Bipedal Stories

Jonas pressed north on Friday afternoon, preceded by apocalyptic forecasts. On the other side of my windshield, a thin winter sun disappeared behind a brigade of thunderheads advancing on Long Island.

The first flakes fell at about 7 p.m. I checked the snow blower, walked two blocks to fill a gas can at the corner station. The roads and sidewalks were empty. The neighborhood huddled in warm, well-lighted living rooms, the cupboards bursting with the bounty of panicked buying from just a few hours earlier.

When I awoke on Saturday, powder swirled in 35-mile-per-hour winds. The street had vanished beneath of foot of snow. I stepped outside. Ice crystals stung my face. I fired up the snow blower, cleared a path for my dog, and walked him to the edge of the driveway. My fingers went numb, sensation snatched by the windchill. As I walked back inside, the path was already disappearing. After a mid-day break–light flakes, stray beams of sunlight–the storm intensified. Snow drifts climbed the windows, concealing daylight and inducing claustrophobia.

By Sunday, Jonas had passed. More than two-feet of snow left the neighborhood in paralyzed silence. I grabbed my coffee cup. Secondary roads weren’t yet passable by car, so I laced up my boots and marched into the chilly sunshine for signs of civilization. I made it to the main road, which had been plowed, but not really cleared.

I walked down a narrow, winding street toward Starbucks. Traffic was relatively thick with drivers attempting to escape cabin fever. A three-ton black Chevy Suburban motored toward me, skidded, and pinned me against an unyielding snowbank. I hustled to the bipedal safety of the shopping center. A plow pushed piles of snow around the parking lot. It was running out of places to put it, a challenge that all of us would face in the week ahead.