Because of the Storm

George Salter came upon his eighth empty bus shelter, and sighed. The bench inside the Plexiglas enclosure looked so inviting, but he knew he’d never get up again if he sat down now, and the app on his phone told him the same thing it had told him at the other seven stops: “Bus delayed.”

He huffed, wiped hoarfrost from his brow, and trudged around the next snowdrift – his baggage trundling ever behind him. Every step was half-jerk and half-stumble.

The only things that kept him going were thoughts of the Riviera Maya, of the all-inclusive stay at the Grand Ocean Dreams resort. Of finally arriving and grabbing himself a tall, refreshing mojito, donning a pair of shorts, and letting the hot climate swaddle him.

And of course, of seeing Dolores again.

Then a fat, lazy, beautiful snowflake settled upon his nose, and when he looked up, he saw that snow had started falling again.

Another grumble. This was the worst start to a vacation, ever.

It was bad enough when his cab cancelled on him, at four in the morning – and “cancelled” was George being generous, because the ass ghosted him. It took half an hour to get through to their call centre, and the jerk on the other end told him that cab service was horribly backed up across the whole city.

“Because of the storm.”

George swore in response, demanded to speak to a manager, and then hung up before the guy had a chance to respond. Instead of wasting more time with the city’s worst cab company, George called another one. And another. And even that other other one, that kept getting into the papers for all the wrong reasons. But they all gave him the same response. Cabs were either delayed or not running at all.

“Because of the storm.”

George broke his rule about new-fangled technology and even tried those rideshare apps. The idea of getting into a random local serial killer’s personal car made his skin crawl, but he was running out of options. But of course, the lazy idiots gave him the same runaround as the taxis.

“Because of the–”

“–Shut up!”

By five AM, after his fifth coffee, he made an executive decision. If he was going to catch his flight he needed to get moving, and if he couldn’t count on other people – and really, when could you? – he’d do it himself. He’d drive himself to the airport and eat the exorbitant airport parking fee.

And later that evening, he’d eat fresh coconut on the beach. And he’d meet sexy people who liked adventures and life and fun and who didn’t waste their lives talking about the weather, “Because of the storm.”

Just like Nathalie and Craig from last year, those two wild honeymooners he’d kept in touch with, and made plans to meet up again with this year. Or Ben and Wallace and Megan and that other one – the British scuba aficionados that convinced George to dive. Worth it! And of course Dolores – this was the year he’d tell her how he felt.

You didn’t get that at home. At home, everyone just complained the stores put up the Christmas decorations earlier each year, and then having complained, did nothing about it.

Pathetic.

No! thought George. Not pathetic. In keeping with the season, Bah humbug!

When he opened his door, snow spilled into his house. He could have sworn he saw his lawn the day before, but now everything was covered in smooth dunes of knee-high trash weather. With a grumble, George shoveled towards his driveway, only to find his Ford Focus had turned into an even bigger mound of snow.

He ground his teeth and got to work. It took till seven AM to unearth both his car and enough of the driveway to get to the street. That the street was covered in featureless drifts taller than his car’s wheels was its own issue, and one he’d been purposely ignoring. But he could only kick that can so far down the road, and he just hoped his Focus could plow through the mess. After all, that’s what you did with snow, right? You plowed it.

Unless you were the city, of course. Then you left your constituents holding the bag.

But the streets didn’t end up being a problem, because it turned out George could always count on his quality-built, expertly engineered car, to let him down.

The damn thing wouldn’t start. The battery, dead. Frozen, probably, or whatever batteries did when you were counting on them. He couldn’t get so much as a fart out of his starter. Couldn’t even get the annoying seatbelt dinging to nag him.

Another waste of time. Like he never took a vacation at all, and was still at work. With a hand-shaking, tooth-rattling, face-reddening shriek, he decided on the next best mode of transport: buses.

What was the point of having a car if you still had to bus? Well, he supposed he could chat to the other passengers and brag about how he spent a load of money only to end up with a lazy, shiftless paperweight with wheels, that did nothing but sit around his house, taking up space. Could be an ice breaker for people with kids.

But no, who was he kidding? The bus people were sad drab lumps themselves, and if you could stir a conversation out of them it would probably be about snow.

Not like the buses in Mexico. Not like six years ago, when he signed up for a day trip to Chichén Itzá and met that hilarious elderly Turkish couple. Career historians full of amazing tales, they also loved hearing all about George’s winter exploits. And never once did they chat about weather.

But the first bus stop was deserted, and snowed in. George watched a trio of municipal snow plows rumble down the street – not his street, but at least something was getting plowed – scraping the road and depositing a jagged new winrow on the bike lane. That, at least, gave him a smile.

By the time the bus was fifteen minutes late – still early in bus-time – George checked the bus app on his phone and learned the entire bus service was delayed across the city. Naturally. Why pay taxes to subsidize something and actually expect it to work, right? At least if you assume it will fail, it can’t disappoint you.

Things would be different if he was in power, that much he knew. For one, he’d abolish the travesty of public transit. He’d trust in the wheels of commerce and a private service would unerringly fix the whole situation–

“Oh,” George said, recalling the taxi debacle. “Right.”

He had a choice. Sit here and wait interminably, or do something about it himself. Never one to wait for others to fix his problems, George decided to walk – well, wade through the snow – to the next stop. He grinned, thinking he’d race the bus, seeing how far he could get before it finally caught up to him.

Fixing things himself had always worked out. One, it was how he dodged this horrible holiday season every year. Two, it was how he first met Dolores, twenty years ago.

