Cursing at the snowplow going by at fifty miles per hour spewing up the icy compact boulders of snow gritted with sand they just put down for traction fifteen minutes prior. What makes these morons think the sand will do the most good on my lawn? Immediately following him is another, a less intelligent fellow who hadn’t read the rules of taking care of town roads in the winter; his plow is lifted, he sprays down sand like diarrhea behind him on the road.
There is a hell, I know it; I believe! Plowman #1 will spend eternity following Plowman #2 in a race around a track that’s set up like for Daytona. Well, that’s what I might do at any rate.
Allen calls me from his nice warm office in the city. He thinks it’s best if he stays there tonight; the city he means, because of the inclement weather. Sure, I say, it’s dangerous to travel, the roads are bad. Always acquiescent, I promise him I’ll miss him but it’s so much safer that he not risk coming home, just as Plowmen #1 and #2 come flying by, this time in the opposite direction.
Allen, well Allen will be locked for all eternity in a motel room with his twenty two year-old and only soda pop and oreos to eat forevermore. That’ll fix his escargot-loving gastronomic instincts. And never, ever will he ever see beef Bourginone again. Yeah, that’s Allen’s hell, fer sure.
And me, well since I resist the urge to sprinkle broken glass out on the road, or for that matter, in Allen’s Veal Marsala dinners some quiet evening, I do believe I shall be properly rewarded. Sit me down on the right hand side of God Himself. Gold throne–with raspberry velvet cushions, plump and soft–and maybe Plowman #1 to bathe my feet in oil–when he’s on a break from Daytona–and on my lap, a silver plate of oh-so deep dark chocolate bon-bons, all for me and me alone.
The grating metal noise attracts me far from reaching my house yet, and when I look out I see that yes, the sparks are flying off the plow as metal grinds on clear clean stone and wonder, as I pop another Peanut M&M into my mouth, if those tiny flashes of flame aren’t quite enough to melt the snow all by themselves.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology