When I first met John, I thought he was a gopher. It’s a day later, and I’m still not sure.

On a flight home, I had a layover at the Buffalo Niagara International Airport in upstate New York. Christmas was only a few days away so the bustling airport was more crowded than usual. Pensive businessmen with well appointed briefcases and children with worn out parents rushed to their respective gates. I had an hour to kill between flights and headed to the Anchor Bar to fill up on buffalo wings. When in Rome.

It had been snowing all day, with a couple of inches on the ground, though not enough that caused any concern. The airport personnel approached the storm with a degree of nonchalance. It was an attitude I was used to having grown up in the area. When two inches of snow blankets southern New Jersey, the residents considered it an emergency. In Buffalo, they yawn and roll their eyes. I was pleased to see snow, especially during the holidays. I’ve never understood the appeal of living in a place where all four seasons are comprised of endless sunshine and drought conditions. What am I, an iguana?

There was a hypnotic attraction to watching the snow fall to the ground. It raced towards the finish line at an uneven pace, like marathon runners at a charity event. The flakes that were on a leisurely stroll were outpaced by their speedy companions. When each reached their final destination, they basked in the accomplishment. Afterwards, if they loitered too long, the participants were ushered away.

The battalion of snow removal vehicles at the airport appeared to manage the accumulation of the large heavy flakes without incident. When I entered the restaurant and ordered my wings, the snow was a chilly backdrop to a spicy meal, not much more than background noise.

Twenty miles away, John was returning to the Sunshine Motel, having spent the day at a gaming exhibit that featured arcade games from the eighties. A large section of the convention center was filled with machines that were free to play. His afternoon was no different from those of his teenage years, other than the drain on his wallet one quarter at a time. He jousted atop flying ostriches and punched out computer animated competitors. When he stepped outside for fresh air and saw the heavy snowfall, John knew he’d better get back to the motel before the roads turned too treacherous to drive. He didn’t want to spend the night with Ms. Pac Man. She was spoken for and didn’t put out.

After emerging from the restaurant, I checked the nearest bank of monitors to make sure the departure time of my connecting flight was still on time. Every flight had been cancelled. I rushed to the window to look at the tarmac but the white out conditions restricted my view. Lights from the stationary airplanes, parked for the night, flashed in and out of view, despite being no more than one hundred feet away. I felt taunted. The way my parents moved aside a blanket they momentarily hid behind and screamed “Peekaboo!”. It may have been an innocent prank when I was a toddler but it wasn’t as funny at my college graduation. I retrieved my luggage and hopped on the first airport shuttle I came across. When I saw the motel was named “sunshine”, I felt taunted a second time.

An hour later, the shuttle arrived at The Sunshine Motel. If the building hadn’t been painted yellow, I don’t think the driver would have seen it. The two story building was attractive. A variety of shrubs sat covered in snow like the soil that encased its roots. There wasn’t much contrast between the snow covered driveway and the snow covered grass, but at least there were shoveled piles of snow to break up the monotony. Drifts of snow covered the parked vehicles up to their door handles, making me glad I hadn’t rented a car. With the roads near impassable, any vehicle other than a monster sized truck would have seemed like another taunt.

The following day, I awoke to gentle knocking on my door. In a sleep deprived mumble, I asked my sleeping companion which one of us was going to answer the door. I pulled her close and waited for a reply. She didn’t respond. I asked again but was met with the same cold shoulder. When I opened my eyes, I found myself alone, spooning a pillow. The memory of my sleeping partner had been a dream. I wished the knock had been one too.

I shuffled to the door with a blanket wrapped around me, and opened it but no one was there. The hallway was empty. Before climbing into bed, I heard the knock once more, only this time it came from the opposite side of the room. It sounded like a bird pecking at the window. I pushed aside the curtains and jumped back, startled by the sight. Outside the window, there was nothing but snow. It was piled higher than the ceiling of the room.

Burrowed into the snow was an opening for a tunnel, approximately four feet in diameter. A parka clad man was crouching inside of it. The windows, stretched from the floor to the ceiling, and were unable to be opened, unless the glass was shattered. When the man spoke, the glass muffled his voice. He introduced himself as John, a patron of the motel. He claimed to have dug a series of tunnels, laid out behind him, as if he was a prisoner trying to escape incarceration by digging in the wrong direction. He waved for me to follow him before disappearing down the tunnel. Unsure what to do, I flipped an imaginary coin and made a decision.