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My Plow Truck
by
Tim Daly


It was Michigan's first big snow storm of the strange winter of 1998-99. The snow came down like sand in an hour glass. It seemed as if it would never end. It had been dark and dreary all day, and as the night neared the wind picked up and made the snow seem like an impenetrable white wall. The sound of the wind outside made me feel as if I were trapped on the wing of a jet flying through the frigid air. The sound of it alone could make you shiver.

As I looked outside at the fierce display of Mother Nature's power, I knew that I was going to have to plow. My assumption was proved true when moments later the phone rang and the serious and familiar voice of my boss Karl came on and said, "Timmy, I need you to plow tonight." I accepted the challenge.

I walked around our warm and cozy home looking for my faded brown Carhardt overalls and matching coat. My thick warm skiing gloves were stuck in the trash filled pockets of my coat. I screamed to my mom who was sitting in the kitchen, " I'm going to work!"

As I walked into the crisp cold air that can clean out your sinuses like Vicks Vapor Rub, I became very excited to get into my red plow truck with big white letters on the door that read Weyand Bros., Incorporated. It is a `92 Chevrolet red pick up truck. The back end is stacked with what seems to me to be a hundred bags of salt. There is also a salt spreader and the remains of an old rusty snow shovel that knows too well the effects of being left out in the elements, unattended for too long.

As I open the door the smell of Mulberry's and stale cigarette smoke hit me like a punch to the nose. I get in and sit into the well broken in soft brown seat. I start up the beast, and it gives out a massive smoke cloud from the tailpipe and a roar from under its hood. Within seconds the familiar roar of the animal becomes less sporadic and begins to sound like the purr of a content kitten. I turn up the volume on the radio and put in my "plow mix tape." It consists of The Beastie Boys, 2 Live Crew, David Bowie, and Jane's Addiction. Once I pull out of our snow packed driveway the tape will never stop until I return home from my battle with the snow. As I pull out of the drive I put the well-oiled and highly sophisticated piece of machinery into four wheel drive. The orange switch to turn on the orange strobe light that sits atop the roof stares at me from its home on the dashboard. I flip it on, turn the heat on high, and put the wipers on low.

I begin the adventure by traveling slowly down the icy and snow packed-roads to the Sunoco at the corner of River and Gratiot to gas up and meet the rest of the crew. I make myself a scalding hot cup of French Vanilla coffee and get my seemingly never-ending list of accounts to plow.

The snow continued to fall as if it was being taken from all the mountains of the world and dropped only on Saginaw. I removed snow from the parking lots to reveal the blacktop beneath. If one were to look down on me from the dark sky I would stick out like chocolate in milk. The movements of the plow and truck are methodical and repetitious. People who watch often find themselves mesmerized by the speed and accuracy an experienced driver displays while pushing the snow.

The sound of the plow scraping along the frozen and snow-packed cement in the dead of the night often gives me an eerie feeling. As I see the orange reflection of the strobe light on people's windows I often wonder if I am going to wake them up. As I drive down the white streets a glare is given off from the street lights and the colorful sparkle of Christmas lights in areas where it is dark. The bright white lights from the numerous parking lots trick my tired mind into thinking it was day. As I look at the clock it brings me back into reality by reminding me that it's only three a.m. As the sunless morning neared it brought more snow and the kind of frigid dry wind that makes your eyes water when they greet each other. As the green digital clock let me know that it was time for breakfast, I headed to the only hangout we had, Tony's.

Four enormous pancakes, three Mountain Dews, and a pack of smokes later I braved back into the deep freeze outside to continue clearing the snow-engulfed driveways and parking lots. The snow quickly returned to its places on driveways and parking lots due to the gusty wind. It seemed like the cement was a giant magnet attracting the snow like metal shavings.

My head throbbed with frustration and exhaustion. I had cleared everything made of cement or asphalt on my list at least four times a piece. The howling wind had quieted down, the sheets of snow had tapered off, and the truck had almost gone through three premium tanks of gas. As I pulled into my snow-covered driveway forty hours and eleven inches of snow later, pressed the eject button on the tape player, I put my red beast to bed, opened the half frozen door, and dragged my smelly, exhausted, hungry, thirsty, and aching body in the door to the nearest couch and fell asleep for five hours until I got the call to go out again.
 
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