Escaped From New York

by Brendan Smith
Weirs Times Editor

We were doing our duty, staying at home, only going out for essential items and keeping informed by scaring ourselves silly watching the cable news 24/7 to keep abreast of what was going on around the country with Coronavirus, when we heard the car pull into the driveway.
I looked at my wife and she at me.
I put down my lemon tea, went to the window and slowly lifted one of the blinds.
“#@%$”, I said.
“What is it?”
“#@%$!:” I said again.
She came to the window and looked out herself.
“Who is that?” she asked. “Do you think they’ve come for our toilet paper?”
“It’s my old friend Jim from Long Island, New York,” I said with a sigh.
In the SUV was not only Jim, but what I’m guessing was also his wife and family and seemingly loaded with what looked like enough for a two week-long family vacation.
We hadn’t been expecting them. It was a total surprise.
I hadn’t seen Jim in decades and I’d never met his wife or kids. We grew up together, went to school together, had a lot of adventures together. I had talked to him on the phone a few times over the years reminiscing about this or that, talking about old friends and what they were doing now.
We had a real connection, a true camaraderie.
Now, after all these years, here he was in our driveway with his family. Not only that, his car had New York license plates which would certainly draw the attention of everyone in the neighborhood.
We both peeked through the blinds as we watched Jim get out of the car and head towards the door.
He knocked on the door.
We held our breath.
He knocked again.
“Maybe you should go talk to him,” Kim said.
“No,” I said in a louder whisper. “What if he’s got the bug?”
My cell phone went off, playing the theme from “Friends”, the volume on high, my hearing not as good as it used to be. I saw through the blinds Jim on his phone looking towards the window.
“He knows we’re here, you’ve got to go talk with him.”
She was right. I was busted.
I walked to the front door and opened it, keeping the storm door locked.
“Jim?” I said, acting surprised.
“Hey buddy,” he smiled from the other side. “Long time no see.”
“What brings you here?” I said loudly through the glass.
It was then that I noticed windows of some neighbor’s houses. The blinds were slightly askew, eyes peeking out. The SUV with the New York license plates shining like a beacon of doom.
“Well, you always said if we were ever in the neighborhood to stop in,” Jim said. “Well, here we are.”
Someone from down the street came by walking their dog, they saw the car in my driveway and moved to the other side, walked a few yards further down and then took out her phone.
“Well, it is great to see you,” I half lied. “Where are you staying?”
“Well, we just wanted to get out of New York, it’s crazy there.” Jim said. “There aren’t any rooms available anywhere around and you always said if we were in the area you’d be more than happy to have us stay for a few nights. Umm..are you going to open the door?”
What was I thinking? A dear old friend who I grew up with, someone who I went through thick and thin with was standing right in front of me after thirty years and I was afraid to let him in? What was I thinking?
I looked over at my wife and then at the TV, the latest numbers of the virus multiplying on the screen.
“We could always hide them in the basement for the next fourteen days,” I said. “We could cover their car with leaves and tree limbs until they leave.”
“It’s up to you,” she said hesitantly, “Of course, there is always the question of whether we have enough toilet paper.”
Jim was still standing at the door, looking at me for an answer. I then saw that there was a crowd gathering on the street, keeping a good thirty feet away.
I knew it was already too late. If I let them in now, our house would be marked forever as the possible epicenter if things got that bad. When it was all over, if it ever was, we’d have to move, shamed forever by our the consequences of our act of friendship and kindness.
I looked at Jim through the glass.
“I’m sorry old friend,” I said softly. “I can’t help you.”
He put his hand on the glass in one final plea, I put mine on the glass to match his. There was a tear in his eye. I begged him not to touch it or any part of his face for that matter.
He sulked back to the car, his family with a questioned look on their faces. He backed out of the driveway and took off down the street, the crowd jumping onto lawns and into hedges to avoid being within six feet of the car.
I wonder if I’ll ever see him again.

Brendan is the author of “The Flatlander Chronicles” and “Best Of A F.O.O.L. In New Hampshire” available at BrendanTSmith.com. His latest book “I Only Did It For The Socks and Other Tales of Aging” will be published later this year.