It’s 1:00, I’ve been at work shoveling since 9:30 and I’m just about done clearing two loading doors to the ground. Or as much of the ground as you can get with an inch+ an hour still falling. The other three are blocked by bunker like barricades due to the fact that the snow plow didn’t arrive.
There’s really nothing I can do about it until he does arrive so, considering the weather and the fact I doubt more than two people will arrive at any one time today, I’m satisfied.
As I’m pounding down the last six-foot snow drift all I can think of is, ‘Boy, Dunkin’s better be open.’ I’m cold and just looking for anything hot right about now. This car pulls up and beeps. I squint toward it and can’t make out who’s inside.
I trudge over and the person in the car (who has done a piss poor job clearing their car, I might add. That’s just a safety peeve of mine) rolls down their window enough to slip a dollar bill through it. Trust me, a dime wouldn’t have gone through.
“When are you going to clear the other doors? They’re closer to my unit.”
I look at her and the mounds of snow that need a plow to get through and many things go through my head. I’m sure you can assume some of them but, let me tell you, some were even colorful for me. But I let them all pass because I don’t want to talk. I actually may not be able to. I haven’t uttered a sound since 8 when I said bye to Terry.
I figure just explaining the situation (“HELLO!?!?!! Blizzard?!?!?!”) will be quicker.
“You’ll have to use these doors until the plow gets here.”
Seems like that’ll work. Honest, to the point, answers the question quickly and fully. How unlike me!
“But these doors are further from my unit.” By less than the distance of the Dunkin’, I think. But I’m also thinking why I don’t often answer questions honestly, to the point, quickly and fully. They don’t work any better.
I look at this woman, warm, bundled, not dripping from many body areas, not stiff legged because her pants aren’t frozen, and say,
“Oh, those doors? The ones closer to your unit? You want to know when they’ll be cleared?” She nods her head at me as if I’ve finally understood how to add two numbers after hours of trying. I bang the shovel on the ground to break some ice off it and say,
I turn and push snow out of my way all the way to Dunkin’ Donuts. I figure by the time I get back she’d have made her decision.
I’m walking back with my coffee and muffin (something I never get but I’m hungry and too tired to look for anything else to eat) and, hot damn! It looks like she made her decision.
It looks like I’ll see her in spring.