Steve Boscherman set out from his group home on a cold, snow-covered day in January. It was still snowing lightly, and had snowed hard from last night up till very recently. Steve lived on a backstreet, and the streets surrounding him were still unplowed. He was going to the grocery store to pick up ingredients for the dinner he’d be preparing for his housemates. Melissa, the house manager, had insisted that he go, despite his complaints that it was too cold, and that the snow was too deep. Steve had been insubordinate more than a few times as of late—flaky with rules and defiant toward leadership—and Melissa was adamant. Either Steve go to pick up the ingredients and prepare the nightly dinner, or he would face serious consequences.
As soon as Steve exited the house and was standing on the front porch, he felt the sting of the extreme cold on his face, and grumbled to himself. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket of his old, torn, blue bubble coat, and managed to pull out a cigarette, and put it to his lips. But his thick gloves prevented him from lighting it. Cursing to himself, he removed one glove, and lit the cigarette with his free hand and sucked on it, hard. Putting his glove back on felt like a great relief, even after it was only off for a moment. The cigarette still resting between his lips, he grabbed hold of the snow-covered railing with both hands, and, taking one step at a time, went down the stairs sideways, as slow as he could manage, straining his face against the cold wind and hoping that Melissa was watching him from inside. The snow was wet and compact, and so deep that the stairs couldn’t be seen. Every step felt treacherous.
Once down the steps, Steve turned left in the direction of the grocery store. He removed the cigarette from between his lips—his eyes were watering from the smoke—and trudged off through the deep snow, which sank beneath his steps with a crunch, and with every step it was as if he had to climb out of a hole. Already, his breathing was strained. In fact, he was wheezing by the time he got to the first corner. He considered the idea of turning back, but now that he had left the house and made it this far, his spite toward Melissa was transferred to the elements, and he felt hell-bent on overcoming them, as if it were the elements themselves which had insulted him, and not Melissa.
“One block down,” he said to himself as he crossed the street toward the block where a church was situated. Once across the street, he stopped and took two or three puffs on his cigarette, then started walking again. At one point, the snow was higher than it had been before, and as he stepped into it, he sunk so deep that he had to crawl his way forward, which caused him to drop his cigarette. Getting out of the hole and wiping the snow off his jacket, he looked for the cigarette, and found it, but it had burned out. “Damn!” he cried. He reached into his jacket and pulled out the box of cigarettes and the lighter. This time, he knew to take off one glove before attempting to light one up. Having done so, and taking a couple of deep inhalations, he continued off again.
He made it another block. “That’s two,” he said, interrupting his heavy wheezing, which seemed to come from deep down in the very core of his body.
The store was another three blocks. By the time he was nearly there, he had to sit down. He found the back of a bench peeking out of the deep snow, and sat against it, even though the bench’s seat was completely buried. He sat for a moment on the sloping pile of snow, feeling the sting of his lungs become more and more pronounced. He reached into his pocket, and lit up another cigarette.
Having finished the cigarette, it was time to enter the store. There was almost no one inside. He went around, walking gingerly so as not to slip with his wet boots on the slick floor, picked up several packages of ground beef to make hamburgers with, a large package of frozen French fries, and paid for the food at the checkout stand with the money that Melissa had given him. The food was bagged and Steve set out to return home.
After trudging back for several blocks, while reaching into his pocket to pull out another cigarette, Steve discovered that the change for the food—about fifteen dollars in total—was missing. If there was one thing that Steve prided himself about, it was his care for other people’s money. He looked behind him, squinting, and tried to locate the money. He didn’t see it. Cursing, he turned around. Just then, the wind and the snowfall picked up. Cursing his luck, he trekked back a block, wheezing and smoking, and there, in the parking lot near the store and nearly buried in the new snow, was the fifteen dollars he’d lost. He trudged over and, sensing that he was in for a struggle, bent down…
His belly was so huge, however, and the wind was so cold and stiff, that it was difficult. His first attempt was a failure, and he stood up, gasping for air. He tried again—another failure. Finally, feeling as if he were about to pass out, he fell onto the snow with his rear-end. Something was happening to Steve—something which, many times in his past, people had warned him would happen. There was an intense pain in his chest, and he found that he was unable to breathe. Suddenly, he remembered his childhood. He saw his younger brother when he was just a boy, sandy-haired and vibrant-looking. His brother had looked up to him, and followed him everywhere. How long had it been since he had seen his brother? Five years? Again, a sharp pain hit Steve in the chest, and he lay back and rolled onto his side, cringing. He tried to find his phone in his pant pocket. His hand searched the pocket desperately. Again, the pain. He managed to take the phone out of his pocket and started to scroll through the contacts. He saw his brother’s name, and pressed dial.
On the other line, a man was saying, “Hello? Steve? Hello?” But he received no answer. Steve lay with his head in the snow. The bag of groceries lay beside him.
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