A Blizzard of Bad Decisions

When it rains, it pours!

~ Morton Salt

A Blizzard of Bad Decisions

Making right decisions is not necessarily an easy task, especially when you’re caught up in the moment of, let’s say, a wild Saturday night at your local pub.  The drinks flow freely, the music is loud, and debauchery abounds.  Meanwhile, a tranquil snow quietly settles on the ground outside.  Oh, it starts out just as innocently as the evening does, with a light dusting.  But, seeming to follow suit of the merrymakers inside, flurries soon turn to a heavy powder that quickly covers the earth in a thick down comforter. 

Two o’clock rolls around, the music winds down, the bar empties, the vacuum cleaner starts up with an annoying rumble and it’s time for you to go home.  You walk out into the frigid snowy night, realizing too late that it wasn’t a very good decision to stay out so late on a night such as this.  You quickly remedy the situation you’ve found yourself in, however, by accepting the ride of a couple of friends.  Notice that I didn’t say “good” friends.  These are just two guys that you barely know outside of the local bar and probably wouldn’t be friends with other wise.

You should be back on track at this point, turning a bad decision into a responsible one, but no, not you.  You’re still in party mode and realize that it’s much too early for you to go home.  So, rather than having the good Samaritan with the four-wheel-drive pickup drop you safely off at your Mother’s home, barely two miles away, you decide to take your oh-so-fun evening into the wee hours of the morning.  Never mind that you barely know these guys, there’s already at least six inches of snow on the ground, visibility is next to zero and you’re unknowing boyfriend is at his house tucked soundly in his bed, which is exactly where you should be.

You manage to talk yourself into your next “good” decision by thinking, it’s ok.  I’m just having some innocent fun with friends and the weather will be much better tomorrow (as is often the case in these parts).  I’ll be home in the morning and no one will be the wiser.  Wrong again!  After your friend manages to drive ten miles up a mountain in white out conditions to his house at the top of the world, you have a couple of drinks before you wind down much sooner than expected and decide to retire to the guest room. 

The next morning, you wake up at about ten o’clock safe, sober, and ready to go.  You look outside and it has actually calmed down quite a bit.  Great!  Now you just have to wait for the other two to get out of bed which doesn’t happen until about noon because they went to sleep long after you did.  The driver then informs you that he’s not going to drive out into the weather until it’s time for him to go to work….at four o’clock that afternoon!  Your spirit takes an abrupt turn because you’re ready to go back to your own world now, but you decide that you can accept that.  After all, what choice do you really have?  It’s nasty outside and he was kind enough to give you a lift the night before.

Resigned to the fact that you’re stuck for a few more hours, you try to distract yourself with movie after movie.  Outside, the weather has taken a turn for the worse again and your anxiety is rising with each minute that you’re not home.  One minute, it looks like it’s taking a break and the next time you look out the window you can’t see the tall pine tree that’s only ten feet away.  Like a woman on PMS, your mood fluctuates in tune with the weather.  Finally, your friend announces that it’s time to go.  You’ve been pacing like a caged animal for the past twenty minutes and are elated when your escape is so near.  You’re so ecstatic to get out of there that you feel like a kid who just found out he’s tall enough to ride the big roller coaster. 

You climb into the truck between your two companions, hold on for dear life, and try to resist the urge to cross your fingers because you always heard that crossing the fingers of both hands brings only bad luck.  You make it through six inches of snow out the driveway and then, for whatever dumb reason, your driver tries to barrel down the road through the blinding snow at a higher speed than necessary.  You grip the dash board and clench your teeth in equal proportions as the driver says, “I can’t see where the side of the road is, I’m just trying to feel my way around the curves”.  You have just enough time to utter a nervous giggle before he barrels into a three foot snow drift on the outside of the curve that he’s trying to “feel” his way around.  The three of you look at one another, sharing a brief anticlimactic moment before the realization that you’re stuck, and stuck good, finally settles around you.  This can’t be happening, you think to yourself.  But, oh, it is.  It most certainly is happening and the only thing left to do is begin praying and making promises to whatever Higher Being will listen to you while the boys are outside trying to get the truck out of the bank.  Trying not to cry, you realize that either your prayers went unheard or, more likely; They decided that you made your bed and now you need to lie in it up to your freezing neck.  As if you haven’t already learned your lesson!

