My heart pounded. I took deep frantic breaths, sucking in gasps of fresh oxygen from the January night as snow lightly flaked down on my head. It was an immediate respite from the rank, thick air in the Columbia and I savored it. I’d escaped the bar without being stopped by the man with the tattooed forearms. As I passed through the doorway he had indicated, I continued down the hall, my heart beginning to race, my steps quickening. I first passed the Men’s room, then a small office, my steps quicker still. “Hey, kid. Where the hell you going?” the tattooed man shouted. Was he following me? And where was ol’ George? I broke into a run, raced past a storage space, a stack of empty liquor boxes toward the fire exit and my freedom. By the time I reached the end of the hall, I hit the fire exit at a dead run, slammed the panic bar with both hands and rocketed through the door. The Columbia was located in the same building as the barbershop, just several doors down. Apartments on the second floor, retail space on the first floor, identical layouts in most of the shops – thank God for the architect’s lack of imagination.
