The Chevy Snowball

by Dave Brown

         I am not exactly sure how or why it became such an ordeal for people and their cars to hate kids who throw snowballs at their vehicles, but I have always found it to be slightly foolish on behalf of the drivers who stop and give chase to the smiling faces that have recently launched innocuous round shaped clumps of snow at their passing vehicles. I grew up in the Finger Lake region of New York, where snowfall, at least in my childhood memory, was frequent and plentiful. My friends and I would spend hours building snow forts with intricate (for kids anyway) escape tunnels and multiple levels. I believe that some of them were built with offices or office space at least.

         We would shape and grade and pile and support these structures simple because they occupied time, and as a kid with nothing but time, this was an ingenious way to ensure that we stayed out of trouble. We would then spend countless hours making ammunition for which to defend out fort. The trouble is, there were never a lot of other kids around, so this preparation, albeit a wise on our behalf, would be left with a great fortress and a great number of neatly piled but relatively useless snowballs.

         Once our architectural environs were completed, and we residents tired of sitting in our frozen fortress, we set out for adventure, and by adventure, I mean no good (at least as adults would describe it). It has always baffled me, even as a car owner myself; I fail to see exactly how an innocent snowball warrants abruptly stopping ones car to pursue the offender, or offenders, until they tire out huffing and puffing, and all the while yelling about us “damn no good kids!”

         It was during on of those solid New York Winters, when we grew tired of the usual throw and chase routine that we had engaged in for the last few years. We were older now, and with age come a new sense of mischief, an itch that can only be scratched through action, and action of this sort usually leads to trouble. What we had decided, was to enact a sort of payment on the adults for giving chase after the projectiles were lobbed in their direction. We decided to increase the stakes and really send a clear message: Stop chasing us. However, in retrospect, I now understand that the chase was half the fun. Or perhaps it was the thrill at angering adults. Either way, as we sat huddled in a snow bank, armed to the teeth with snowballs, we decided that one of us would stay concealed near where the car would most likely park and then begin the aforementioned chase.

         A rusty lime green two door Chevy Nova with off setting front panels that said this baby has seen some serious action, was approaching and inside was a small figure of a red-headed woman who if memory serves me right, was in her twenties. As we pelted her car with about ten to twelve snowballs, her brakes were slammed to the floor and she half skidded half barreled into the nearest driveway where she proceeded to fly out of her car and gave chase to my friends who were in a mad dash down the sidewalk away from my concealed spot. Not wanting to waste a moment, (timing was of the essence here) I popped out from hiding and was overjoyed to see that she had, as many people do, left her car door open. I proceeded to shovel with my hands as much snow as I possible could into her car, on the floorboards which was reaching covering the pedals and even managed to get some on the hump that separated the driver’s side from passenger. I kept shoveling and began laughing maniacally as I tended to do when I was having fun at doing something I was not supposed to do. I then decided to get greedy and began to heave as much snow as possible onto the seat which was torn in various places with the foam sticking out around the edges and where the stitching had worn away and the vinyl seams had pulled apart. It must be noted, that despite the door being open, and despite the coldness of the air, the heater was still running liberally, and it can only be assumed that the snow on the floor must have begun to melt, which I assume, and can only assume because I was not there to witness the final result. Up until this point, things were going splendidly until one of two things occurred. Either I must have been rather excited and overzealous in my endeavor and failed to notice her return, or my friends had gotten spooked and turned into a backyard to disappear into the local woods which no adult would be able to enter due to the deep snow and lack of a sufficient entry point. Either way, I looked up and saw her coming through the passenger door window. She at this point, also saw me. Her puffy winter jacket and scarf hid what I assumed were jittering adrenaline filled twitching muscles. She was short, though tall to me as she stood at a height just over my own at the time, perhaps a little over five feet or so as I was hopelessly under that.

         As her eyes narrowed and focused upon my now fear and panic filled face, I did the only thing I could immediately think of; I bolted. I assume she took one look into her car and with renewed fury, flew in a blind rage after me. I crossed the street and headed straight for the public skating rink, which was only about 150 yards away, where I figured I would find safety, and thought I could easily blend in with all the other kids who were there. Ironically, this was not the case. Had I simply fled the other way, I could have slipped easily into the same woods my friends had and into one of a thousand different hiding places, which I was aware of. It must have been one of those split second “listen to your mother and seek a pubic place” memories that took over whereby good sound advice takes over rash decisions when caught in dangerous situations, for example: if one should find themselves caught between a snow filled rusted multi paneled Chevy Nova’s and its fiery, red haired owner.

         I don’t recall the actual chase with much detail, the world seemed to blur a bit for a minute or two. To be honest, I am not sure how she did not catch me before the entrance. I must have been chugging at an ungodly pace. All I knew was my ears were on fire, my gut felt like emptying itself out, and I needed to reach the relative safety of the rink. I flew through the door and made a split second decision to duck into the men’s room where I knew, due to social protocol, she would and could not follow. My logic proceeded to tell me that she would have to leave soon because not only was her car open, and (I was hoping) having more snow thrown into it (which later I found out to not be happening) but it was also running. I began to laugh excitedly in spite of myself, but a laugh that is almost uncontrollable and giddy. I darted into the restroom and let my shoulders slump as I took one deep breath and reveled in my freedom. I was safe. I had also significantly under estimated my adversary. Before I could exhale, I found myself slammed against the wall and an angry woman yelling into my ear, all sorts of obscenities one should never utter in the ear of an innocent and impressionable young lad such as myself. Panicked and amazed that she had violated the basic principle that separates men from women while engaged in doing their business, I spurted out that I had no idea what she was talking about (I was always a good liar). She, however, had me pegged correctly and as I was beginning to taste what a bathroom wall tastes like, her grip on my neck lessened. Amazed, I risked looking around and realized she was being accosted by a number of men who were in the process of doing their business and by the greatest man in the history of my young life. The rink janitor, who was to me, my guardian angel, only he was not wearing a white robe and wings, instead he was wearing the stereotypical green work pants with matching shirt with his name (which escapes memory, though I am sure it was one of those singular names like Carl, Bob, Dan, or something along those lines) patched on the left side had seen her run into the restroom and demanded that she leave immediately. She explained to him, and not in your adult styled “indoor voice” why she was there, and he looked at me and saw the fear and utterly confused look upon my face. I said I did not do it; it was some other kid, I said that I had just gotten there and really needed to go to the bathroom, which was why I was running. The real culprit, I pleaded, must have gone into the rink. I don’t know how, or why, but he believed me and ordered the red-haired woman to leave immediately. Glaring at me with utter vile and hatred (one could literally see venom drip from her stare) I carefully smiled at her as she left, which I believe angered her even more, but she left, and the janitor, with his grandfatherly look that spoke of fond memories from his own youth, watched to make sure she not only left the rink but the parking lot as well. He gave me the all clear, and I kindly thanked him and made my way cautiously home. He smiled in return, and I will remember always the grayish eyes that said to be more careful in the future; and his jaw that at one time must have been squared but now only spoke of the memory of strength; but he had a look that no one would mess with, the look of hardened experience, a look that said I still know how to throw a nasty left.

         I stayed off the sidewalks on the way back home, preferring the woods and back yards of my neighbors. I never will understand why the janitor took my side; perhaps he found the story amusing and decided to let me get away with something I should not have. Either way, I am in his debt…whoever he is.

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         Currently an English teacher in Chicago, Dave enjoys sitting back with a nice bottle shared between friends while reading snipets of poetry and pondering the nuances of life and the small joys that accompany it.