A Trip To The Store At Midnight. On a cold icy night. (standard:adventure, 1609 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 30 2020	Views/Reads: 1382/1010	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
An off-duty cop is forced by a pregnant wife to brave the worst night of the year in Northern Michigan to buy ice cream and pickles for her.

I drive through empty frozen and icy streets of Northern Michigan. It's
storming, with wet snow and cold mist obscuring my windshield and 
whistling in through cracks in the chassis. An overworked heater is 
rumbling while blasting warm air in to mix with cold intrusions in 
alternating streams as the blower struggles to keep up. 

It's Tuesday midnight and only the meat eaters are out, such as cops
such as myself, crooks, drunks, and idiots I think as I travel slippery 
streets. Why the hell should she insist on dill pickles and strawberry 
ice cream, for Christ's sake? In this weather. 

"Even the Seven-Eleven is closed in this weather. They know they won't
get any business tonight," I remind my aging civilian auto, which is 
struggling too much to pay me any attention. My on duty patrol car, in 
contrast, has studded winter tires and other winter gear. Right now ... 
I miss it. 

Ten or twenty minutes later, I see the sparkle of a familiar sign down a
side street. Not thinking, I stomp on the brakes, causing the car to 
spin round and round down the middle of a three-lane residential and 
business street. Getting it under control and stopped, I find that I'm 
turned around 180 degrees and still on the empty street -- a miracle? 

I sit here, in the middle of the street, waiting for overtaxed nerves to
settle down. It must be a full five minutes before I stop shaking and, 
very tentatively, nudge the gas pedal. Of course, with my luck I'm on 
an icy patch of the road and my tires spin -- getting no traction. 

I put the lever in neutral and get out to push. My feet slip and I can't
get the car to move. Retrieving a crowbar out of the trunk, along with 
a bag of rock salt, I sprinkle the crystal on the road in front of all 
four wheels, forcing it under the treads. Then I chip footholds in the 
ice behind my idling chariot. 

Damn, I forgot something. Getting back in, I turn on the emergency
blinkers. It's so comfy there I wait for a while to warm up. Spent from 
the effort, I sit in a sort of daze for a few minutes, working up nerve 
to return to my labors. Might as well give the salt time to work itself 
in, I decide. I sit, idly watching snow blowing -- in a solid sheet -- 
past my vehicle. 

Suddenly, lights blaze in the rear-view mirror as two cars come up
rapidly, seemingly ignoring icy streets. The first spins out of 
control. In avoiding me, it rams a telephone pole across the street. 
The other hits it smack in the side. I can hear the crunch as the 
second car comes to an abrupt stop, almost blocking the street next to 
me. Through a haze of mist helped by at least one broken radiator, I 
see occupants bail from both. 

The space between us is suddenly filled with teenage kids, some without
coats, as they run past me and into the night. One of them, long dark 
hair trailing, drops a large backpack as she runs past my headlights, a 
frightened look on a pretty face. 

Red and blue lights blink as a couple of police cars, somehow retaining
control, stop behind me. Four police officers run after the others. 

“Damn, but I better get the hell out of here. Laurie's marijuana is in
the glove compartment,” I tell the car as I remember. I try again and, 
with a little tire spinning, manage to get enough purchase to move 
forward off the icy patch. The salt must have worked. Remembering the 
kid, and since I'd have to run over it otherwise, I stop and get out 
again to retrieve the backpack. There might be some ID in it, I think, 
and I can return it to the kid or something. As I get back in, I toss 
the cold canvas container into the back seat. 

Not wanting to attract attention, I slowly drive to the corner in order
to turn onto the side street toward that lit sign. I was wrong, a 
Seven-Eleven is open. Leaving my engine running, I rush in and pick up 
pickles and ice cream. Also, I take time for a cup of coffee before 
again facing the weather. 

“You hear all the cop cars a while ago?” I ask the clerk, a chubby acned
dishwater blond behind the counter, feeling hot coffee flopping around 
in my stomach. 


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