I’m going to Kansas tomorrow. My girlfriend is there with her family, and I’m visiting before Christmas. I’m looking forward to the visit, though I’m a little nervous about it all. Especially about how cold it’s going to be. I heard the high there the other day was something like 17 degrees, and the wind chill made it feel like -20. I’m sorry Kansas, but that’s just stupid.
I never really know how to handle cold weather. When it’s hot outside, I say, “Man, it’s hot,” and I sweat. I manage. But when it’s cold, I just say a silent prayer for my shoelaces to stay tied because I know my fingers won’t let me retie my shoes in the cold. Heat inconveniences. Cold incapacitates.
Especially without the right equipment. I once bar hopped through a Minneapolis winter wearing a t-shirt and light jacket. The right equipment in this situation: booze. But I don’t think I’m willing to go through an entire winter intoxicated, so the right equipment generally turns out to be clothing. Equipment that, unlike alcohol, I often misplace or forget.
I went job hunting in New York City for a week one winter. One of my friends has a sister who lives Brooklyn. Since she was going to be in France at the time, she kindly mailed me the key to her loft. I knew it was going to be cold so I brought along a coat and a hat. I did not bring gloves.
It took a while before I actually missed my gloves. The bus and subway weren’t all that cold. But then I came to my stop and got off. The sun had gone down in the middle of a long transit. It was cold, and it was dark. Except, of course, for a smattering of fat, white snowflakes that shot sideways through the air. I knew the address of my destination, but I wasn’t quite sure where I was in relation to it. I didn’t want to spend money on a cab, though. Fortunately, it didn’t seem like I was in a neighborhood where a lot of cabs stop. I found a map at the station and figured out the general way I had to go.
After a couple blocks, the cold hit me. Rather, the wind hit me. Rather, the wind sliced into my hands. I was carrying two bags, and my hands were burning. I started thinking about my hands drying out and cracking, the blood freezing the gashes closed—definitely not good for job hunting and glad handing. I stopped, put my bags down, and blew on my hands like a Dickensian street urchin. I picked my bags up, and the wind continued biting into my hands. I wasn’t sure if blowing into my hands benefited me or not. It may have been best to just let my fingers go completely numb. I was jealous of how warm the Orthodox Jews looked as the occasional one walked by me on the street.
But then my savior came. “Hey, man. We’re walking the same way. Do you need help with your bags?” A middle aged black man approached me, layered in warm clothes and with a thick pair of gloves. I knew I probably shouldn’t have, but cold makes me stupid. I thanked him, gave him my bags, and shoved my hands into my coat pockets, flexing them to circulate the blood. I told myself that if he ran off with my bags, I’d be able to catch him. That’s probably not true, but that’s what I told myself.
We made small talk, and he asked where I was going. I told him some cross streets about a block away from my actual destination, saying that someone was going to pick me up there. Naturally, my new friend/valet was randomly heading just that way, too. After a few more blocks, we arrived at my cross streets. He offered to wait with me, but I said I thought I’d be okay. Then he said he was heading to a McDonald’s but was short a few bucks. I gave him some money, thanked him, and he walked back the way we had come.
I waited a minute, picked up my bags, and walked the extra block to the loft. I climbed a few flights of stairs, unlocked the door, and entered a cavernous, dark room. Rooms were carved out of the loft with thin drywall. I followed the sound of faint music playing somewhere, and saw a light coming out of an open door. “Hello?” I called. The door closed. I called my friend and asked where his sister’s room was, locating it as an offshoot from the kitchen.
I unloaded my bags and heard some movement in the kitchen. I decided to announce myself again. I wandered out, and there was a guy in a bathrobe holding a coffee mug and a bottle of vodka. He knew how to stay warm.
He looked at me relaxedly and said, “Hey. How’s it going?”
Maybe he was expecting me. “Oh. Hi. I’m alright… My name’s Drew—I’m the friend of your roommate’s brother. Did she tell you about me?”
“Maybe.”
“Ah. Well, I’m going to be staying in her room for a few days, so thanks.”
“No problem, man.”
“Sorry if I disturbed you earlier.” I pointed down the hall.
“Oh, that wasn’t me.”
“Ah… How many people live here?”
“I don’t know. Usually around five to seven at any given time.”
“Well, how long have you lived here, then?”
“On and off for the past eight years or so… Hey, do you want a drink?”
I accepted. It warmed me up. I made it through the rest of my time in New York without any gloves—I owned gloves already, so why would I buy a new pair? As a result, I spent a lot of my time in New York with my hands in my pockets. Luckily, my fears of cracked and bleeding hands did not come true.
I remembered to pack my gloves for my trip to Kansas. I just hope the cold doesn’t put me in a position where I start fantasizing about the virtues of a good pair of long underwear. Not that I own any. Yet.
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