It had been a long, dark, and stormy day. A large hurricane had broken up off the coast of the Carolinas, and its remnants were moving up the eastern seaboard. I had not been anxious to tackle the 14-hour drive home in such a storm. So, I had slept a little later than usual.
It was late morning when I finally checked out of my central New Jersey motel room. The desk clerk warned me of the approaching storm. Road conditions were expected to deteriorate and become hazardous. I didn't believe road conditions in New Jersey could get much worse than they were under the best of circumstances.
As I headed south, traffic on I-95 was practically bumper to bumper. In the constant rain, it was moving slowly, but moving. Occasionally, an intense thunder storm cell would pass through the area I was in and make driving even worse. I seemed to be making very little progress.
I should have expected nothing less than a hurricane as I headed home. A hurricane was a fitting way to end a stressful week in New York City. In spite of the weather and traffic, I was relieved to be heading south, toward my home in South Carolina.
I had not been in New York City on a pleasure trip. My job as a private investigator had taken me there. I had spent most of my time in NYC in the seedier areas of Brooklyn and The Bronx. A forty-four-year-old, balding, over weight, white man can easily get himself killed working in some of those areas, if he doesn't stay on his toes. Though I had successfully completed my assignment, I was still feeling the stress of being an outsider in some of the most dangerous neighborhoods in America.
Travel was becoming exceedingly slow. By late afternoon, I had only gotten to the northeastern edge of Philadelphia. Traffic on the I-95 expressway had come to a complete stop.
A short time later, on my CB radio, I overheard the truckers reporting a major bridge ahead of me had been closed. The truckers were saying the bridge would probably remain closed for several days. I tuned in a local FM radio station on my car's stereo, and the announcer soon confirmed the truckers' bridge reports. The closure had resulted from damage to the bridg's approaches due to storm related high water and wind. In addition to the storm surge on the coast, many of the smaller streams in the region had swollen beyond their capacity and were flooding. Alternate routes were either closed or as badly backed up as I-95.
Seeing the futility of trying to continue driving south, I pulled off the interstate, and headed for a Holiday Inn I knew to be nearby. I had previously stayed at that particular motel while working a case in the Philadelphia area. I secured one of the last rooms they had available, dropped my luggage at the room, and went to their restaurant for dinner.
The dinning room, like the motel, was filled to near capacity. The dinning room staff was short handed due to the storm, and they were struggling to keep up with demand. Some of the customers were complaining. Too many people, who seemed to think they are the only people who mattered, were loudly complaining about the slow service.
I have found, if I treat the staff well, they will do their best for me. Even so, it took a little longer than normal to get my dinner. But then, I wasn't going anywhere anyway. Niether were the complainers.
My dinner finally arrived, and it was delicious. I was enjoying my steak, onion rings, and glass of wine when I noticed a young lady walk into the crowded restaurant.
She was a very petite, dark skinned, beauty with long flowing black hair. Her facial features indicated to me she was of Asian Indian ancestry.
She appeared to be alone. There were no empty tables. I had a table for four to my self. So, with a broad smile, and indicating the chair across from me, I asked her, "Would you like to sit here and join me?"
The young lady seemed shy and hesitant. She cast her eyes to the floor and did not respond.
At first, I thought I was being brush off. I then remembered some of my high school world geography lessons. India still had a cast society, and the women there were not nearly as assertive or self-confident as many of our American ladies are. They were seldom allowed to make decisions without a father or husband's approval. So, I stood, pulled out the chair opposite me for her, and, with a firmer voice told her, "It may be a while before another table opens up. Sit here!"
She hesitated a few seconds more, then said, "Thank you! Are you sure you don't mind?"
"I don't mind at all. I will enjoy the company. Now sit down, please." I told her.
"I am hungry, and I really don't want to wait for a table." A smile was beginning to brighten her face.
As she sat down, I handed her my business card, held out my hand to her, and said, "I'm James. Please call me Jim. What brought you here on this stormy night?"
Shaking my hand, she said, "My name is Damini. That means lightning. (How apropritate) I'm going to visit family in Atlanta. A cousin is getting married in a few days. Why are you there?"
Thus, started a long evening of conversation between a beautifully petite, twenty-three-year-old girl and a man old enough to be her father.
Damini was soon feeling much more comfortable about spending time with a stranger, and she began to open herself up to me. She had been born in New Jersey, but her family had clung to their Indian culture. They had kept tight control over her. Even when she had attended an out of town college as a resident student, she had been required to go home every weekend.
I found Damini fascinatingly different, and I enjoyed listening to her. The floresent lighting of the motel restaurant seemed to make her dark skin glow.
As her dinner arrived, Damini had agreed to share a bottle of wine with me. By the time we had finished eating, the wine was also nearly gone. At my invitation, Damini had moved to sit closer to me.
As we finished the last of the wine, I said, "Please, join me in the lounge for another glass of wine. Maybe we could share a dance as well."
Again she hesitated, before agreeing.
I picked up both dinner tabs and left a tip. We then headed to the lounge. As we left the restaurant, Dimini walked quietly behind me with her head slightly bowed.
I stopped in the hallway, turned to face Damini, and gently took her by the hand. I pulled her up beside me, lifted her chin, and told her, "Damini, you are an American woman in America. Women here do not follow behind their men. Walk beside me."
For the first time that evening, I saw a warm smile on Damini's lips. She continued holding my hand as we walked into the lounge. She and I enjoyed another glass of wine while we chatted in the crowded and noisy lounge. When the live band played a slow tune, I took Dinimi's hand and guided her to the dance floor.
