snowstorm

He’d worked on the road crew for about seven years, now. Good pay. Decent hours. Lots of overtime. It was mindless work, mostly, but he liked the guys and the few women who worked his shifts. He generally didn’t think much about what he was doing, he just did as he was scheduled and told. Put in the time, head home, do it again the next day. He had a young son and a wife and bills and she was pregnant, again. His job wasn’t exactly recession-proof, but he had built up some seniority, so things weren’t as gloomy for him as for others, nowadays. Except when he allowed himself to stop and take stock. He was in his middle 30s, now, and he was in pretty deep. He’d invested time and effort. Another 10 or so years and his retirement would be pretty well set. It didn’t seem like such a long time until he thought about what he’d really wanted to do. He’d always wanted to be an artist. He’d won awards in grade school and high school for his sketches. In the yearbook, he was listed as “the Hixson High Panther most likely to have his work displayed in an art museum.” Today, not so much. A snowstorm was due in a few hours and he’d be on the plow until late tomorrow morning. Then, sleep.