We’re at my grandfather’s house in Flanders, New Jersey where my uncle Fort is throwing a huge party. Hundreds of people spread over the six-acre property. A group is gathered at the picnic table under the awning while others spread out over the upper lawn and terraced ground by the swimming pool. Mike and I are there with a lot of Bozemanites, but the only J-Holer present is well-known snowboarder SK. Skulking about with his broad shoulders rounded and a scowl on his face, he’s feeling suicidal and is not pleasant company. But SK can always manage to squeeze out his schmarmy charm for me. I’m an attractive fit woman after all.
Before you know it, the peaceful party turns chaotic and we’re forced to leave. The crowd walks in silence along Route 206 while a nameless, faceless “they” lead us to the safe spot. My heart pounds and I’m filled with fear anxiety. We arrive at Bloomingdale’s, this multi-story department store our refuge where we wait with the hope of being liberated. I lose Mike in the shuffle and no one really knows what's going on. Escalators chug up and down, lights are abundant and sparkly, elegant clothing hangs off or racks, and party-goers take turns tinkling the exquisite grand piano. It’s a festival place to hang out and my fear subsides.
Time passes and Bloomingdale's is liberated. I reconnect with
Mike and some other folks at a classic New Jersey chrome-sided diner. In a comfy
booth, we eat typical diner fare, club sandwiches stacked high, Reubin sandwiches made the proper way, and steak fries covered with mozzarella cheese. Pie, stored on a tiered rotating case, is served in hunks if we so desire. As we scarf down grub in this nostalgic setting, we talk
about the wild night. One of our dining mates let us know that before he had a
chance to kill himself, SK was murdered. Fear grips me again.
I wake up with a slight tinge of terror pulsing through my
body, but soon realize it was just a dream.
No comments:
Post a Comment