Free The Impersonator by Mary Miley

I had spent so much of my life on trains that I sleep better sitting up than lying down, our trip north to Oregon brought a surprise. Grandmother, Oliver, and I rode the six hundred miles from San Francisco to Portland in two first-class compartments that came with berths and a lanky Negro porter whose only job was to think up ways to make our journey more comfortable.
    Dusk had arrived by the time we reached Portland, but low-hanging clouds made it seem more like night. It took two taxis to ferry the three of us and our luggage from the station to the opulent Hotel Benson in the heart of the city. As we approached the intersection of Broadway and Oak, our driver turned to Oliver. “Looks like some parked cars are blocking the main entrance, sir. I can pull up beside them or half a block ahead, whatever you like.”
    Oliver peered out the window. “There isn’t much traffic this time of day,” he said. “Just get as close as you can to the awning, boy, so my mother doesn’t have too far to walk.”
    The driver double-parked in front of the main entrance and our second taxi followed suit. No sooner had we alighted than a bellhop scurried out to take charge of our luggage. A doorman swung wide the front door for Grandmother who made her way slowly toward the sidewalk on Oliver’s arm. It was pretty quiet for downtown. On the opposite side of the street, a couple strolled hand in hand and a man walked his dog. Gaslights glowed in the evening gloom and two motorcars drove past, giving us a wide berth.
    The hotel building was boxy and tall—at least a dozen stories—and I craned my neck to make out the striking roofline as I stood beside the taxi, waiting for the drivers to unload all our belongings. A motorcar started up in the block behind me, its engine getting louder as it came closer, but my attention was on a lively party that had just spilled out of an unmarked speakeasy across the way. All at once, several of that group were shouting and pointing to a car bearing down on us. And there in the street beside the double-parked taxi in the midst of our luggage, I stood … directly in its path.
    “Watch out!” called the bellhop as he leaped to the safety of the sidewalk. I dove between two of the parked vehicles a split second before the speeding car roared past, coming so close that I felt its bumper slap the hem of my skirt. So close I could see the driver’s squint eyes and big nose over the steering wheel. Never slowing, he rounded the corner with an earsplitting squeal of tires on pavement, scattering our luggage, smacking sloppily into the opposite curb, and scraping against a gaslight. Had the driver of an oncoming vehicle not slammed its brakes and honked, there would have been a serious collision as well.
    One of the taxi drivers swore. “You all right, lady? I never seen such crazy driving in all my born days.”
    “That fella must’ve been drunk,” agreed the other. “He was all over the road.”
    Oliver rushed to my side. I tried to assure everyone that I was fine, but I had to take several deep breaths to steady my racing pulse. “I’m not hurt. And it was partly our fault. We shouldn’t have been unloading here in the middle of the street.”
    “We don’t let cars park here at the entrance,” said the bellman. “I don’t know who let ’em park here. That’s what caused the trouble. I’m going to call the police to come give ’em what for. And a ticket.”
    The three men scrambled to collect our bags, battered but not broken, while Oliver guided me toward the lobby. “Maybe the Prohibitionists are right after all,” I said to him, only half joking. “I hope that idiot gets home before he kills someone.”
    I looked around for Grandmother. She hadn’t moved from her spot at the hotel entrance where she had had a front-row view of the mishap, and she was staring, unblinking, not at me but at the corner where the drunk had disappeared from view. Then she gave me a long, measured look.