I cupped the warm mug of coffee in my hands as I gazed at the wintery landscape outside my window. Yesterday's snow forecast had called for "two to five inches"; this morning the local weatherman had admitted not only his earlier error, but his utter bewilderment at the overnight shifts in the atmosphere. Whatever had changed in the sky, the ground outside was covered in almost a foot of the white stuff.
Shivering as I watched the tapering flakes fall in the courtyard, I glanced down at my bare legs. I sipped my coffee, debating whether the chill outside would force me to put on pants. The hem of the white Henley that I'd slept in stopped halfway down my bum, permitting a sunny glimpse of my yellow thong. I opted to pour another cup of hot coffee and move away from the frosted window. Settling in at my computer on the dining room table, I started digging out from my usual pile of Tuesday morning emails.
On the table next to my laptop, my phone lit up with a series of messages. Without interrupting my typing, I shifted my eyes. On the phone screen, I found a sequence of texts from John. "Wow, crazy storm, huh?" "If I'd known, we could have gotten snowed in together, baby ;-)" "It's crazy! The whole city's shut down!" When my boyfriend sent rapid-fire texts like this, it typically meant he needed something. He also knew that I hated when he called me 'baby'. I tucked a lock of red hair behind my ear and turned back to my computer to finish my work task before replying to him.
"Yeah, it's wild how things changed overnight. Have you been outside yet? I'd be content not to put on pants til spring comes!" I answered, then returned to my work. A fat blob of grey flashed on the phone screen as his lengthy response arrived.
"Haha no-pants snow day sounds so good. Hey, I hate to ask, but if it's not too much trouble, can you clear the snow from my car?" I was right to anticipate the favor but was surprised by what that favor was. Shoveling my boyfriend's car out of a snowdrift didn't feel urgent in a city immobilized in the aftermath of a blizzard, never mind digging it out all by my small-girl-self. And it wasn't like he had a Maserati buried out there. I asked him how urgent this chore was.
John replied in a burst of messages. "As soon as you can please! I might not be able to get over there for days, and it's gonna thaw and refreeze, so when the ice compacts it could damage the paint and body." "Also, the snow needs to be cleared from the wheels and exhaust." "I mean, if we need it in an emergency, we might not have time to dig it out!" "Please?!" His texts were as pleading as they were exasperating. I didn't see how 'we' would need his car on short notice at present, since I didn't have a key and he was trapped on the other side of the snow-crippled city.
The street in front of John's was being repaved and parking near his place was a mess right now. So, I was letting him park his car in the spot outside my apartment for a couple of weeks. It made sense; I didn't even own a car at the moment. However, the prospect of leaving my warm den to shovel mountains of snow -- and, of course, putting on pants to do so -- was not a welcome one.
"I'll make it up to you, I promise!" John's follow up came quickly, likely sensing my reluctance. Sighing in acceptance of my inescapable chore, I confirmed to my boyfriend that I would take care of his precious car as soon as I cleared my email load. "You're the best!" He replied.
"Yeah, you don't need to tell me." I groaned aloud at my table, though I texted a smiley face in reply.
Half an hour later, with my inbox satisfied, I rose from the table and went to my bedroom to dress. I pulled on a pair of oversized grey sweatpants over my yellow lace panties and blindly grabbed the first pair of socks my fingers found in the drawer. With my feet covered, I tied on my duck boots from the back of my closet. Debating in front of my dresser for a long moment, I decided that a bra wouldn't be necessary if I layered a heavy winter coat over my waffle-knit base layer.
The fact that I even owned a snow shovel was due entirely to the prior tenant's neglecting to clean out the hall closet when moving. I'd also inherited crusty paint brushes, sheets of worn sandpaper, a rusted caulk gun, and half a tub of hardened spackle, all of which I'd thrown away. But the shovel I kept, if only because it wouldn't fit down the trash chute. Pulling on my yellow and black ski jacket and purple knit beanie topped with its big fuzzy pom, I clasped the shovel in one gloved hand, a scraper in the other, and headed out the door.
The walkway from the building to the street hadn't been shoveled yet, and I sank into the deep piles of snow until cold powder cascaded over the ankles of my boots. "Blergh!" I stuck my tongue out in the empty yard as I awkwardly-but-determinedly shoveled a path to the car. I reached the street and surveyed the line of identical snow mounds. My gloved hand carefully brushed a patch of snow off the front of one buried vehicle. The patch of familiar metallic blue of the hood of John's Toyota confirmed I had guessed right.
I quickly determined that the six-inch plastic scraper was not up to the task. Instead, I stretched on my tiptoes to sweep my arms along the roof of the car and windshield, dragging off armfuls of snow. As I clumsily worked, cold powder spilled into the wrists of my sleeves and bled down the neck of my jacket. The legs of my sweatpants rapidly darkened with melted snow. My sharpening nipples beneath my coat and dampened shirt tipped me off that wearing a bra would have, in fact, been wise. "Brrr! Let's get this shit over with!" I chattered to myself, recovering the shovel from the bottom of a drift beside the driver's door.
With the body of the car clean, I evaluated the piles of snow engulfing the body and wheels. In clearing the top of the car, I had added multiple inches (and, of course, pounds!) to the surrounding drifts. I scooped a shovelful of snow, and after a confused moment, piled it on the sidewalk at the nose of the car. Slowly, I cleared the driver's side, then dug out the back tires. As I inched forward on the far side, one aching shovelful at a time, boisterous voices jawed from further up the line of cars.
Hidden on the far side of John's car, I couldn't see the approaching group. I tried to count the voices as they trudged my way through the unplowed street. As I pushed another load towards the curb, I was pretty sure I could pick out five distinct male voices. The group stopped a few spots up from John's driver's side.
"Black Mercedes SUV. Looks like this is it." A man announced. It sounded like Dr. Fenton had hired contractors to dig his car out. 'I wonder if John knows there are options besides making your girlfriend freeze her tits off!' I grumbled silently.
"Yeah, that's the one. All right, fire it up!" A second voice announced, followed by the tripled scraping of three shovels moving snow. 'That's not gonna take any time at all!' I thought, wondering how much such a service would cost. I'd have to get their number from Dr. Fenton for any future storms; I knew John would pay me back if I didn't give him a choice.
My inner monologue was derailed by the rumbling of a small gas motor. "What the fuck is that?" I said aloud, pausing and craning my neck to see over John's car. As my face crested the top of the car, a flying stream of ice and slush, spewed from the team's snowblower, sprayed across John's roof, and splattered into the chest of my coat. My reflexes couldn't shield my face, as my protectively crossed arms blocked only a portion of the rushing snow from hitting my cheeks and chin.
"Hey!" I sputtered from behind my arms. Wet snow smacked my nose and brow. None of the men could hear me over the blower. "Hey! What the fuck, man?!" I called louder, but the roar of the machine still drowned me out. "Stop! You're hitting me in the face, shithead!" I bellowed, lowering my voice to try to undercut the high-pitched scream of the motor.
Slush splashed onto my purple knit cap and my exposed face below. My sweatpants sagged under their own drenched weight. More troublesome, a mass of thrown snow had rolled down the neck of my jacket and was rapidly soaking my already-damp shirt underneath. I couldn't see the driver's side but could only imagine how badly my work had been reversed by the machine operator's carelessness.
The snowblower abruptly shut off.
