"SNOW-LOCKED: SUBURBAN DC STORY" SEVEN PARAGRAPHS

The snow has not abated. It falls, still, steadily and implacably. It shrieks, with its brother wind's help, sideways through the suburban streets of DC. Great voluminous drifts--pure blinding white--squeeze our streets into impassable trails. My 4x4 is useless. I wish I had snowshoes. Born in the great state of Louisiana, I had never seen snow, let alone blizzards. We--my wife, our two daughters and our dogs, a Beagle and a Boxer--are sticky-stuck. We're snow-locked.

The first few days weren't bad. We held faith that the crews would be able to clear the roads, clear them, at least, to the point that going to the grocery store would be a viable option. Hell. The first two or three days, we had fun. No work, no school? What could be better? Paid days off and no school for the teen aged girls. We watched the Olympics, and saw the US men's puck team cream Finland. (What else was expected? The US and all its accroutrements are a juggernaut. Power, greed, success.) And but then the power went out. Briefly. It came back, but the TV was fucked. No matter, I said to my wife. We go Outside. We play. And we did, building snow forts and snowmen and -women till the setting sun withdrew its brilliance from the reflective white world.

Inside was cozy. We had fires roaring nonstop in the living-room-dining-room pit and we had steaks and chicken and mashed potatoes and chicken Caesar salads and all the canned fruit you could shake a stick at. But.

But the snow never stopped. It has not, still. It hasn't stilled. Live is "Evil" spelled backwards. I have reached my wit's end. The girls bickering has reached a fever-pitch and the wife is incommunicado and the dogs are shitting and peeing all over the place because we have about three feet of snow wedging us into this Colonial, this place we call Home. I have reached my wit's end.

***

It is a White Wash-World. DC is under(frozen)water. The snow is omnipresent. It's ubiquitous. It's always here. You know what I'm trying to say. When we and the girls eat, snow is what I think of. When I shit, snow is what I think of. When I go to the basement and bring up yet another bottle of Absolut, snow is what I think of. When I sleep, I dream of snow. I have nightmares in which snow is the villain and I am the hapless victim. Or, verily, I nightmare in which I am the villain and snow is the angelic White. I'm fucked-up, man. My wife of eighteen years and my daughters (and my dogs) are a-scairt of me, now. They're frightened, man. Can't say that I blame them. You see, the last few nightmares I've had have been of White, yes, but they've also been splashed with innocent red blood. I just pray that it's my own.

***

We ate the dogs last night. It was tough for me, but. I'd known them since they'd been puppies, but.... The Beagle tasted better; he had more body fat. The women ate the pets hesitantly, with tears in their eyes. There were some tears, here, too. I, after a prayer for Friendship and Companionship, ate greedily. When one's cupboards are bare, when one's Hunger is omni-fucking-ubiquitous, one has to do what I had to do. I had to eat. We had to eat, so I killed the dogs--humanely!--and we ate them up. We had to use a ten rusted Sterno canisters that I found down in the basement (from earlier, more peaceable camping days), but it worked. And, yes, it's what "they" say: it tasted like chicken. Only stringier.

***

I have blood on my hands. Not to mention my lower face. And, definitely, my teeth. Look out the window, if you will! Oh! That's right! You can't. The snow is.... The snow is.... I have problems even writing this. Before the goddamned motherfucking SNOW came, I was living beautifully. Everyday life, man. You know what I mean. The garbage cans, the fucking grass-cutting. Shovelling NORMAL snow?! Yes! I could do that! All that! And I did. But, wait, Reader, look out the windows. Does it seem dark? Of course. It is. The Sun can't slant through 30 feet of snow. You know. I really truly do not want to go in to graphic details. Let us leave it at this: I'm single again. I'm starting anew. My dogs have been shit out and I still have half of my wife in the snow outside and my two precious girls. I guess it comes down to the survival of the Fittest. Who is stronger? Who has more pull with the butcher's knife? I had more pull and so I have the longer lifespan. I made--I made!--the difficult decisions and so I am still alive. Here. Under three stories of snow. Did I mention that the heat has blew? It's gone. Whatever. The kitchen table--so many good fucking memories--will heat my bones adequately. At least for today. Oh! Come, Spring!

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