Viking Vagabond

Home.

I stood on the stoop and examined the imperfections of the big red door in front of me. The faint glow of the street light illuminated what appeared to be hints of wood grain underneath its coat of paint. Three more raps, and the frozen slab punished my knuckles as if it were steel instead. With my left hand retreating hastily to its glove, I closed my eyes and imagined being safe on the warm side of the door. A brisk wind cut through my liquid fog and returned me to my task.

Looking down, I removed my glove and plunged my right hand into the front pocket of my jeans. My slow-moving fingers fumbled past my cell phone and dragged the keyring out again into the frigid Maine air. Identifying the correct key in low light was easy enough: it was the one that wasn’t my car key. Guiding it into the lock, I instinctively slowed my breathing as I gave it a turn.

No luck.

I tried again.

And again.

The key still didn’t budge. I clenched my jaw and ground my teeth in frustration. Knowing I could torque it harder on yet another attempt, I paused. I knew the feeling of a key that refused to turn.

Easy now, Northlander. Wanna break it off and make trouble for Jane, you numbnuts?

Fuck.

I slumped my shoulders and sighed, expelling a stream of hot breath. I put the keys back in my pocket and my hand back in my glove. Jane had been kind enough to let me crash at her place. I owed her more respect than caving to my stubbornness and risking snapping her extra key in half. The tricky lock seemed easy enough when she showed me in the daylight . . . maybe try to call her one more time and . . . say what, exactly? How is a third voicemail going to matter?

It’s too late, Northlander. She’s probably at Scott’s, already asleep. No one is here to help you.

It was time to admit that my path to warmth was not in front of me, nor to the side—I couldn’t sleep safely in a car that had maybe a gallon of gas in the tank, so . . . I knew what I had to do.

I had to go back to the bar.

~