The wrath of January is only half-endured, yet that last cold spell seemed like a long prison sentence to the most frigid place on Earth — a.k.a. my driveway.
The hard snow beneath my feet sounds like squeaky Styrofoam as I walk to my car, unprotected from the elements because the garage-door is frozen shut. Even the sliver of a moon looks oppressively cold, frozen in the middle of an early morning sky.
The car won’t start. Didn’t see that one coming, did we? Thankfully I have jumper cables. Thankfully my son’s car starts even though it’s 50-below and the frozen moon is threatening to fall like an icicle — a rather sharp icicle, I might add, considering the moon is in its pointiest phase. I’d be more thankful if we were trying to jump start a rusty old Subaru next to a tar-paper shack in Jamaica. No, be positive, I tell myself. Karma is everywhere and bad karma doesn’t freeze. But it is too late.
The jumper cables snap in half like a pretzel. To me it’s like an airliner’s black box exploding during a perfectly normal flight. Or ice cubes igniting. Or global warming. No, no, it isn’t. I’m suffering from heat hallucinations. I see palm trees and bougainvillea in the neighbor’s yard, they are but a warm mirage on the distant horizon of white tundra. I imagine Mount Ski Gull erupting and some poor idiot trying to snowboard down a flow of molten lava. I even catch myself feeling sorry for the kid because if it wasn’t for free-falling mercury and Gov. Dayton, he’d be safe in school. Oh, the irony.
Driving the car is not going to happen. Oh well, I think I’ll walk to Billy’s and see if they have any mulled wine.