I had no shovel, but I had a broom and a lot of free time, so I set to work sweeping off the steps. Fifteen minutes in and I was sweating and cursing and kicking at the snow while the neighbors stared and muttered to themselves and each other, “That’s that redheaded girl of Siobhan and Willy’s. Keeps to herself. Sometimes she has a party and sometimes she has visitors but mostly she goes in and comes out and that’s all. Quiet, though.” Secretly, they’ve all been expecting this. When the cops come around asking you if you ever suspected that your neighbor is mad, it’s only polite to say no, but really, don’t we secretly think that all our neighbors are insane? They could be up to any number of things in their little houses and apartments and pods. They could be having weird sex or cooking endless series of chewy vegan pies or watching C-SPAN obsessively like Frank Zappa, eating hot dogs and chain smoking and cursing the man.
Anyway, I mostly watch HBO and read, but today I’m having one of those days when nothing interests me. I have six unread books and 400 channels and two shelves of CDs, and oh, hey, I could write, but the cabin fever has set in, and I’m just pacing my apartment and reworking old conversations and imagining stories I might write someday and thinking about when I’ll let myself drink the last Diet Coke in the fridge. The neighbors are right. I am crazy.
I love the snow.