A snow shovel, that is. The madman was my driver, and yes, he buried me alive. I was running fine until he switched off the ignition.
My name is Teal. I’m a 1970 Chevrolet Impala coupe. When Driver Man bought me, rescuing me from slow death in a dark, dreary dirt-floored shed and hauling me to his home, nose to the wind atop a U-Haul auto hauler trailer, I was uneasy. Was this a trip to a good place or to the boneyard where my body might be crushed flat or at best left to rust? I could not know. The suspense was killing me.
As time passed, I realized DM (Driver Man) had my best interests at heart. Hey, I’ve got to be fair and balanced about this. He got me outfitted with new parts fore and aft, new high quality tires, even a fancy license plate. Much to my amazement and delight, he started driving me as his favorite, ahead of even the 1996 GMC Sierra pickup truck he’s had for years. Life was delectable.
And then winter hit.
Did I hesitate to protect and serve? Not at all. I wouldn’t have gotten stuck in the first place if he hadn’t spaced out and tried to turn down the wrong street, Idaho instead of Washington. Nobody had driven down Idaho for who knows how long. Yeah, Driver Man had me outfitted with brand new snow tires and had added a couple hundred pounds of ballast to my capacious trunk, but come on. I’m no four wheel drive, don’t even have Positrac. He knew all that. This was driver error and nothing else. Most humiliating of all, I didn’t get moving again until four people stopped to push, push, push.
No harm, no foul? Should have been, but next thing I knew he was trying to aim me at his driveway. Folks, I love that driveway. It’s my home, especially parked right in front of the yard gate. But the first half of the driveway, going in, is an uphill struggle. DM rammed me in that general direction, but guess what? With my front wheels jamming against piled-up snow ruts, I couldn’t get my nose pointed where he wanted. I tried. I really did. But no dice.
So what does the guy behind the wheel do? Keeps the hammer down, ’cause he knows it’s this time or nothing. We’ve tried before and the result wasn’t pretty. It isn’t pretty this time, either. I end up spun out a good foot or more to the right of our desired track, my right front tire jammed up tight against a two-foot snowbank.
So now what? Hey, you’re not going to believe this. First, DM gets out, takes a look, sees that my rear bumper has cleared the sidewalk by a couple of inches…and decides to leave me right there until spring!
Wait. It gets worse.
Except for my tires, I was snow-free at that point. But not for long. With me snowballed for the winter (like being mothballed but a lot colder), Driver Man has to use the GMC Sierra, right? Trouble is, the truck hasn’t been moved for weeks and a foot and a half of snow has fallen between that vehicle’s rear bumper and the driveway. DM and his crazy little blue plastic shovel have to clear the lane, roughly ten feet wide by twenty long. And where does he throw the snow?
Why, right on top of yours truly, of course. You didn’t see that coming?
Why? Why would he do such a thing? I did hear his lame explanation to the mail route delivery guy. “Snow has to go somewhere,” he said. “Better on top of the car than adding to the mess in the street or dumping it in my neighbor’s yard. If the car could have made it to its usual parking spot, most would be behind the vehicle instead of on top of it, but….” The mailman sounded like that made sense. Guess humans stick together. But I noticed the mail van was chained up, a UPS truck that went by was chained up, and guess what? Driver Man doesn’t even own a set of chains to fit my tires.
With a clear lane for the truck’s comings and goings–a lane he never shoveled for me, I can tell you–I’m feeling even more dissed. Truck gets special favors, car gets zip. I think the guy’s a modelist. You know, like racist, only he’s discriminating between models. A modelist.
Dude better fix me up good when the snow melts. He’s too smart for his own good. Thought he’d just snow me and ignore me till spring has sprung, right? Well, guess what? He’s scheduled to take the van-type (Class B) motorhome down to see his wife in Arizona in April. But he’s locked in now. Has to move me before he can move the van. Looks like we might both be here until July!
Okay, might as well wrap up this rant for now. It was kind of hilarious, watching him scoop snow for three solid hours. Best of all, I’m not so hot around the radiator any more and my block has cooled off.