Читать книгу Areas of Fog - Will Dowd - Страница 16

CARRY ON

ACCORDING TO THE news, it’s a war out there.

This week, a blizzard dragged its icy talons up the East Coast, severing power lines and snapping utility poles.

Winter Storm Pax, apparently named by a sardonic Latin scholar working at The Weather Channel, laid siege to Atlanta and entombed Charleston. The news makes it sound like North Carolina died.

When the storm finally reached Massachusetts on Thursday, it just stood there and delivered a long, commanding lecture on the nature of slush.

In Boston, an entire street was shut down when a 6-foot icicle fell three stories and almost harpooned a pedestrian.

It’s possible that, for once, the weathermen aren’t exaggerating: it is a war out there.

Speaking of which, I’ve always thought a decent dissertation could be written on the so-called Southie Parking Wars.

There’s a tradition in South Boston: if you dig out a public parking space after a major snowstorm, you temporarily own it, so long as you mark your territory by leaving some kind of object in the excavated space. Whenever a territorial claim is violated, tires get slashed, windows get smashed, and, sometimes, heads get bashed.

It’s been called a gentleman’s agreement, and, given the mayor’s tacit consent, the whole thing has a vague semi-legal status.

More than anything, I’m interested in what people choose to leave in their shoveled-out spaces. While it’s often cones, which have an air of officialdom, you also see a lot of beach chairs, open and turned toward the street. These chairs work because they play a mind game. You can’t help but imagine the owner sitting there like a ghost, watching intently, a tire iron resting across his knees.

In fact, it’s all mind games. You often see children’s bicycles, which are good for sympathy.

I once saw an old toilet—who’s gonna touch that?

And then there’s the really small, frail gestures—ironing boards, empty shopping bags, gloves—which work by reverse psychology. Whoever has the audacity to leave an old shoe must be a trained killer.

The ultimate power play, I’ve always thought, would be to shovel out your space and then erect a small house of cards.

Like I said, it’s a war out there.

And there’s more to come. Tonight, my swathe of Massachusetts is forecast to receive another bombardment of 8 to 10 inches. Already tiny flakes are arriving like light infantry.

The weathermen are beginning to sound like Winston Churchill, whose wartime speeches gave comfort to the Britons huddled around their wireless sets as bombs fell from the sky.

Churchill used to spend eight hours at a stretch working on his broadcasts, and his best lines still echo today on coffee mugs and specialty greeting cards. A new book, however, suggests that the public wasn’t as inspired by Churchill’s speeches as we imagine in retrospect.

They didn’t like his long-windedness, they couldn’t bear his fondness for double negatives, and there was a widespread suspicion that during his speeches he wasn’t not drunk.

I’d like to do something—or at least say something—to help you all get through this winter. This war.

I think I’ll leave you with these words.

Keep calm and—well, you know the rest.