The temperature had fallen like a glass of milk off the edge of a table. Wind came whipping across the snow-covered landscape, biting and misanthropic, making the cold more sinister.
I was standing there in a deserted parking lot, without boots, thick pants, or a warm- enough jacket. I knew I wasn’t properly outfitted to deal with these conditions and all the blame rested squarely on my own shoulders.
There was a real possibility that my 2008 black Dodge Challenger, known for its unreliability, wouldn’t start. Turning the key, I crossed my fingers, hoping the engine would catch. I listened closely for that familiar rumble of the V8 engine. Nothing. I tried again, but the only sound was the click of the key in the starter. I was the only person around for 8 miles in any direction and my cell phone battery was dead. I began searching my mind for all those facts about freezing to death I accumulated via Discovery Channel. Shaking my head to physically get those thoughts out of it, I popped the hood. Stepping back out into the freezing world, I poked around the engine bay, lit only by the yellowish glow of a street lamp, and readjusted the spark plugs, icy to the touch. Shivering, I hopped back into the driver’s seat, getting a break from the merciless wind, but not from the biting cold. Frostbite was beginning to settle in my fingers and I could feel my mind shutting down. I fumbled with my keys, trying desperately to get them into the ignition.
I tried once more.
This time I knew the spark plugs had fired. The car started to shake, just like it did in the heart of summer, and the engine caught. I was hit by an icy blast coming from the heater I had left on. I rushed to shift the direction of the vent. Huddling in the driver’s seat, I rubbed my hands over my arms and begged the heater to throw me air that was hot. It took about 15 minutes, which gave me plenty of time to contemplate and regret my grasshopper tendencies, living for fun and not planning for the rough weather ahead.
I looked all around me as I traversed the cracked, sand covered side streets on my way home. Every house I passed was dressed for the Christmas season and I wished I were welcome at one of them.
I pulled up to 89 Cornwall street. The front yard was dark and the shutters were crashing against the walls of the large sky blue colonial, thanks to the fierce wind blowing from the north. Without so much as a faithful chocolate lab to greet me, I arrived home.