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Shovel 9 | Sep 14 2002

I don’t remember if they asked how much I wanted, or if they offered a specific amount; I just know that it added up, in the end, to a lot of money, a thick wad of it, which I kept in a pocket on that coat I didn’t normally use, a pocket that embarrassed me, with a zipper.

That much snow, it always reminds me of the dream in which our street is buried in snow, with only the third floor windows showing, the chimneys and antennas taking on disconcerting prominence. My friends and I have dug a network of tunnels between our houses. How have we managed this? Has one person called another and said, “Let’s all dig toward the manhole” or “You head toward Howard’s house, and Howard will head toward Brian’s”? Each time I have the dream I’m bothered by this question: How have the tunnels been dug?

My friends don’t particularly care. The snow fell long ago, and somehow we managed.

The thing is, no one in the dream even owns a shovel. I look and look but have never seen any shovels. Whatever happened to all the shovels?