As a bright-eyed young tourist, he signed up for pretty much whatever stupid trip the reps put in front of him – within his meagre price range. That first year he had stayed in a half-star dive in Cancún, and the only thing he could afford was a shopping trip to Playa del Carmen, which didn’t make much sense since he hadn’t come to shop, and if he had, there were stores in Cancún. But he didn’t want to sit around all week.

There was supposed to be an included lunch, but the guy running the tour got the runs and had to duck out for a while, and when he said “I’ll be right back, don’t go anywhere,” George accepted the challenge and went exploring.

A dingy little hole in the wall first caught his eye, where some gruff customers sat outside drinking tequila by glass instead of by shot. Then it caught his ear, when he heard the strum of an unplugged guitar from within, and then the most alluring voice he’d ever heard. And then, it caught him by the heart, when he went inside and saw Dolores on stage.

Time did a weird thing in that bar. He entered in the morning but a minute later it was dark out, and somehow Dolores’ entire set was over. But he caught it all, and she caught him catching it – maybe it was hard to miss the one guy in the bar who stood up to clap. She sat down with him and they chatted and laughed long into the night. She told him she did a lot of bar gigs, but she was hoping to be a famous singer one day. He told her he hoped so too.

She gave him her schedule and he went to every show she played. He even continued going when he learned about Jorge, her boyfriend. What an idiotic name for an idiotic face, George thought, but he stuck around with them anyway, because any time close to Dolores was better than away.

And he found her again a year later – with Paulo, this time – and again another year later – with Antonio – and every year after that. When she left the Cancún circuit and went up and down the Riviera, he moved base camp. When he learned she married Francisco, he grit his teeth and congratulated her. When she divorced him, he congratulated himself. And when she later married Javier, George consoled himself knowing it was temporary. Knowing that next year, or the year after that, was his.

And all through those years they remained close. Her star grew, though it never quite rose – that would certainly happen next year too, or the year after – and tracking her down for a reunion always felt like coming home. Indeed, Dolores and Javier had invited him to their home a number of times, and their little six-year old Alejandra even remembered him, and called him Tío Georgie.

George smiled. The memories, and the anticipation of seeing Dolores again – of maybe this year being his year – kept him going past bus stop fifteen.

At stop sixteen, he finally did see a bus, though it was going the opposite direction. Its brakes groaned as it glided along the icy road, gradually turning one-eighty, and with the delicate grace of a ballerina it gently fishtailed into a snowbank, sending up a white puff of applause, before snuggling down to sleep.

Its hazards turned on, and its destination changed to “Not in service.”

“Because of the storm,” George muttered.

With no other buses in sight – no traffic at all – he resigned himself to walking the rest of the way to the airport. By four PM he arrived at the terminal, nearly-but-not-quite-dead tired. His arms would have hurt after dragging his luggage across town, if he could still feel them.

He missed his flight. He knew that. Maybe he could get a refund, but that was secondary. More important, he’d have to find another flight out to Mexico, and probably pay an excruciating fee for it.

Anything to get out of this horrid city, this horrid season. Anything to get back to where he belonged, to Dolores.

There were no lines at the check-in desks, so that was a small blessing. Actually, there weren’t really any people at all, save for a single security guy at the doors, a mop guy near the bathrooms, and a lone check-in lady at the lone check-in desk that showed any signs of life. And they all looked like people who picked the wrong day to go to work.

“Hi!” said George, dragging his baggage. The woman startled, as though she’d never seen a customer before. “I need a flight to Mexico. Riviera Maya. ASAP.”

She blinked. “You want… a flight to Mexico?”

“Yes!”

“Now?”

“Yes!”

She looked off into the distance, and George followed her gaze, through the giant terminal windows, where the world was obscured by drifting flurries and twisting winds.

“Sir,” she said, “I appreciate wanting to be in Mexico right now – believe me, I do – but every single plane is grounded.”

“What?”

She directed his attention to a screen showing all the flights, and every single one of them had a red “Cancelled / Annulé” status. Even his eight AM flight was on there, red and dead.

“Because of the storm,” she said.

“Oh,” he said. “Right.”

“Sir? Was there anything else I could do for you? Because I’m about to finish my shift.”

“No, thanks. That’s all.”

He watched her log off, leave the desk, and head to the small food court. Maybe she fiddled around with her phone, maybe she realized she couldn’t get a ride home because the roads were crap and she was stuck here – George didn’t know. But he did see her bury her face in her hands, which was how he felt.

A winter without Dolores. And it was meant to be his year! The year he finally told her how he felt, and she’d fall into his arms, and their passion would be wild and hot and…

Only, he realized he didn’t exactly feel it. Every one of the past twenty years felt like the year, except they never were. And if he was honest, he liked Javier too, and little Alejandra was very much a niece to him. They made a good family. A great family.

Much as Dolores meant to him, he didn’t want to break that beautiful family apart. And if he was really honest – that cold, brutal kind – he doubted he could. Dolores had always been a friend, a great friend, and never more than that.

George sighed. So, his vacation was ruined. He tromped halfway across the city and wore out his knees for nothing, and worse, was now stuck in a bland grey town during a bland grey season. And even worse, he was actually stuck in a bland grey airport terminal, because it was really starting to come down outside and there was no way in hell he was going to march home again. Stuck, just like the poor, miserable check-in lady, with her head on a cafeteria table.

And to top it off, George’s stomach rumbled.

Because of the storm.

So what was he going to do about it all? Stand around, enjoying some well-deserved ruing, waiting until the blizzard died down and they were dug out?

Bah, thought George, humbug to that.

He went to the one fast food place that was open, ordered a couple of sandwiches and coffees – and left a ten as a tip – and then made his way to the table the check-in lady was moping on.

“You look like you could use a coffee,” he said.

And she smiled up at him.