Niantic

I was driving a remote stretch of interstate, late the other night. Snow started to fall. Nothing but snowflakes and the inky darkness. A memory sprang to mind, emerging from almost three decades of dormancy. A memory of Niantic.

I was publishing “Writer’s Digest,” the magazine for aspiring writers. We held an annual writing contest and mailed out award plaques to the winners of the various categories. There was also a grand prize winner.

One year, I got the idea that we could generate some additional goodwill and publicity by personally presenting the award to the grand prize winner. I would make the presentation at the venue of the winner’s choice. That person could pick their writer’s club meeting, family gathering, city council meeting or whatever.

The award would be presented in January. My editor, John, headed the judging committee. “Pick a winner in a southern climate,” I said kiddingly. Okay, half kiddingly.

The day came and he dropped a note in the middle of my desk blotter. It had only the name and phone number. The area code didn’t ring a bell. “Where does he live?”

John grinned. “Niantic, Connecticut.”

“Where the hell is that?”

“Not my problem.” Few things were. Editors.

It was far out on Long Island Sound. That should be balmy this time of year.

I called the winner, mustering up all the enthusiasm I could in my voice.

“That’s nice, “he said, as though I had just offered to sell him an insurance policy. “Put it in the mail.”

“I don’t think you understand, Mr. Blansky, I said I’ll come out and make the presentation in front of any group you want. You’re the grand prize winner. That’s quite an accomplishment.”

“Yeah, thanks. Put it in the mail.” The line went dead.

I stared at the handset a bit before hanging up. Something didn’t compute. I had read his short story and it was rich with emotion and imagery. I pulled the file, skipping over the manuscript and focusing on the accompanying bio.

John walked back into my office. “So, is he stoked?”

I didn’t look up from the bio. “Not the word I’d choose.”

“What word would you use?”

“I don’t know. Unmoved. Apathetic. Maybe, comatose. He said to just mail it in.”

John leaned over to see what was holding my attention. “But, you’re not going to let it go.”

“I’m not going to let it go.”

In his bio, it said that he was a member of a small writing club. We maintained a directory of clubs, so I looked it up. I called Al, the president, and related my conversation with Mr. Blansky.”

“Yeah, that would be Pete,” he chuckled. “That’s really a shame. He’s a great guy and it would be really neat to do that. He’s just not the type to call attention to himself. I wish he had gone along with it.”

“Well, I’m a creative guy, I’m guessing you’re a creative guy, can we come up with something?”

Al was creative. Possibly a tad too much. We hatched a plot, but it was mostly his.

The club met monthly for dinner at a local pub , on a weekday night. I would show up and take an adjoining table, acting as a character from Pete’s short story. Fine, but that role was that of an obnoxious, disheveled wino. I would impose myself on their table. At the point Pete caught on, I would make the presentation. Assuming he wouldn’t stab me with a salad fork first.

What could go wrong? Or, what could go right?

As long as I was headed that way, I scheduled some sales calls in New Haven. I’d always wanted to see Yale, anyway.

I flew into New York and rented a car. Outside of the metro area, it was a dark night with light snow. I checked into the hotel and decided to go for a jog. It would be interesting to see the town.

A little over a mile into it, I perceived the flashing of a red light and noticed a patrol car had pulled up to the curb. The officer rolled down his window and motioned me over. “What are you doing, sir?”

Several clever answers occurred to me, but I wisely opted to tell him that I was staying at a hotel and had decided to go for a run before settling in for the evening. “You could get settled in for life. This is a very high crime area.”

“New Haven?”

“Yes, get in. I’ll drive you back to your hotel.”

I got in. If it was dangerous, he would know.

I did my calls the next day and walked around Yale. It did not disappoint.

Then, I was off to Niantic on a grey, dismal winter day. Niantic matched the day. Somewhat of a waterside resort in the summer, it was barely inhabited in the depths of winter. The motel was stark and seedy. No inside corridors. I was on the second level. Half expected to find Anthony Perkins in the shower.

Not much to do until dinner, so I laced on the running shoes. I work up pretty good steam within a mile, so got through winter with shorts just fine. That was in Ohio. The wind came off the Sound here, slicing right through me. Visions of soaking in hot water danced in my head.

I got the water running as soon as I got back to the room. Digging through my luggage, I found my paperback and eased into the tub. Ahhhh.

The phone started ringing. Crap. I was tempted to let it go, but it could be the wife about something important at home. Reluctantly, I climbed out of the tub and padded across the cruddy shag.

Without responding to my “hello,” a male voice said, ”State police. Exit your room immediately and go left to the staircase, moving quickly and don’t stop for any reason.”

“What?”

“Go down the staircase and run across the lot, taking a position behind the police cars. Stay low.”

“Very funny, John.”

“This is the state police. Do it now and do it fast. Do not stop. There are armed bank robbers holed up two doors down from you. Move!”

I pulled on my running shorts and my shoes. I cracked the door and looked down the balcony. Nothing, but I did catch sight of the phalanx of police vehicles in the parking lot. This might be for real.

I burst out of the room and sprinted down the balcony at flank speed. Right before the staircase, a figure stepped out from behind the Coke machine.

My reaction was reflex. Without breaking stride, I lowered my shoulders and drove through him.

Reflex is faster than thought. A fraction of a second after blasting into him, the image of the uniform registered. Very few bank robbers wear uniforms. At least, to the best of my knowledge.

