a story that bears yet no title

The snow is falling hard and heavy. The streets are slick with snow melt and slush. Between that and the darkness and my fogged-up windows, the driving is arduous.

My GPS tells me the police station is here. Hard to see. That little building on the corner must be it! I dash through the thick flakes. Closed.

Two officers exit a side door. Calm reason and panic interspersed, I tell them that I’m in a terrible situation with someone and might need their help. Upon hearing my address, they point me to the station of my jurisdiction.

I drive through more sleet and snow. No station at this intersection.

A call to non-emergency police services on my phone — god bless Smart phones when in need! — leads me to the THIRD police station of the night. The snow’s really coming down fast and piling up thick on cars, houses, trees and everywhere the eye that can cut through the black blanket of flurries can see.

In distress I tell the single officer manning the hushed large station I don’t know whether they can help but I have to ask.

“What’s the problem?”

“I rent a room from a woman in an apartment. I got home tonight and the locks are changed. Without warning or announcement. I can’t get in. I called and left a message. She hasn’t called back. She’s not home either.”

The cold wet night is weighing. Snow’s accumulating rapidly. We’re due for a foot by dawn. I’m locked out. The hour’s growing late. I need to be in bed for my first day of work that begins at 7 a.m. tomorrow. I’ve nowhere to go. I’m in trouble.

The officer gives me the number of a department that handles civil/domestic disputes. “They don’t break down doors. They’re neutral. They serve both parties toward negotiating a reasonable or peaceful outcome. They might for example escort someone.

You might call and have them meet you at the house. They’re very busy tonight so it’ll be a wait.”

All I want is to pay for a night’s lodging in the apartment and arrange for moving out my things, I explain. “I’m not trying to stay there obviously. I want to leave. I can’t if I can’t get in.

The roommate’s in a whole other rampaging vindictive bitter sphere.

He understands.

“Is there a lease?” he asks.

“No. It was a gentleman’s agreement.”

“There is no such thing any more,” he smiled wryly.

“I know.”

“She might not even be home.”

Unusual for her to be gone on a work night. Wonder whether she did this purposefully, changed the locks and bailed to ramp up the attack. It’s within her character, heavy-handed and cold spiteful cruelty, I sense.

“Rather than call an officer out needlessly, I’ll go back and see whether she’s even there and proceed accordingly,” I say.

“Sounds reasonable.”

My wipers barely clear the quarter-sized flakes slamming my windshield. Driving’s tough, seeing too. I get home. Her car still isn’t there.

My first day of work tomorrow. I’ve no way to get in. It’s below freezing. I’m not dressed for the storm in my fabric clogs and thin hoodie.

My only possessions with me are a shoulder bag, backpack and Berr Symon. When I went to the work orientation this morning, I wasn’t expecting to come home to entrance barred.

I scale the tall backyard fence, using a neighbor’s BBQ as a step up. Fortunately I’m athletic and lithe enough to climb over. Snowflake hitting my glasses makes seeing difficult. I’ve got one last thought. Perhaps she changed the two locks only on the front door. Getting into her protected backyard would intimate even a mediocre thief.

I go to the back door with hopes held high. Insert each of the three keys to the house. None works.

In her bitterness, she had the wherewithal to be thorough and have the backyard doors locks changed too, even though it’s a door I’ve never used for access.

It is 10 o’clock. The wind is biting. My clothing is feeble. I’m in the dark and a storm with nowhere to go and a job to start in nine hours.

Where will I sleep, my finances already decimated by much, including the first three weeks in a Denver motel as I sought a residence, now becomes the pressing priority.

I am freezing. I give up any hope of entering the house on this wicked night or any other.

I get into the car and cautiously advance my way away from the house through Colorado’s second big storm of the season, the slushy slippery streets and frantic flakes bouncing in the blackness to a destination unknown.

This is 24 hours ago.
To be continued.

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