I used to rent an apartment on a crowded street with a fairly steep grade. One of the best parts of this place was that for an extra $50 a month; I got an off street parking spot.

So in 2010, we had a serious snow storm. 20.1 inches according to the records. It was heavy, wet snow that came down over the course of the day—non-stop.

At the time, I had a job slinging drinks at a popular neighborhood joint, and I worked at night. Since I had my daytime free, I kept up with the storm—heading out about every two inches or so to keep my spot clear. By the time I headed out to work the storm had ended, and my spot was clear. As is our custom here, I put a folding chair in my spot.

At work we were slammed! No one was really driving anywhere so they all walked down to the bar—and stayed all night! The kitchen was banging. People were partying hard too, as storms like this tend to bring out a camaraderie among the residents here.

After I locked up for the night, I fishtailed the short distance to my pad on the still snowy roads. Happy knowing that I would have a spot waiting for me and I wouldn’t have to shovel at 4a.m. just to park my ride.

I manage to get up the hill to my place and instead of a gloriously clear parking spot; guarded by my folding chair, I find that some selfish fuck had ditched my chair and parked their newish Accord. In. My. Spot!

I saw red. I paid for that spot—it was my driveway for Chrissakes! And I spent four plus hours through the storm keeping it clear. I was so angry that my face flushed, and I could taste the hot metal of adrenaline in my mouth.

So I left my car in the street and went in the house. I had a shot of Jack—then another. I thought about calling the cops and getting a tow truck—but in this weather, it would probably take all night. I thought about smashing in the windshield, or slashing the tires--but couldn’t bring myself to damage someone’s car.

“Fuck this asshole,” I said out loud. I didn’t bust my ass to shovel my driveway just to have some knucklehead park there! Plus, they moved my chair!

So I wrapped my neck up in a scarf, zipped up my coat and grabbed my shovel off the porch. I also took my whiskey.

In between deep swigs from my bottle, and with a chorus of hearty curses, I put every shovel full of snow that I had scraped up earlier back in my spot.

I started by packing the heavy snow under the Accord. Filling up the space between the bottom of the car and the driveaway completely. I packed the wheel wells—tamping the snow down. packing it tight.

I was laughing and cursing like a maniac. Sweating and grunting with effort as I surrounded the Honda with dirty snow—packing it tight about a foot and a half thick. I stopped every couple minutes or so to drain the whiskey—I was getting my shwerve on pretty good—and I buried that motherfucker!

It took me an hour, and a half a fifth of Tennessee wisdom, but when I was done there was no longer any sign of a car. Only a giant mound of tightly packed, wet, dirty snow.

When I was done, I sat on top of that mound, smoked a cigarette and drank a few more sips—shovel in hand. I imagined the look on the drivers face when they were rushing out to get to work and found their car immovable. And I smiled.

That pile sat there for four days until the snow melted. The driver snuck over in the evening while I was working and scraped away enough of the packed in snow to move the car. I never knew who it was, and no one ever told me. But no one ever parked anywhere near my driveway, or corner for that manner, for the rest of the time I lived there.

Hey, can someone take me out of the greys?