Too late. He was airborne. I kept going. Down the steps and serpentining out to the cars.

I crouched down and looked back toward my room. The officer had resumed his position behind the Coke machine.

I sensed the weight of stares and turned. All the police and some of my fellow guests were gaping at me. I was wet, dressed in shorts and exuding steam into the frigid air. All attention returned to the balcony.

The officer tiptoed around the Coke machine and edged along the wall. Men around me brought long guns up to their cheeks. He tentatively reached a hand out and rapped on a door, jumping back and yelling words that the wind swept away before they could reach us. The air crackled with tension.

“Hey, does anyone have a spare coat or something?”

“Shhhhh!”

“I’m officially freezing here.”

“Shutup!”

“You said to come right out. I didn’t take time to…”

“Sir, if you say another word, I will shoot you three times in the head.” Didn’t sound like the Miranda warning to me.

Fortunately, the bad guys gave up quickly and without a fight. They had hit a bank in Fall River and fled to here, according to plan. But, one of them had been captured at the bank and had ratted them out. As soon as they were secured, I ran back to the room, refilled the tub and tried to regain body heat.

After the shivers finally ceased, I unpacked my costume. The centerpiece was a loud yellow sports coat that my wife never let me wear. I had packed it in a ball for effect. A plaid sports shirt and yellow paisley tie went with that. I stuffed a handful of cheap cigars in the breast pocket. I skipped shaving that morning.

Not sure I would be able to easily find the place, I left early. Mind you, I always leave early. Even in a town that’s about ten square blocks.

I found a parking spot in front of the pub. Twenty minutes to kill. I noticed a store across the street and an idea occurred to me. I bought a pint of very cheap wine, went back to the car and sloshed some of it on like cologne. I sat there with the engine running to ward off the cold, very pleased with myself about thinking of this finishing touch.

There was no traffic, so it was impossible for me not to notice the patrol car that passed by a couple times. Also, for him not to notice me.

He stopped on his third pass, got out, tapped on the window and motioned me to roll it down. “May I see your license and registration?” I dug for my wallet and a look passed over his face. “Sir, would you step out of the car?” Yes, that finishing touch was a terrific idea.

“I can explain.”

“Sir, please step out of the car. Now.” He was fingering the strap on his holster. I got out.

I rapidly explained. Not a flicker of reaction. “Look, the plaque is wrapped up in my overcoat, right there on the seat.”

He looked and arched his eyebrows. “Okay, here’s the deal. We go inside and talk to Al.” Apparently, everyone knew everyone in this town. “If he backs you up, you walk.”

“Can’t do that. It’ll screw up the surprise.”

“Or, I can just throw you in jail.”

“Can do that.”

We walked into the pub and were greeted by Tony, who I took to be the proprietor. He and the officer exchanged some pleasantries. A thought occurred.

“Tony, did Al happen to tell you what’s going on tonight?”

“What’s going on tonight?”

Oh, great. “With Pete? The award?”

“Yeah, yeah. The award. That writing thing.”

“That’s me. I’m the guy doing it. Tell your friend, here.”

“Pete’s getting some kind of writing thing tonight.” Thanks, Tony.

But, it was enough. The officer departed and Tony seated me next to the group after describing which were Al and Pete. I ordered and went into my act.

I eavesdropped until I heard my cue from Al. I stood up, staggered over to the table and intruded on their conversation. Pete said nothing, as predicted. I worked around the table to him, put my hand on his shoulder and started provoking him, per our script.

I was warming to the role when a voice rang out from the next table, “Hey, I know you.” I ignored it. He couldn’t have been talking to me.

A guy who looked like a heavier Ned Beatty stood up and came over to me. “Yeah, I know who you are.”

Had Al done a rewrite without telling me? I looked at him and he gave a shrug.

"I'm not whoever you think I am, pal. You don't know me."

“Sure I do. You’re that guy from that writing magazine. I saw you when you spoke at Malone College last year. “

Pete’s eyes bored into mine. I dropped the drunken slur. “Hi, Pete. I’m Henry. We spoke on the phone.” I smiled. He didn’t.

All’s well that ends well. His writing friends whooped it up and people from other tables came over to congratulate him. Pete eventually got into the spirit.

After the day I had, I really got into the spirits. I was lucky not to encounter my new law enforcement friend on the way home.

I was not well in the morning. I wasn’t thinking well either because I was glad that I had booked a commuter flight out of New London instead of having to drive back to Kennedy in my condition.

It was a blustery day, so the walk across the tarmac was a head-down trek. So, it wasn’t until I arrived at the plane did I notice it was about the size of a bar of soap.

We were soon not that high over the glacial waters of Long Island Sound, getting severely buffeted by a winter storm. I looked for something in the seatback pocket to distract me. There was a brochure. This was Pilgrim Airlines and I was bouncing along in a DHC Otter.

Pilgrims weren’t renowned as aviators and otters are happiest in cold water, like that beneath our wings. You think things like that with a hangover.

Miraculously, we survived. I was back at my desk the next morning.

John sauntered in with too big of a grin for my taste. “So, enjoy Niantic and your grand ruse?”

“We’re not doing a presentation next year.”

“Oh, come on. Details. I need details.”

“Any further conversation revolves around the possibility of your continued employment.”

“I think we’re done here.”