We were tipsy and in a good mood, Paul and I, coming home from our favorite bar in the whirlings of this season’s first “historic snowstorm,” when I noticed the figure floundering in the snow.
He was a dark clot of winter coat and baggy pants, on his knees, fumbling with a long rod. I peered at him.
“Is he ok?” I said. “Oh—maybe he’s just fitting a snow shovel back together.” Our steps brought us closer. “Wait, that’s a cane.” And I could hear him now, muffled by his voluminous coat, swearing as he crawled toward the curb, inarticulately grumbling and shouting into the blank face of the snowstorm as he dragged the cane forward.