turn right because the eaves protect me.

Two blocks later I see the impossible: a gas station with its lights on. They must have a generator.

I rush across the wet, slick street and go to the door. Inside, it’s a mini-mart with rows and rows of brightly colored merchandise. The lights are so bright I have to squint.

Behind the counter, a man is reading something from a manila folder and making notes on a clipboard of some kind. A slim gray cell phone sits on the counter by his right hand.

“Thank God,” I say, tossing my dripping umbrella to the linoleum floor. “This storm is crazy, isn’t it?”

He looks up at me, obviously surprised that anyone is out in this weather. He is thin-faced, with elegantly cut white hair and blue eyes that seem surprisingly sharp for a man of his age. “There’s no way to know how long it’ll last. ”

It’s the same thing the weathermen always say. I smile at him. “I need to use your phone. ”

He stares at me oddly and taps at the hearing aid in his left ear. “Broken bones?”

“Not bones. Phone. I need to make a call. Collect. ”

“Can you hear me?” he says, leaning closer. “It’s broken. ”

“I hear you,” I say, trying to keep the impatience out of my voice. I’m tired, soaking wet, and freezing cold. It would be easy to snap, so I take a deep breath and try to smile. “I know the electricity is out. ” I tap his cell phone. “May I use it? Please? I need to talk to my sister. ”