The three of you trudge through the snow a quarter of a mile back to the house and start making phone calls.  For the first time, it becomes evident to you that you are not the only person who matters as you’re friend is added to the long waiting list of stranded individuals.  Still, you try to convince yourself that you will be home by dark and decide to go ahead and call a couple of friends to let them know that you’re safe and alive, just in case they’ve been wondering.  You call your friend, who happens to work with your overbearing but loving mother, and tell her what’s going on.  That way, you figure, she’ll tell your mother that you’re safe without her knowing all the sordid details.  Once again, WRONG!  Your mother can tell it’s you from your friend’s side of the conversation so, good daughter that you are; you ask to speak to her.  You don’t know what’s worse, realizing that you made a very bad choice the night before or having your mother lecture you about your bad choices before hanging up on you with a finality that somehow seems unjust even though you know she’s right.

You try to keep your lower lip from trembling as the desperation of your situation and your intense homesickness falls over your whole being like a shroud, made even worse by your friend saying, “I’m sorry, Sweetie.  I really am.  But I think you’re stuck here for the night.”  The sincerity of his words make you feel even worse because you know that there is…absolutely…nothing…you…can…do.  It might as well be you mired in the snow drift outside, forever stuck.

You feel sorry for yourself.  You can’t eat.  You can’t even make yourself pay attention to what’s on TV.  All you can do is struggle not to cry and make your friends feel like it’s their fault you’re stuck.  Although, this is exactly what you’d like to do.  He’s the idiot who tried to drive like Mario Andretti in a pickup truck through a frigging blizzard, you think angrily to yourself.  But, no, this is not his fault, your mature side intones.  You made the decision to come up here.  It’s your fault.  This realization makes you feel no better.  You manage to calm your inner turmoil and somehow make it through the evening.  You’re just waiting for the appropriate time to roll around so that you can excuse yourself and go to bed.  After what seems like an eternity, nine o’clock finally comes and you do just that. 

As soon as you drift off, several loud cracks startle you awake.  At first, you think someone is shooting a rifle, but a peek through the mini blinds reveals huge colorful flowers in the sky.  The neighbors are shooting off a magnificent round of fireworks into the night.  Cheered a little by something special at the end of a very long, stressful day, you lie back down and fall into a dreamless sleep.

You wake to a bright winter morning and a knock on the downstairs door.  You open the blinds and shield your sleepy eyes against the sparkling snow and there, like a mirage in a white desert, is the most beautiful sight you’ve ever seen.  A bright red plow truck is sitting in the driveway.  Before they can drive away, you stumble into your two-day old jeans and try to keep your balance on the slick hard wood floor as you race downstairs to answer the door in your stocking feet.  You let the couple standing in the cold morning light know that you’ll be right back before running upstairs to wake everyone.  After several scrambling minutes, the three of you are on your way out the door to rescue your friend’s truck. 

Within as many minutes, you once again cram yourself between your two companions and head towards your waiting car.  The sense of freedom is almost overwhelming.  You make it the ten miles to your home without incident and stop at the store for the dog food that your roommate informed you was needed during one of last nights “I’m safe” calls.  Your ordeal is over, it’s a beautiful day and you’re excited to get home.

You’re less than a mile from home.  The roads are, for the most part, clear.  Somehow you hit the one patch of ice and find yourself spinning out of control.  After several terrifying moments, your own car is hopelessly embedded in a snow bank on the side of the road, facing the direction you just came from.  A concerned citizen comes to your rescue.  Stretching across the passenger seat because there’s no way you can get out through the driver’s side, you wind down the window to inform him you’re ok.
He asks if you need any help.

“Thanks, but my house is just over there”, you say, pointing through the trees.  “I can walk.” 

“Well, ma’am, the thing is, yer tail is hangin’ plum out in the middle of the road thar and they’ll prob’ly have it towed ‘fore ye can git back.  Ye better let me call someone for ye.” 

So the kind gentleman calls the state boys much to your chagrin.  You hide your eyes from passersby, hoping that no one you know sees you in your latest predicament.  One state vehicle and a volunteer fire truck show up at the scene and no fewer than seven men dig your car out of the snow.  Realizing that you do know one of the firemen, you blush fiercely and waggle several weak fingers in his direction before lowering your gaze.  Finally free, you drive the rest of the way home with shaking hands gripping the steering wheel.  You enter your own house, silently thanking whoever will listen that you didn’t trip on your way up the stairs and sigh, “When it snows, it blizzards.”

Word Count: 1,942