Our regular snowplow guy is a lady named Pat. Twenty-year veteran and all that. Does an excellent job, very careful not to plug your driveway with a wall of snow.
She attacks our side of the street with her blade angled out so she whips the all the snow - including your snow at the end of the driveway — towards the center of Bonnechere Street.
With subsequent passes, she pushes all the snow towards the lake, where there are no houses.
Neat, clean, no-hassle plowing.
Not the new guy’s style.
He gets up in the morning, pulls on his Cruel Winter Boots, takes a slug of old F-U Buddy from his pocket flask, and whips down Bonnechere with his blade angled towards our houses.
Take this afternoon, for instance.
We’ve been getting a white ass-kicking since morning — a good 6-8 inches out there. It’s light, it’s fluffy, but it’s getting deep.
My Man Rick shows up, clears our drive, and motors away to his next client.
Along comes New Plow Guy.
Swoosh! The end of the driveway is promptly plugged.
Through the window I call him names, I curse his bones, the bones of his mother and father, too. Kids, if he has them.
I dress, trudge down the driveway, and begin clearing his leavings. I get half of it removed. I hear a rumble on Muskrat.
Shite! He’s back. Swoosh! Gets me again…
I swear he’s smiling as he flashes past, lifting the flask to his lips, his boombox blaring I wish you a merry Christmas, I wish you…