Billy's Sense Of Snow

On the way home last night, there was a delightful rain/snow mix; those fat and frigid drops that feel like they’re made of some sort of metal from the future that will eventually learn of their own mortality and turn on the human race. It wasn’t terribly surprising as it was pretty frickin’ cold out, but I begin to become wary of possible snow because of what will inevitably happen, like what happened this morning.

Later in the evening last night, it cleared up. It was no longer raining, but still ass cold. It seemed like a good opportunity to get Kickers out the house for a couple minutes and walk up to the record store. Nothing really happened saved for an arm that felt on fire after lugging a toddler around the used CD section and further evidence that the kid loves a good drum beat.

Soon though, it began to snow. The two of us walked out into it for a minute, the streets and sidewalks collecting the stuff in a manner that seemed pretty fast. It was a really gritty snow, like small chunks of hail that quickly lost any charm. I was reminded of that clichéd fact that people with little imagination often throw out about Eskimos and their 812 words for snow. Great, hurray for the Eskimos.

It stopped snowing and cleared up, which leads the way for a good freezing of the compacted snow into treacherous ice by morning. Did this happen? Oh my, yes.

A precarious walk to work this morning. I was reminded greatly of just last year, at about this same time, when on after throwing my back out I ventured out to the roads only to slip on the sheet of ice that was Pine Street, throwing out my back again, ripping open a brand new pair of jeans and trying to roll out of the road before a car was sent out of control on this very same ice.

I spent a bulk of 3 miles walking a prissy little step meant to keep me from a slapstick, banana peel pratfall. With the exception of the occasional slide, this mostly worked; until the feet decided to betray me horribly and shoot out in front of my body. I managed to wrap my arm around a handhold to keep myself from a full body smack down, but there was the comic effect of those betrayer feet doing a spastic dance skating routine.

I knew it was eventual, so chalked it up to the fall that was due to me and kept going. I guess as the next two miles were without incident, I got cocky. Crossing the street in front of a line of cars looking to get into Interstate 90, I was offered the chance for a full on, face down in the sharply iced pavement, fall – and took it I did. I felt a digging into my knees and watched the cloud of steam that my harshly barked “fuck!” produced float out of my mouth as carefree as, as… I don’t know, something carefree. And I am apparently unaware of a graceful way to lift oneself from an icy street, mere inches away from many cars waiting on a light. But after a few false starts I was up and on my way, David Bowie still playing loud and proud in my ears and no rip in my pants to boot.

Sometimes I feel like life should offer hazard pay.