fanned across the marble floor.
“I thought we’d have to elbow our way in,” Dave said as he scouted the hall leading to the cafeteria.
Sarah slipped on the wet floor and was stopped short of landing on her rear end by Paul who caught her by the waist. “It’s like an ice skating rink,” he said, helping Sarah stand up.
“Thanks for saving my
tuchas,”
she said with a laugh as she locked eyes momentarily with Paul who still had his hands on her waist.
“The place is deserted,” Dave called out, drawing their attention. “Let’s go to the lounge.”
Paul awkwardly removed his hands from Sarah’s waist. Embarrassed, he changed the subject. “He runs ahead on the subway too.”
Fifty feet past the entrance to the cafeteria, Dave made a right and disappeared. Paul and Sarah peeked into the cafeteria. “Are we the smart ones for staying or the chickens that did?” Paul asked. The maximum occupancy was three hundred. There were four very unhappy faces congregating around the Coke machine.
Sarah didn’t answer. Instead, she slipped her arm under Paul’s. Benny Goodman’s
Sing Sing Sing
came loud and clear through the opened door. The lounge, half the size of the cafeteria, afforded a collection of armchairs, sofas, abilliards table and a juke box that rarely worked.
Four males known to spend more time in a pool hall off Washington Square than in class were attempting to play a game of eight ball. A stream of curses and laughs drifted from the far left hand corner of the lounge as balls encountered the ripped and shredded green felt on the playing surface.
Paul counted twelve others spread around the room either sleeping or reading. The music wasn’t coming from the jukebox. “Mr. Rothstein and Miss Greenbaum!” rang out.
Paul and Sarah froze. The voice belonged to their political science professor. To the right of the entrance, two green plaid sofas positioned in an “L” arrangement were complimented with a pair of wingback armchairs covered in a haphazard floral pattern. A walnut coffee table completed the ensemble. Dave was nestled into one of the armchairs directly across from Dr. Allan Shaw who had taken over a sofa. The radio was on the counter of a refreshment kiosk. Its wire snaked between two large urns.
“Grab a cup of coffee or tea. It’s on the house,” Shaw said, holding up a steaming mug. His class was the most requested section in
PoliSci I.
In his mid-forties, Shaw walked with a pronounced limp of his right leg. A jagged facial scar running from under his chin to his right ear added an element of intrigue to his husky voice and chiseled features. Lectures peppered with jokes and an occasional four-letter word assured full attendance.
Dave looked uncomfortable, his Brooklyn bravado evaporated with Shaw’s beckoning to have a seat with the wave of his ever-present bent briar pipe. The day before, Shaw peppered him with questions that the future lawyer couldn’t answer. Dave nervously ran a finger around the lip of his coffee cup. The new arrivals removed their jackets and draped them over the arms of a nearby sofa. “Fire Island has been leveled,” Dave said, turning to Shaw.
Shaw nodded in the affirmative as he tamped the smoldering pipe tobacco with his finger. “A few minutes ago, NBC reported there are widespread power and phone outages throughout the region. One hundred fifty three of the one hundred seventy nine houses on the beach at Westhampton, Long Island were swept away. Fire Island wasn’t as lucky. Every structure is gone.”
“How many dead?” Paul asked.
Shaw sighed deeply. “Twenty-nine. Have to be scores more.”
“What’s going on in Brooklyn near Sheepshead Bay?” Paul asked. “I’m going to call home.”
“Forget it,” Dave said, “The phones are dead.”
“I’ve got to call home, my parents are going to be crazy,” Sarah said.
Dave shook his head. “Can’t get through to the Bronx either. I tried my cousin who lives near Yankee
“I thought we’d have to elbow our way in,” Dave said as he scouted the hall leading to the cafeteria.
Sarah slipped on the wet floor and was stopped short of landing on her rear end by Paul who caught her by the waist. “It’s like an ice skating rink,” he said, helping Sarah stand up.
“Thanks for saving my
tuchas,”
she said with a laugh as she locked eyes momentarily with Paul who still had his hands on her waist.
“The place is deserted,” Dave called out, drawing their attention. “Let’s go to the lounge.”
Paul awkwardly removed his hands from Sarah’s waist. Embarrassed, he changed the subject. “He runs ahead on the subway too.”
Fifty feet past the entrance to the cafeteria, Dave made a right and disappeared. Paul and Sarah peeked into the cafeteria. “Are we the smart ones for staying or the chickens that did?” Paul asked. The maximum occupancy was three hundred. There were four very unhappy faces congregating around the Coke machine.
Sarah didn’t answer. Instead, she slipped her arm under Paul’s. Benny Goodman’s
Sing Sing Sing
came loud and clear through the opened door. The lounge, half the size of the cafeteria, afforded a collection of armchairs, sofas, abilliards table and a juke box that rarely worked.
Four males known to spend more time in a pool hall off Washington Square than in class were attempting to play a game of eight ball. A stream of curses and laughs drifted from the far left hand corner of the lounge as balls encountered the ripped and shredded green felt on the playing surface.
Paul counted twelve others spread around the room either sleeping or reading. The music wasn’t coming from the jukebox. “Mr. Rothstein and Miss Greenbaum!” rang out.
Paul and Sarah froze. The voice belonged to their political science professor. To the right of the entrance, two green plaid sofas positioned in an “L” arrangement were complimented with a pair of wingback armchairs covered in a haphazard floral pattern. A walnut coffee table completed the ensemble. Dave was nestled into one of the armchairs directly across from Dr. Allan Shaw who had taken over a sofa. The radio was on the counter of a refreshment kiosk. Its wire snaked between two large urns.
“Grab a cup of coffee or tea. It’s on the house,” Shaw said, holding up a steaming mug. His class was the most requested section in
PoliSci I.
In his mid-forties, Shaw walked with a pronounced limp of his right leg. A jagged facial scar running from under his chin to his right ear added an element of intrigue to his husky voice and chiseled features. Lectures peppered with jokes and an occasional four-letter word assured full attendance.
Dave looked uncomfortable, his Brooklyn bravado evaporated with Shaw’s beckoning to have a seat with the wave of his ever-present bent briar pipe. The day before, Shaw peppered him with questions that the future lawyer couldn’t answer. Dave nervously ran a finger around the lip of his coffee cup. The new arrivals removed their jackets and draped them over the arms of a nearby sofa. “Fire Island has been leveled,” Dave said, turning to Shaw.
Shaw nodded in the affirmative as he tamped the smoldering pipe tobacco with his finger. “A few minutes ago, NBC reported there are widespread power and phone outages throughout the region. One hundred fifty three of the one hundred seventy nine houses on the beach at Westhampton, Long Island were swept away. Fire Island wasn’t as lucky. Every structure is gone.”
“How many dead?” Paul asked.
Shaw sighed deeply. “Twenty-nine. Have to be scores more.”
“What’s going on in Brooklyn near Sheepshead Bay?” Paul asked. “I’m going to call home.”
“Forget it,” Dave said, “The phones are dead.”
“I’ve got to call home, my parents are going to be crazy,” Sarah said.
Dave shook his head. “Can’t get through to the Bronx either. I tried my cousin who lives near Yankee
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