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Spectator Sport

Bill Tope

Roger approached the snow drift with a
cautious eye. Since he’d begun using a
cane late last summer, he’d been over
nearly every kind of terrain, from grassy
slopes to graveled parking lots, but with
mixed success. He’d made this identical
trek, three blocks from his home, across
the highway to the convenience store
and back, probably a hundred times since
he’d stopped driving.

But this afternoon was the first time he’d
found himself confronting both ice and
snow. Ice was treacherous, he’d
discovered almost instantly. The rubber
cap of his cane failed to find purchase on
the slick surface and his cane went one
direction, his legs another.

But snow had proven less of a challenge;
he negotiated it with aplomb. Well, at
least he didn’t slip and fall. But this, a
three foot snow drift, presented a new
set of difficulties. To begin with, Roger
couldn’t be certain what lay underneath
the deceptively fluffy, blinding white
surface.

Was it ice or earth or more snow or
something else entirely? Maybe a sharp
piece of glass? He flexed his arthritic
neck and back, felt them pop. He gazed
again uncertainly at the pile of snow.

Only one way to find out, he decided, and
took a giant step into the heart of the drift.
The snow refused to budge and he
flopped out and onto the highway, landing
on his knees and elbow with a painful
jarring. He felt his teeth rattle, watched the
frozen plumes of icy breath rise above his
head.

His 12-pack of soda went one way, his
cookies and butter another. With a
resounding OOF! he landed prostrate on
the concrete surface of the road. He
looked anxiously down the street and saw
with relief that there were only two cars
coming, but one of them was approaching
in the same lane Roger occupied.

That car flashed a lane change, but the
second automobile, occupying a parallel,
inside lane, stubbornly refused to let him
move over. Roger’s eyes opened wide as
he struggled to rise to his feet. It was cold
down on the pavement. The cars were fast
approaching and Roger perhaps only
imagined he saw the driver of the car in
the inner lane flash an evil smirk. But the
driver in Roger’s lane didn’t slow down;
he drew nearer and nearer. Roger held
his breath.

At the last instant, the car in the inside lane
breezed by; the wind blew Roger’s hair and
the driver leaned on his horn. And the other
vehicle, the one in the lane filled by
Roger, swerved finally and missed him by a
matter of just inches. The fallen man felt
spicules of ice and particles of salt and road
grime spatter his face. Involuntarily, he cried
out in terror.

Roger pushed out a breath, coughed, slowly
shook his head in wonder. Then he took
stock of his surroundings. Cars were stopped
at the signs on the cross street at the nearby
intersection and the drivers appeared to be
staring at him. What were they thinking? he
wondered. Had anyone gotten the plates on
either of those two cars? With real effort, he
pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, stood
there on shaky legs. In the near distance he
could hear runoff from the melting snow
sloshing into the storm drains.

Next the drivers began passing through the
intersection, paying him no further mind.
Quite forgotten was the drama of only a
moment before. When he had finally limped
across the highway, Roger took account of
his belongings: cane, wallet, soda--
miraculously the box hadn’t split open--and
grocery bags.

Checking the bags, he discovered that the
butter was missing. That was the principal
reason he’d come to the store this
afternoon in the first place.

He looked back at the intersection just in
time to witness a faceless man alight from a
car, scurry to the spot where Roger had lain,
and retrieve the yellow block of butter.
Stowing it into the pocket of his parka, he
hurried back to his vehicle and swiftly sped
away.

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