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By Maura Madden
The biggest snowstorm to hit New York City in decades, and I am here for it, thank god. I am here to enjoy the hapless transportation, the overwrought newscasts, the empty grocery stores and piles of should-be-white fluff. This is good. The first day back to work, it takes me five minutes to walk down my block. Since the sidewalks are not clear, I walk in the middle of the street, but an SUV tries to pass me and I am forced to scamper up a snow bank. When I reach Smith Street I can see that the sidewalks are relatively clear, but since I am in the street, I now have to clear the enormous snow mound on the corner in order to gain access to the sidewalk. But I can do that, just go up and over. Not to hard, right? Up and over, yes, here we go. Up and over and oh god, almost really over, arms flailing, flailing, flailing, not looking good, but then... yes, balance caught and we are clear! The mound has been cleared! I am on the sidewalk. Hot damn, I am a regular Sherpa. Next stop, the Himalayas.
When I get to the train station, there are so many people on the platform. So many people that I must stay close to the edge in order to get on to the next train. But closeness to the edge of the platform equals danger, Will Robinson. Well, I guess if I got shoved onto the tracks I might have a chance of getting out because there is no friggin' train in sight. Oh, no, wait, here comes one. Okay, here it is, and I am still alive. But why did they even bother to stop? Nobody is getting on this train. But there is space in there, people! There is room for at least 30 more people if you would just be willing to squish into the center of the train, but thatŐs fine, be selfish. Why doesn't the City of New York invest in those people who push you into the trains like they have in Japan? Is the economy so bad that we can't afford to hire a few people for the morning shove shift? I bet we might even be able to find some people who would be willing to volunteer their shoving services. I have come across many New Yorkers who are quite expert in the art. But we don't have professional pushers, so four trains pass before I can get on one.
Upon arriving at the corner of my place of work, I find my street is completely barricaded by police. I ask what the problem is, and I am informed that there is 'falling ice and debris' and that I will need to walk one block up to enter the building from the back. When I get to the next block, I am told that we cannot enter there, either.
"But how are we supposed to get into the building?" I ask a grouchy police officer.
"Go around to the next block and then cross over to Second Avenue and then come back around."
At the rate that things have been going, that will take 15 minutes.
"Why can't we just go in? I work in that building."
He gives me a look. The look is not pleasant, but he has given up. "Okay, well you can go in."
I can go in? Uh, wait now I don't want to go in anymore. Why am I allowed in when no one else is? That strikes me as sketchy.
"Well, why is the street closed?"
"Because of falling debris."
"So is it safe to walk there?"
"No."
"But I can go in to my building?"
"Yes."
"But it's not safe?"
"No."
It's not safe to walk, but I can go up. That does not make sense. But if I don't go up, I don't get paid. But if falling debris hits me, I won't have to worry about getting paid. Now there is a line of people forming behind me, trying to get on the street. I have to decide. Risk death or rent? Death or rent?
"Okay, I'll go up."
You will be happy to know that I made it to the lobby without being clocked by a plummeting icicle.
Within 48 hours of the snowfall, the lovely white blanket that covered the city has turned into a dirty old sheet. This is the kind of bedding that you would be embarrassed to have your mother see - gray and full of suspicious stains. Of course, there are the yellow trails of dog piss and the film of soot that we breathe in daily, but there are other things, too. The cigarette butts, the abandoned broken umbrellas, the Valentine's cards, the daiquiri glasses, the aluminum foil balls. And the piles of garbage grow and grow by the day as the garbage trucks are turned into temporary snowplows. You can't pick up garbage when you're plowing snow, baby.
So now, Sunday night, a week since the big one hit, there are still filthy piles of icy souvenirs, pockmarked by the impact of drops of rain. The slush abounds, and turns to ice with the night and the temperature drop, and I've heard that there may be snow again tomorrow. That's fine by me, I don't really mind if it dumps three more feet on us. I'll just go sliding down the new hills made of other peopleŐs garbage.
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