Digging Out

The streets were white, cars snug under a flowing blanket of snow. The diffused light made for a matte, surreal  effect of the snow, where outlines couldn’t be seen through te eddies of snowflakes, which hurried up and down the street, whipping pedestrians, their faces buried in their scarves. Tires spinning were the only sound that could be heard.

James walked outside, holding a shovel. He was wearing snow pants and a parka, mittens and a flapped-ear hat. His face was barely visible. He scanned the street, his shovel like a staff beside him.

He walked towards the closest stranded car, waved at the driver then cleared a path out to the street. Then he walked to the back of the car and pushed it out after three or four basculations, and gave a little salute when the driver honked appreciatively.

This little cycle of his repeated itself for two hours. Wave, dig, push, salute. Wave, dig, push, salute. Wave, dig, push, salute. He was sweating under the parka now.

The drivers were always very kind and would try to give him money, which he would refuse. Gifts, though, were graciously accepted. One driver tossed a beer from the window on his way out, and another gave the man a half-pack of cigarettes. These garnered the drivers a longer, more formal salute.

Around noon, the man brought out a folding chair and installed it in front of the building. He drank his beer and smoked a cigarette for lunch. He watched the cars make it up the hill with difficulty. One car came around the corner too fast, and lost any grip that it had had on the road. It slid into the sidewalk in an action movie parking job, and the sheepish looking driver looked relieved at there not having been a car in that spot.

After his beer was done, he threw out the can and waved, dug, pushed, saluted a few more cars out.

It was around 3. The street was quiet now, but for the slushy sounds of tires through the road. No spinning wheels or shouts of instruction.

And then two men came down from the man’s building. He watched as they got in a black transit van and, just like the others, struggled to get the car out of its parking spot.

Wave.

The driver got out. He was a tall man, with striking, hawk-like features and small, squinted eyes. “Thanks a lot man. This snow’s awful, eh?”

“Sure is.”

“Jeff! Get out here and help!”

Jeff got out of the passenger’s seat holding a flimsy collapsible pink shovel.

“I was just looking for a proper shovel, man,” he said as he shut the car door. “This is gonna break in two seconds.”

Dig.

The van was blocked by a particularly large snowbank, and it was getting warmer, which meant that shoveling the snow became harder and harder as the light fluff turned wet and clay-like. Jeff had been right, the  little pink shovel broke at the neck within a minute. He used the blade to fling snow from the street to the sidewalk, bending down each time, like a child destroying sandcastles.

“Dude I don’t mind shoveling if you want,” said the driver, whose name turned out to be Gord. He explained: “Gordon. Like the gin! You want some gin?” Gord pulled out a bottle of gin from under the driver’s seat.

They all took a swig, then planted the bottle in the snow. Jeff and Gord were kicking at the snowbank while the man shoveled.

“Sorry, man, I don’t think I got your name,” said Jeff, kicking a chunk of snow into the street.

“James. Like the bourbon,” said the man, to the confusion of the two men.

“You know, Jim. Like Jim Beam.”

The two men smiled. Gord said, as he pulled his wet foot out of the snow.

The snow had got heavier, and the swirling flakes were closer to raindrops.

Push.

Gord had suggested a break before pushing the van out. He opened the back, rummaged through his bag and brought out a joint. The three men piled into the van and sat on blankets, leaning against the sidewalls, legs stretched out in front of them.

“So you just, like, spend your free time out front of your building pushing cars?” asked Jeff.

“I don’t know whether that’s retarded or heroic.” Said Gord.

“I dunno. It kills the time.”

“I never got that expression,” said Gord. “I never want to kill time. I’ll spend it. I have to spend it. I might as well spend it well, not kill it.”

Jeff turned his head to look at Gord. “Dude you kill tons of time. You watched the whole series of Star Trek movies in a row like three days ago.”

“Yeah ‘cause they’re awesome, said Gord. That’s not a waste of time. Have you ever watched ‘The Wrath of Khan,’ Mr. Beam?”

“It’s James.”

“I kind of like Mr. Beam, and to be fair, Jim, it’s your own damn fault.”

“I guess.”

The smoke filled the van. James hadn’t smoked in years, and he felt light-headed and distant. He closed his eyes and felt the wind rock the van gently back and forth. His arms and legs were tired from the shoveling. His body seemed to sink and sway, his mind far removed from the van and the snow and Jeff and Gord and shovels and snow banks. He heard them talking, but through a filter, as though he were listening to a videotape of an old family reunion. The white noise of cars going by through the snow began to sound like waves crashing on a beach, and suddenly James and Jeff and Gord weren’t in a van on a snowy street on a snowy day. They were sitting on lawn chairs on a beach, with sun and sand and boats operated by shirtless dark-skinned men.

“Beam. Beam, you good? He must’ve fallen asleep. YO! BEAM!”

James woke to Jeff shaking him by the shoulders and handing him the bottle of gin. James took it and tipped some into his mouth.

“So where are you guys going?”

