excerpt from Ed's latest Kindle ebook: SNOW, NO ACCUMULATION

On the overpass, I drove back over the Turnpike and the glowing red chain below that I’d so recently been a link on and followed the two-lane asphalt – at least, I think it was asphalt – as it wound its way into and through the blackness ahead and  on either side of the road.  I had no idea what highway I was on; the sideways snow had plastered itself to the few signs along the road.  I think one might have said “524” but it might have been any other combination of numbers, so I didn’t even consider getting out the free road atlas I’d gotten with the AAA membership.

            The headlights illuminated nothing but white through the twin black fans on the windshield.  I glanced briefly down through the dashboard glow to discover that I was going close to forty.

            “Not bad, considering,” I recall telling myself.  The radio DJ told me it was getting close to nine and that he could finally knock off and go home.  I envied him.  I also wondered if he lived close to the studio.  If not, he was going to find that the “non-accumulation” of snow was coming down even faster than the recent update had predicted.  He’d be out in the white shitstorm with the rest of us on Friday night.

            After close to an hour of driving, I’d encountered one lone pickup coming in the opposite direction.  I hadn’t seen a single light on along the road and began to wonder exactly where in the country’s most-densely-populated state I was.

            Finally, I came to an intersection.  I’d had the sense that the road had turned more north-and-south than east-west, so I took a left onto the new road.  The surface was perfectly white, not a twin set of tire tracks in sight. 

            “Where the hell am I -- Idaho?” I growled at the Corolla.  It just kept up that nice, trustworthy purr and itself forging ahead, ignoring me and my grumbling.  It also occurred to me that finding the house, in the dark, in the unexpected snow, was going to be basically impossible, so I made up my mind that I’d shelter for the rest of the night in the first Holiday Inn or any other motel I found along the road.  After all, I was heading toward the Jersey shore, where it sometimes seemed that there were actually more motels and “guest houses” than there was garbage floating offshore.

            When the Toyota began to go sideways, I realized that I might not get to a motel at any time in the near future.

 

            I did what I’d been taught: I steered in the direction of the skid.  I guess that got me to the three pines faster that way.  The car and I came to an abrupt stop.  As I struggled to get the seat belt and harness released, I realized that it had locked somehow.  I’d read about people getting stuck in flaming wrecks and fortunately, had had the foresight to hang a small but very sharp key-chain knife on the directional-signal lever.  The inch-long blade cut through the belts quickly and easily.  As the harness snapped back past my head, I realized that the engine was still purring faithfully, the wipers were still flapping, and the new DJ was telling me that I shouldn’t be out on the roads if I didn’t need to be.  Well, I wasn’t, I was off the road.  I shut everything off and tried to open the door.  That’s when I realized that the Toyota was neatly wedged between three pines, with no way out of the front doors.

            I climbed over the front seat and quickly opened the back driver’s-side door.  Snow blew straight into my face.  Just as quickly, I pulled the door closed and reached over the seat to take the keys out of the ignition. 

            Then I thought about taking stock of the situation.  I had no reason to think staying in the car was a good idea; I’d seen only one other vehicle on the road in over an hour.  I had a flashlight with new batteries, mainly because I’d just bought it; I had warm clothes and a pair of hiking boots in the trunk, left over from my last trek to High Point…and somewhere, way off to the right, I could see a light once in a while when the snow and wind died down a little.  I got out, grabbed the boots and got back into the car.  A minute or two later, the hood of my jacket pulled out of the zippered compartment behind my neck and now pulled tightly around my face, I locked and left the Toyota with an apology about what I’d done to it and got out on the road.

 

            Fortunately, the wind was blowing from behind me as I made my way up the highway.  Shining the light ahead, it was pretty easy to follow the road, mainly because it dropped down to drainage ditches on the sides.  I kept looking off to my right for the light or lights that I’d glimpsed before.  Once in a while, I could see it through the trees, which seemed to be all thin, scrubby pines, but so growing so densely together that it was hard to get a straight look through them in that direction.

            After maybe twenty minutes, I saw what seemed to be a road or driveway that dipped down, leading off the highway where the trees thinned out somewhat and made a gap and in the direction of the light.  Cautiously, I stepped down off the pavement onto what was obviously not pavement, but definitely some kind of worn track.  I could see the ground on either side rise up to a line of more pines, but the road ahead was clear, except for what was now at least three to four inches of snow.  On the other hand, the wind was now coming from my right and partially obscuring my vision.  Still, I could see that lone light flickering, tantalizingly, straight ahead.  Lines from “Hotel California” popped into my head.

 

        Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light,

        My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim,

        I had to stop for the night.

 

I had to laugh; I’d stopped all right.  And now my old trustworthy Japanese friend was stuck between some unfriendly pines.  Well, my head wasn’t heavy, but the snow was making my sight dim, that was for sure.  There also wasn’t any girl standing in a doorway with a candle in her hand.

            The cold snow made little pitty-pat sounds as it bounced off the outside of the parka’s hood.  I was glad it was a dry snow; the going would’ve been a lot harder if it had been the wet, clinging kind, although the wind was doing a pretty good job of plastering it to the sides of the trees.

            Then, as I stared straight ahead, the light that had been getting progressively closer -- it seemed anyway -- disappeared.

            “Shit!” I said to the wind and snow.  The idea had been that if there was a light, there must be people, and therefore, a phone, or at least, some place to find shelter until the storm passed.  Then the light came back on.

            I shook my head, thinking that it had just been my imagination, or that something had blocked my vision.  Then it went out again.

            I went to the right and stood among an especially thick stand of tall-growing bushes that were just higher than my head, pressing myself back into them.  They did a pretty good job of keeping me out of the snow and wind, despite being leafless.  Then I stared back in the direction of the light.

            When I looked that time, there it was, still glowing yellow and opaquely through the curtain of white.  I went back onto the narrow road and moved off, keeping my eyes on that light.  It was definitely going off and on, but not with any kind of regularity, but more like a bulb that hasn’t been screwed into a lamp securely and flickers when someone brushes against the table it’s on.  Then the light went off again.

            That’s when I walked right into a metal fence, face first.  And it hurt.