--I worked on Sunday night, and it snowed.Quite a lot, in fact.There
are no windows in that building, so the smokers would report back after
every break:“Man, it’s
getting bad
out there.It’s slicker
than diarrhea on a basketball court.”Or whatever.
The smokers are our link to the outside world, you see, and were
causing a bit of anxiety on Sunday.The thought of driving 35 miles home on icy roads, in the
middle of the freakin’ night, didn’t much appeal to me, thank
you very much.But I kept
banking on the fact that people often exaggerate, and hoping it was
just another outrageous case of smoker-drama.
As it turned out, however, they were blowing great clouds of
accurate information.A
meeting was called at 10:15or so, and we were told to get
the hell out of there.Roads
are getting bad, they said, and we should all just go home.
Sounded good to me.But
because of a series of infuriating events, I wasn’t able to leave
until around 12:40.And by that time it was like something out of a Tolstoy novel
outside.
As I cleaned off my car a snowplow worked in the distance, creating hills and valleys in the parking lot, and doing nothing to
calm my jangled nerves.It’s
about a mile to the interstate, on an old country-ass road, and that
worried me the most.If I
could just make it to the highway, I’d probably be OK.But a mile is a long way, when your tires are spinning all
willy-nilly.
I made it without any issues, and the interstate was in so-so
condition.I had to keep it
down around 35 mph, but that wasn’t a problem.It was just a relief to make it onto some plowed and treated
concrete.I’d take my time,
be extra-careful, and be home in an hour.I turned on Art Bell, and let go of a big honkin’ exhale.
Then it started dumping snow again, huge flakes the size of
paperback books (I’d estimate), each blowing straight into my
windshield.It was hard to
see, and there were few other vehicles on the road.In such situations I prefer to get behind someone, and allow
their tail lights to guide me to safety.But I was on my own this time.
I don’t have the best eyesight in the world, and it was hard to
keep track of what was road, and what was almost
road.I was concerned I might
come to a slight curve, not realize it, and roll over an embankment.I could feel my sphincter start to flutter.
Art was taking predictions for 2008, and some guy called in and said
a huge meteorite would strike Mars in April.And after the Martian smoke settled, there’d be a big chunk
of the planet missing, revealing a network of buildings and city
streets.I chuckled at this,
as I remained bolt upright in my seat, clutching the wheel at the
ten and two o’clock positions.
I chugged along at grandpa speed, a tractor trailer occasionally
screaming past, but otherwise alone out there.Sometimes I’d pass through areas where it was completely
black, and that was kind of unnerving.The road was slick, it was cold, and there was, as Spongbob
would call it, advanceddarkness.
Then I passed a sign, and was almost certain it had said Exit 2.WTS??There’s no
Exit 2 off I-81, at least not anywhere near us.What in the beer-battered hell?!What had I done?Where
was I going??
The Poconos, the billboards answered.I’d somehow gotten off 81, and was now heading up into the Pocono Mountains – in a driving snow storm.And if there’s one place you don’t want to be in such a
situation, it’s the goddamn Poconos.I thought the floor of my ass would surely fall out.
The snow – on the interstate! – was so high at this point, I
could feel it dragging against the bottom of the car.Every once in a while the back end of my Camry would threaten
to pass me on the right, and I was shitting the proverbial bricks.I was way out in the middle of nowhere, and heading in a
direction that would only make matters worse.
I’d have to get off at the next exit, and get back on, heading in
the opposite direction.I-81 must
be behind me, I presumed, and I needed to find it.But the thought of getting off the highway was a terrifying
one.Especially out in that
Donner Party wilderness.The
interstate itself was in an awful condition; the ramps and side
roads would probably be all but impassable, I knew.
Proving that God does in fact have a sense of humor, the next exit
was for a town called Moscow.After I’d invoked the name of Tolstoy…And I made the transition without a problem.The exit looked like nothing had driven on it before me, but
I cut straight through.Before
I knew it, I was slipping and sliding my way back towards Interstate
81.
Eventually I made it to our town, and finally to our neighborhood.And once off the beaten path, up in the residential sections,
it was almost literally impossible to drive on the roads.Every time I touched the gas or the brake, the car would want
to go sideways.
By the time I reached our driveway, I was like one gigantic clenched
fist.Every muscle in my body
was coiled and aching.
I walked straight into the house, went to the basement fridge, and
grabbed a Yuengling.Then
Toney heard me, came downstairs, and joined me.And we sat in the family room until 4 am, ‘neath the Scrote-watchers,
drinking the golden elixir and saying “holy shit!” a lot.
And this was supposed to be yesterday’s update.But, for whatever reason, I didn’t have even a
hint of interest in sitting
in front of the computer.Today
I was going to post a traditional New Year’s message of thanks,
etc.But I’ll get to all
that tomorrow.
In the meantime, here’s something new from our old friend Buck.
And I’ll ask you the same question Art Bell was asking, while I
was out driving through the night on a Great Poconos Adventure:what’s your predictions for 2008?Get it in writing, in the comments section below, and I’ll
try to remember to review everything this time next year.Let’s find out which Surf Reporters are psychic!
