I was in Citygirlfriend’s mother’s 20th floor apartment on the corner of 1st Avenue and 57th Street, New York City. The sixth worst blizzard in NYC history was raging outside. The taxicabs were sideways, heading up 1st Avenue, avoiding the people who thought they needed to be walking somewhere at 10 pm in a blizzard. I was fascinated. I could see everything clearly, but at that height, there was a curious sense of detachment.
“They have no idea how to drive in snow,” I said. “N0, no, no. Don’t turn your wheels. He was almost out.”
“That’s so arrogant,” Citygirlfriend said.
“Is it arrogant when I know I could have him out of there in five minutes?”
“Ok, I’m timing you.”
Citygirlfriend looked at the clock. I paused for about a two-count, smiled, then started throwing on my warm clothes.
I borrowed the doorman’s shovel.
“Hold up. We need to move some of this snow in front of your car.”
I shoveled like a madman, enjoying the physical labor I was missing on the farm.
“You need to keep your wheels straight.”
I waved at him to gun it when there was a break in the 1st Avenue traffic. “Muchos gracias,” he yelled out the window, with his tires spinning as he drove away.
Citygirlfriend met me at the elevator, dressed.
“What are you doing?”
“It looks like so much fun. I want to go with you. Let’s see who else we can help.”
“Ok. How’d I look out there?”
“You can see bossy from the 20th floor?”
We spent the next couple of hours walking 1st Avenue, helping people move their cars. We had fun.
The next day I snapped this picture of a man beginning the slow process of digging out the city.