The officer asks, Like the white stuff?

I do. My snow plow has created a heaven of snow angels in the mall parking lot. I am high on winter.

Though I don’t love the police, I give the officer—his badge says Gomez; he has the kind eyes of my wife Cassie—good advice: get them before they get you. Throw snowballs at cars. That’s why he’s here.

My job, and I hate myself for it, is to scrape. Rich holiday shoppers and the cheap mall (I make minimum wage) do not want snow. They want what’s underneath: an ugly, grey hardscape. Banished to the edges of society’s parking lot, snow drips and drips well into spring when everyone is May and buying sandals. Dirty snow, having as many problems as I do, lives longer than it wants.

My Gomez-eyed Cassie has warned about global warming. If I got help, could I cut lawns or clean pools?

The officer does not ask if I’m okay. I am not. Christmas pretends. It makes snow put on a tie and a clean white shirt, and smile. Snow has to kiss Cassie for the coarse wool socks she’s knitted. Snow has to yum-yum at her Brussels sprouts in cream sauce, choke down a second helping.

My imagination scares me. I shiver and am handcuffed. Am advised my snow plow will be impounded for seven days and driver’s license suspended for four months. Impaired, I count down on my cold unseen fingers: it’ll be April before I get myself back.

Thank you. Gomez speaks again and says I am welcome. During his life, he must also have chilled and chafed in wet wool socks, and I realize—for real, this time—Cassie deserves more than a snowman.