The snow would fall. My father would clear the driveway with a giant shovel, one with a huge blade that looked like a barrel sliced in half vertically. We always asked him why he hadn’t bought a snowblower like our neighbors and he’d just cough into his hand and shake his head.
“That’s not how a man does it,” he’d say.
Shit sounded crazy to me. The way he did it, I didn’t look at him throwing heaping piles of snow over his shoulder and think, ‘Wow, now there’s a man!’ Nope. I thought, ‘Wow, now there’s a masochist!’
My mom used to come home from work at K-Mart and tell me to shovel the driveway. I hated even thinking about it. Most of the time I’d tell her no. Or I’d lock my room and ignore her. So she’d usually end up going out there herself, taking that big ass shovel and adding to the giant mounds of snow that lined our driveway like the all the cookie-cutter houses lined our suburban street.
When he’d get home, my father would be furious. He’d yell and scream at me.
“You let your mother do all the work?” he’d rant, foam practically cascading down his chin. “What kind of a man are you? To let a woman shovel the driveway! What the hell did I raise? A sissy?”
The snow and I had a knack for making him angry. But sometimes, when he was tired and filled with regret and he didn’t feel like yelling anymore, he’d stare off into the distance and speak to me in a low monotone. He’d look off into the unholy western New York wasteland that surrounded us and repeat the same blip of advice that he’d been repeating for years.
“Get the hell out of here,” he’d say. “This place…there’s nothing here.”
I’d look at his face and I’d see exactly what he meant. He’d lived most of his life in Rochester, and he was stuck. He didn’t know what to do. This was his lot in life, and while he saw no escape for himself, he did for his sissy son.
There are only seven days left. Seven short days until I move back to the USA. I’ve got kind of a countdown going. When a day reaches its end and the number decreases, I can’t decided if I’m excited or filled with dread. It’s kind of like seeing the seconds counting down when you’re microwaving a Hungry Man dinner. On one hand, you can’t wait to eat that processed meat and desert brownie. But on the other hand, it’s hard to block out the potential for disaster.
“You going back home?” people keep asking me.
“I’m going back to the States,” I’ll say. “But not back to my hometown.”
To move back to Rochester sounds crazy. All I can remember is the snow and the wind and my father scraping off his windshield. I picture the aisles of the K-Mart my mother worked at. The place seems like hell.
“Oh? Not back to your hometown?”
“Where you gonna go then?”
That’s right. Fuck it. I sat in the bedroom of my apartment for a few days and I just asked myself where I’d like to live. Anywhere. The place that seemed sort of fun and interesting. And after giving it some thought, I decided I wanted to move to Las Vegas.
“Wow! Vegas! Do you know anyone there?”
“No. Not really.”
“Do you have a job lined up?”
“You don’t have a job or anything? Do you have a place to stay?”
“I do not.”
People seem surprised by my lack of a plan. Apparently, as I’ve gleaned from their facial expressions, it’s weird to just pick up and move to a place for no real reason whatsoever.
Even though there is a reason. The reason is that it isn’t Rochester. It’s the opposite, or at least I imagine it being so. I picture casinos and bright lights and maybe Barry Manilow making eye contact with me for just a second as he sings, “I Write the Songs.” I picture beautiful people. I picture Elizabeth Berkley’s breasts in Showgirls. And I picture sunshine. Lots of sunshine falling down over the wonderful dessert.
Some people say that there’s a certain allure to the West. A kind of promise that doesn’t exist anywhere else. I’m not really sold on that.
I, like my father, just don’t want to buy a fucking snowblower.