Jeff exhaled the last smoke of the joint and looked around for something to put the butt in. His eyes were squinted despite the lack of light. James handed him the bottle of gin, but instead of taking it, Jeff dropped the butt into the neck.

“Aw that was stupid,” Jeff said when he realized the bottle still had about two inches of gin in it. Gord laughed.

“So where are you guys going?” James repeated.

Gord said “We dunno, we just figured we’d drive around.”

“Good day to drive around.”

“It’s more exciting when the weather’s bad.”

There was what seemed like a long silence.

Jeff fiddled with his coat, which was draped over his legs. He was latching and unlatching a strap on the sleeve. “I dunno man we have a lot of free time now.”

“Why’s that?”

“Why’s what?” asked Jeff.

“Why do you have a lot of free time now?”

“Oh yeah. Well I’m unemployed now.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

Gord was staring out the back of the van. Without turning his head, he said, “Yeah, it’s been a rough winter.”

“Everybody goes through rough patches, huh.” said James. Gord and James looked like children owning up to breaking a lamp or tearing a couch. Another silence.

“I guess,” Jeff said after a moment, “I guess we’re just trying to stay moving.”

“That’s good,” said James, without meaning it.

“It’s been a rough winter,” echoed Jeff. “I got out of rehab like two weeks ago.”

“What for?”

“What does anybody go to rehab for?” James felt Jeff shoot a look at him.

“I dunno. Drugs, booze...”

Gord answered. “Drugs.” He was looking at James’ face now. “He’s clean three weeks and counting.”

“Grats.” Said James.

“Yup.” Jeff was slouching, looking at his legs, stretched out in front of him.

“You two live together?”

Jeff said, “Yeah, now. I used to have a place below the canal, but I couldn’t afford it without...” He stopped himself short.

“Drug money.”

“You make it sound like I was a prostitute, Gord.”

“I didn’t think you were a prostitute, man.”said James. “Everybody has stuff.”

“Stuff.” Jeff was rubbing his coat pocket.”All I did was deliver. Stuff.”

James watched as Jeff nudged Gord with his knee, as a sign to stop the conversation.

“Jeff here used to cycle downtown to deliver coke for the bikers.”

“Gord, come on.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to tell everybody.”

James kept his eyes on Gord.

James tried to steer the conversation away from Jeff. “So what do you do, Gord?”

“Call centers.”

“All of them?”

Jeff chuckled.

“One in Place Desjardins downtown,” said Gord. “Warranty support.”

“You like it?”

“It pays the bills. The van is a thirsty mother.”

“So where are you guys going with it today?”

Gord reached into the front of the van and tilted a toboggan into view.

“We’re gonna go have some fun. Just sick of sitting and thinking I guess. We’re gonna find a hill and slide down it.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Better than usual,” admitted Jeff.

Gord’s eyes narrowed at Jeff, “You have plans, but what do you do with them? Nothing. You’re gonna be a firefighter. You’re gonna be a machinist. You’re gonna learn to play the guitar. You’re gonna, gonna, gonna, but you never do.”

“I do stuff.”

“Like what? You don’t even do dishes.”

“I’m getting back on the horse, you callous bastard.”

“You’ve been getting back on the horse for-”

As James listened, he decided that a drink would lighten the mood. He tipped the bottle of gin into his mouth, and felt the cigarette but that Jeff had dumped into the bottle fall onto his tongue. When he realized what he’d done, he grimaced, then spit it out onto the van’s floor.

Jeff and Gord burst out laughing. Gord slapped James’s shoulder and yelled a bit too loud: “We have a winner!”

James spluttered “I have to go, man.”

Gord smiled and pointed a thumb outside at the snow. “More people to rescue, eh?”

“I’m not rescuing anybody.”

“Sure gave us a hand, Beam.”

Jeff said “Yeah, man. Thank you.”

“Still have to get you on the road.”

Gord tucked the bottle of gin into a side compartment of the van. “Come on bro let’s push this bad boy out.”

Salute.

The shoveling had done the trick. It took one big push administered by Jeff and James, and the van was free. Gord got out.

“You’re a godsend, bud.”

“No worries.”

Jeff took a large joint out of his pocket and handed it to James, who cupped it in his big mittens.

“There man. Don’t smoke it all at once, it’s potent.”

“Thanks.”

“Alright Beam, take it easy,” said Gord. He and Jeff got in the car and gave a quick honk. James stood in the street and clicked his heels and held his head high in his most formal salute.

After the van was out of sight, James sat back in his chair and watched the cars go by, spinning their wheels up the hill. He watched a middle-aged man with thick-rimmed glasses struggle to get out of his driveway. He watched a teenager alternate, backwards, forwards, trying to get the car in motion.

He lit the joint and brought it to his mouth. Deep inhale. He closed his eyes. Children were playing. The shirtless dark-skinned men were yelling and brandishing nets in which they had caught several brightly-colored tropical fish. The wind carried the ocean spray to his face, cooling him against the hot sun. Waves were breaking in slow motion onto the beach, and a thought swam through him, that he was just where he needed to be.