Personal Narrative Essay: Snow Drifts

For nearly three weeks, snow drifts had been piling on and then partially exposing the glassy, lifeless male body which been lying frozen on the sidewalk next to the service entrance of 398 Broadway. It was January, and the wind tunnel canyons of Manhattan were bitter cold and gray - the kind of cold that makes you draw your aching fingers up into your gloves and won't let you start typing until you've sat on your hands, rubbed them together, blown on them, and opened and closed them repeatedly for at least ten minutes after entering the building. The drifts had largely dissipated as the wind deformed the box sheltering the stiff's upper torso and head, making the flaps smack wildly against his frosted glass right hand which protruded from

"I got a really off-the-wall assignment for you guys, but I think you are the six that can get it done for me, so here it is. We got this weird motherfucker Levi coming in from Tel Aviv. Owns part of a firm over there that owns part of Chutzpah. Can't tell you how much of you he owns, but it's more than yah left nut, I can assure ya. Like I say, guy's a strange motherfucker. Anyway, he likes kicking the shit out of derelicts, and, uh, he wants us to bring 'em one next week when he's in the office here.

"Now, before you get your panties in a bunch, we're not animals, we ain't barbarians, we're businessmen, and we do things transparently and we give people a fair shake an' all that. We're not going to tie this guy up and let the Israeli kick his teeth out, we're going to make it a fair fight. And we're gonna pay the bum for his services. We got class, and we're gonna be gracious hosts. Aside from getting his ass kicked by former Israeli Special Forces, it's probably gonna be the best day the bum's had in a long time. We'll feed him, make sure whatever injuries he, uh, sustains are attended to, and we're gonna get him a nice motel room to recover in for however long it takes. If you were a homeless junkie, you'd be happy to trade a few bruises for three hots and

I'm all ears."

The high whine of the projector made a dissonant interval with the low hum of the exposed heating ducts as the intern class stared at their fumbling hands and swiveled back and forth in their stock office furniture. "NO VGA SIGNAL: INPUT REQUIRED" danced diagonally down the empty no. 2E6F4E blue projection screen. Leonard folded his fingers and crossed his left leg over his right, his chair adding some tinny staccatos to the droning discord. He farted silently.

"So I guess that's my Power Point!" he chuckled through a wheeze, "input required, uh, from you bunch of vag's!" He grinned uncomfortably and felt the anxious electric energy of repeating the same joke that has never been well-received. "Anybody got