Here in New York we had a huge after-Christmas blizzard that dumped over two feet of snow on us and the city leaders who failed us. Sanitation Department and EMS heads rolled when the lack of clean-up resulted in public misery and even deaths. Rumors of an intentional work slow-down abounded, and people were feeling outraged, trapped, and generally abandoned. For that storm, Husband and I engaged a pair of neighborhood youngsters to shovel us out since it was just MOUNTAINS of snow. The two boys worked tirelessly (so good to be young) and had an instinct about the level of effort needed to produce acceptable results. For today’s twelve inches of snow that arrived less than two weeks after that monster blizzard, I was on my own to make nice with the driveway since Husband managed to get off to work. I stood shivering in the doorway as he drove away, searching the horizon for some enterprising snow-day students to hire.
Eventually a trio of bundled up adolescent boys with shovels slung over their shoulders appeared at the end of my block, and I waved to them enthusiastically. With the hands that weren’t holding their shovels, they were all cradling cell phones and chatting away, hopefully not with each other. As our society inches its way toward the bleak dystopian landscape that hovers menacingly in the future, one can only pray we haven’t yet reached the point where we communicate by phone with people standing right next to us.
In answer to my query, the youngest and shortest of the bunch gave me their price for hire, adding that half the amount was for him and half for the boy standing to his right. I gestured to the third one, the biggest, and said, “So you’re the designated spectator?” They looked at me blankly, a fierce reminder that adults should never attempt ironic humor with teenagers. “Half is mine and half is his,” Shorty repeated slowly, as if he was trying to explain linear perspective to a tree stump. “Okay, then,” I smiled, “Ring the bell if you need anything.”
Ten minutes later the doorbell rang. When I opened it, Shorty was in my face while his two friends stood at the end of the driveway, joined now by three more pals with shovels and cell phones. The driveway was layered with snow and no one was shoveling. Shorty informed me they were finished. “With what?” I asked. I walked outside in my faux Ugg slippers and showed them how there was a foot of snow on the driver’s side of my car, and no clearance at the end of the driveway for actual entry and exit. The big kid, the one not getting either half of the money, sprung into action and shoveled everything clean while the other five talked on their phones and goaded him playfully. I handed him the money when he was done, and he dutifully gave it all to Shorty, who shoved it in his pocket. If I had that little turd’s phone number I’d call to share some thoughts, but he seems to have already found his key to success.
Daughter’s Featured Fotos just can’t LEGO of New York
Lady LEGO
subway platform
overtime
Rockefeller Center