Close Call

I guess the plow blade on the front of the red Housing Authority truck was about 8 inches away when I saw it. I swerved to the right into more of the unknown, against the direction of the raging ground blizzard. My window had instantly glazed over with blowing snow when I scraped it at the gate, so I gave up and let Puck surge down the plant hill in neutral, my foot hovering over the brake, bearing left and not expecting anyone to be at the end of the cul-de-sac. If he hadn't seen me and stopped, he would have plowed right into the side of my car with the bare blade. If he hadn't stopped where he did, and I hadn't swerved, I would have run right into the blade. I pulled up next to him and rolled down the window.

"Hafta change your pants?" he yelled. I shook my head. He told me to watch out for another truck down the block. I could see maybe 8 feet ahead. We didn't check the pumps tonight. Or the U.V., or the reservoirs. There is too much snow, and it came all at once, practically non-stop for six weeks, and there's more on the way. Travis broke the floury drifts in his truck as we crept up the hill, straining to see landmarks: the cell phone tower, the rock pile.

I barely made it into the driveway past the three bags of trash that were inexplicably lined up in my tire tracks from lunch, next to the dumpster, which was upright and fully accessible. I am a coiled ball of rage over something that should be simply an irritation, but mystically unperturbed about the near destruction of my brand new car and possibly my cranium. I came home and made dinner like it was no big deal, after shedding my jeans, hoodie, and gloves, boots, and coat, which were all soaked through as if I'd been submerged. I guess I have an army of guardian angels. Even now I don't feel much besides that ever-present anger. And dismay. And misery.

I hate. Living. Here.