Westchester Station

Prologue


The Canadian Express blew into Chicago like a fleet of sailors on shore leave. No city, no matter how experienced in dealing with hostile weather, could hope to cope with such a sudden onslaught of cold, wind and snow; within twenty minutes of reaching the Loop, the storm shut Chicago down.

This was something I had not planned for. On my business trips I try to plan for everything. I have copies of my credit card numbers in my luggage, my wallet, on the insole of my wingtips. I carry two sets of spare batteries for my laptop computer. My business trips are too important to entrust to secretaries, so I make reservations for planes, hotels and autos myself and well in advance. Then I triple-check them before I leave. I arrive at my destination the night before any appointment, no matter how late, and reach the airport at least three hours before scheduled departure. I paid a heavy price learning the need for such precautions...I missed an important meeting - and subsequently lost the account - due to a walkout by taxi drivers in Baltimore. I don't have that many clients; I can't afford to lose more.

So I was already in O'Hare, killing three hours in an executive lounge and reviewing my notes for my dog-and-pony show in Schenectady the following day when the storm hit. Its initial greeting rattled the windows and more than one of the patrons.

"Holy shit!" rose from several throats at once and there was a mini-stampede to the windows to view what God had wrought. It was a sight that guaranteed depression. The snow tumbled at nearly a 900 angle, and so thickly that it was impossible to see the planes and runways outside. Takeoffs or landings would be suicide; the announcement, which surprised no one, came shortly afterward. The airport was closed; no one was going out, no one was coming in.

"You think the bastards could plan," one man said as he gulped down his third or fifth martini. During a brief conversation I had discovered he was a salesman also, but no one had bought his widgets on this trip. We had soon determined neither was a prospect for either; my company wasn't in manufacturing and his didn't want any advertising. We had not readdressed each other until now.

He waved his swizzle stick like a conductor's baton; I was surprised the olives didn't become airborne - something the planes outside would not. His volume increased and pronunciation worsened as he raved on. "We have all these satellites and high-tech bullshit. All those Phd's and BVD's and weathermen who call themselves 'meteorologists.' A pretty fancy name for someone who only has to smile on cue and dress well and point at a photograph if you ask me. They spend all that money and they can't tell us a storm like this is coming "

I tried to ignore him. I've spent too many hours waiting in similar bars and overhearing equally intemperate conversations to be overly alarmed or amused or abashed by this one. I had more important considerations; i.e. how was I going to get to Schenectady