Snowjob

I'm not sure which one of us invented it. Lower middle-class kids growing up in a suburban condominium development are always a touch on the sadistic side. Call it an occupational hazard if you must give it a label. It's simply part of the territory. Regardless, we were all to be blamed for its widespread success in our neighborhood, just as the entire group present was responsible if a ball hit a window during an impromptu game. Sure, the glass never broke, but that didn't matter to the bitter old folks inside. We were hoodlums as far as they were concerned, and our parents were to be notified if necessary. Little did they know, and little did anyone know since it never came down to it, but our parents wouldn't have cared. They had bigger things to worry about. They had mortgages and mouths to feed. They were losing sleep at night.

When that snow fell in blankets and school was closed we weren't playing ball anymore. It was snowball fight time. Fortresses could be built out of the heaps left by plow trucks. The older kids learned not to bother with that strategy. Nothing lasted forever, be it the spring thaw or the change in power that rendered its construction pointless. We could all cope with that sun's rays making our winter battleground dissipate, but to see our bunkers taken over by hands other than the ones that built them and then used against us was a price we weren't willing to pay. We tried to avoid being overrun in very much the same way that adults have done it since the beginning of time: we formed teams, alliances, coalitions. Somehow, be it through human nature or the will of the gods, the lines drawn in the snow always made sense. One side was comprised of the honor roll sector, the chorus kids and band kids, and a handful of the less talented sports players. The other team was made up of mouth-breathers, bullies who picked on nerds and music geeks, children of parents who'd blamed their divorces on their offspring, and the sports players who could've gone pro. The little league pitchers with arms worth anything never wound up on the former team. It was strength in numbers and maybe a stroke of luck or two that won wars. That still happened for a few of us back then.

The battle could start at any time. All it took was one innocent throw to commence the onslaught and one well-aimed ball of ice to some poor sap's face to end it. Somewhere in between was where the magic happened, where the early stages of character development shone through: acts of bravery, acts of cowardice, maliciously packed iceballs hurled at wool-capped heads, the celebration of the sore-armed victors, the dispersion of casualties across the white terrain, the retreat of the snow-caked losers-- all of these would shape who we'd become, would act as unnoticed foreshadowing for the rest of our lives, would be the excuse we'd use for being late for dinner.

All of that was fair and good and righteous in its chaste simplicity. But God forbid it came to hand-to-hand combat. Wrestling in the snow never ended well. All parties involved became covered in ice crystals that would penetrate their clothing and make the walk home that much more miserable. It usually started with a bum-rush and ended with the single, most contemptful act that I can remember growing up: the snowjob. As I said, I don't remember who came up with the idea. Maybe it was always there and only had to be discovered by each up-and-coming generation, like French kissing and tax fraud. The snowjob was a cruel maneuver used in desperation by the underdog or as a demoralizing deathblow dealt by the soon-to-be-winner. Its execution was far simpler than its repurcussions-- all one had to do was shove their unfortunate little buddy's face in the snow and hold it there for a few seconds. The aftermath, on the other hand, was not so succinct. There was yelling, there was crying, there were comical forays into cursing which had yet to be explored. All of these were made funnier by the victim's bright red face. Snow, it turns out, burns quite nicely when it comes in contact with human skin, especially that of a tender young specimen. Devices from the Spanish Inquisition weren't needed to perform our childhood torture; nor was an increase in age. There's a bit of a monster in all of us. The only difference is what action it takes, and to what extreme, for that mean beast to come out.

"My pal with the plow truck almost killed some stupid kid the other day," my friend and sometimes-coworker told me as we discussed our current laid-off adventures over the phone. Apparently, as we get older, building a fort in a snow mound goes from being a bad idea for tactical reasons to a down-right deadly decision. The conversation continued, but all I could think of was my days of cupping snow into ammunition. "Hey, are you listening?" he asked after noticing my prolonged absence from the dialogue. "Yes," I lied as I silently considered if I was finally paying for all the snowjobs I'd given over the years, literal and otherwise. Now I know why my mother wouldn't have cared about a ball hitting a window. Now I know why she's suffered from insomnia; still does. Even with only my mouth to feed the world's a harsh enough place. Now I wish that I could endure the receiving end of one last snowjob if it'd make this relentless daymare go away.

Who am I kidding? I invented it.