The Perfect Song Blog

I had stay overnight in Harrisburg, PA for a meeting about a teleconference I’m participating in.  When I left New York State it was six degrees with a wind chill of 15 below zero.
I figured it would be warmer in Harrisburg which is about 140 miles south.  It wasn’t.
I stayed in a unique, 20-story place that used to be offices and was converted to suites and apartments.   An elderly black woman passed by with the air of a person who lived there.   Down the hall in the activity room, a guy in a wheelchair was watching television.  The only thing that distinguished it from a nursing home was the registration desk where a young woman was listening to a white-haired lady who had all the time in the world.  I registered and found my room on the sixth floor.  It was spacious and borderline-but-not-quite dumpy.
The wind was howling outside.  At 5:30 I took the rickety elevator back to the lobby.  A young black guy who appeared to be both a doorman and janitor, leaned on the registration desk talking to Patricia, who registered me.
“Where’s a good place to eat?”
“A lot of people like Garrison’s,” Patricia said.  “It’s just up the block.”
“In walking distance,” I said.
“The janitor-doorman nodded.  “Sure is if you don’t mind the cold.”
“I’m from New York State,” I said.  “This is nothing.”  I would later regret this statement.
The janitor-doorman smiled.  “I’ll show you how to get there.”  We stepped outside.  “Go up this block, take a left and at the end of that block take a right.”
“Thanks!”  I wasn’t sure if I should tip him, so I didn’t.
I started out.  It was windy but not bad.   Garrison’s is a small, dark tavern with lots of hardwood and good food.  When I finished eating I stepped outside — into a blizzard.  The snow was coming down sideways.  The sidewalk was white and slippery.  By the time I’d walked one block I was moving directly into the wind.  My hands were frozen.  My eyes hurt.  It had to be 20-below with the wind chill.
By the time I stumbled up to the lobby’s glass doors, I was covered with snow.  It wasn’t layered.  It was embedded.  As I walked in the janitor-doorman looked up and almost doubled over laughing.  Patricia behind the desk laughed too, even though she was very professional otherwise.
“Man, you have changed colors!” The doorman-janitor said between bouts of laughter.  Patricia was doing her best not to laugh hard.  Like I said, she was a professional.
“I’m laughing because I told you it was in walking distance,” the d-j said.  I nodded.  “And you said you were from New York State!”
“That was a mistake I will not make again,” I said.  “I thought it was supposed to be warmer in Harrisburg.”
Patricia disappeared and returned with a towel.  It was a nice gesture that made us for a moment feel like family sharing a joke.
And the joke was me.
I pressed the button on the rickety elevator and stepped inside as the two of them waved.  Janitor-doorman was still laughing.  I had made his night.
I knew I was the star of a new story that he would be telling for years to come.
I entered my suite, fixed a vodka and tonic, and as the wind howled, vowed I would never again intimate that I was some hardy dude from New York State.