Snow Day: a Novella by Dan Maurer Read Free Book Online Page A

pedestrians crossing in front of him and looking for oncoming traffic, the old man didn’t notice Jimmy duck into a crouch behind the trunk of the Impala. Feet planted flat on the packed snow and knees bent deeply, Jimmy grabbed firmly onto the underside of the Impala’s chrome bumper and did his best imitation of alpine skier Franz Klammer. When the old man stepped on the gas pedal it was easy and gentle. Slowly at first, then with gradually increasing speed, the Impala and the 14-year-old boy with nine-and-a-half fingers took off down Woodlawn Avenue together.
    Jimmy rode the bumper of the old man’s car for about fifty feet before he finally let go. He stayed on his feet in a crouch for a few more seconds, then gently fell back on his tail and slid another twenty feet to a slow comfortable stop, pumping a victory fist in the air.
    “Damn!” I heard someone exclaim.
    “Cool!” Someone else added.
    The adrenaline rush was just too irresistible. Soon we were all clamoring for a chance to kill ourselves.
    For the next few hours, we took turns, each time getting a little better at disguising our intentions from the drivers. The corner of Woodlawn and Persimmons was the perfect place to “catch a ride,” as we started to call it. The drivers were all in a hurry and wanted to cut from Route 5 down Woodlawn and then over to Broad where they could be over in Palisades Park for dinner, a movie or shopping in about 15 minutes. It was the perfect ambush.
    And yet, despite our success, I almost didn’t get my turn. Frank and his buddies were hogging most of the bumpers that came our way. Everyone else had gotten their turn but me. Now it was getting late. Even Jimmy had left half an hour earlier when the fun ran out for him. The gray late-afternoon sky was turning dark, and Frank wanted to call it quits. He’d had enough, but I insisted.
    “Alright, but this is the last one,” Frank said. “After this, no more. We gotta go. It’s getting dark. Mom’s going to start ringing the bell soon.”
    Despite her don’t go off the block rule, my mother still rarely knew where we were. So every day at dinner time, she used to step out our back door and ring an old metal dinner bell that my father had bolted on to the door frame.
    Clang, clang... Clang, clang...
    After a while, the leather strap on the clapper broke and my mother took to just banging on the outer lip of the bell with a soup ladle, or a screw driver, or whatever metal object was handy. She would stand on the door step, and then up on her toes – my father had mounted the bell too high for her to reach it otherwise – and go at it for all she was worth.
    Clang, clang... Clang, clang...
    So while our parents never knew where we were, without fail the entire neighborhood, and even strangers living several blocks away, always knew when my mother had dinner on the table. And woe was he who failed to answer the bell.
    With daylight fading fast, we took up our position on the corner and waited for the next car to come. It was a brand new 1975 Pontiac Grandville, a big four-door sedan with a monster V8 engine. This promised to be one sweet ride.
    The driver was a man of about 25. He brought the Grandville to a complete stop when he saw Frank and Carl crossing the street in front of his grill. Our M.O. had been the same all day and we weren’t about to change. But this time, things went horribly wrong.
    At first, the driver seemed to almost ignore Frank and the others. He looked annoyed and fidgeted, tapping his fingers on the top of the steering wheel. He was like a guy with a hard-on who was late for a hot date with a loose woman. Whatever the case, I was sure he was too distracted to see me disappear behind the trunk of his car. While Bobby and Lucy kept walking past his tail lights, I dropped into a crouch like I’d seen the others do. With my boots flat on the packed snow and ice, I grabbed the underside of the Grandville’s chrome bumper and shifted my weight back