Winter Blues
by Jeffery T. Ramone

I've never told anyone this story. That's not so true: I must've told the shrinks a thousand times, but they wouldn't have it. In the end, I told them what they wanted to hear. Despite all that, I still believe-no, I know-it really happened. And no amount of therapy or medication is going to change that.

It happened like this:

I was twelve and a freak blizzard entombed our town. Weather like that was capable of shutting down the entire county. As a result, Christmas break was extended a few days.

If you were a kid, Faithorne Memorial Park was the place to be on a snow day. It was there that I met him.

"Jimmy Snapperelli," he'd grinned, offering a gloveless hand. "But you can call me Snap." His grip was icy and he was wearing a coat much too light for January.

"What grade're you in?"

"I don't go to school," Snap replied.

"Home school?"

He looked confused, but nodded.

"You're so lucky! I don't ever wanna go back," I said, "I hope this blizzard lasts forever."

"Me too."

Snap was an odd but likable kid. We became fast friends that day, sledding and snowball fighting and building snowmen. We laughed the whole time and I cannot recollect ever having more fun than I did that day.

As much fun as I was having, dusk was creeping up fast. I had to go.

"Wanna walk home together?"

"Nah. I'm gonna stay here and play," the park was empty.

"Okay, well maybe see ya later?"

"Sure thing," he said with a wink.

When Mom awoke me for school the next day, I groaned.

"School's canceled again."

I grinned groggily.

"I'm going to the store. Be back later."

"M'kay ...."

"Love you."

I laid clinging desperately to sleep. A noise from outside-THWUMP-THWUMP-startled me out of bed.

I stumbled to the window. Snap was in my backyard. He lobbed snowballs with one hand and held a popsicle in the other. I waved and dressed hurriedly.

"Where the hell are you going?" It was the stepfather.

"To play."

"It's too cold out." He didn't really care; he was just being a hardass. "No school, no sledding." His breath smelled of the morning after. Winter is a tough time for roofers.

"You're not my dad, so don't pretend you are."

It was still for a moment and he looked at me like I was speaking in tongues. Then, without warning, he backhanded me. I didn't cry. I just hurried past him down the stairs.

"Not so talkative now, are ya?" he called after me.

I pulled on my warm things and walked out the backdoor. There in the bitter cold stood Snap. He saw the red, stinging mark on my cheek. "What happened?"

"Nothing. Let's get my sled."

We walked around to the alley. "Help me, would ya?" I heaved up on the garage door manually, as the automatic opener was busted.

"Um, okay." He grasped the underside of the door while I pulled the handle upward. The automatic opener awakened like a sleeping giant.

The garage was the only thing the stepfather was able to keep in some semblance of order: Tools hung on the pegboard outlined like corpses at a crime scene. Shovels, rakes, hoes carefully hung like abstract art. Paint
cans, solvents, antifreeze, lubricants and cleaning solutions stood rank and file under the stepfather's workbench.

I found his air compressor resting on my plastic sled.

"Damn!"

"What's 'amatter?" Snap asked, looking nervously into the garage.

I tried to lift the compressor, but it was no use. "Think you can put down that popsicle and gimme a hand?"

"With what?" He was still standing in the alley.

"Help me get this thing off my sled. That jerk."

"Who?"

"The stepfather," I said, eyeing the empty beer cans in the waste barrel. "Help me, will ya?"

"Okay," he answered reluctantly. His eyes darted around as he entered. His boyish excitement was replaced with an unusual nervousness.

The stepfather must have worked on his car the night before. There was an oily rainbow of fluids griming up the cement floor. Snap made a cautious arc to avoid the automotive spillage.

We each grabbed an end and lifted. I kicked the sled out from underneath and it slid toward the pool of muck.

Snap dropped his end and bolted from the garage, sweat trickling down his face. "I'm not getting on that thing!"

"It's just a little oil and antifreeze," my Midwestern accent pronounced it as ANNIE-freeze. "I'll wash it off."

Snap looked mortified. "You better," dabbing sweat from his brow.

At the park we sledded and built snow forts. Snap balled up a lump of fresh snow and nailed me in the thigh. I pegged him good in the face and he chased me up the hill. I ran like crazy until my lungs were icy crystals.

"Time out!" I called.

"No way!" he yelled, a fresh snowball spattered my chest.

"Seriously, I'm dying of thirst. Let's go to Stop'N'Go."

"They have popsicles?"

"Aren't you cold enough?"

"Never, I love popsicles!"

"You're one weird dude."

Outside Stop'N'Go, Snap grabbed me with his cold, frantic hand. "Would you go in for me?"

"Why?"

"Just 'cause. Get me some Freezey Pops." He shoved a crumpled Abe Lincoln in my mitten.

"Okay," I said, a little confused.

Well of course they weren't stocking popsicles in January so I got the next best thing: a Super-Slurper. I bought hot cocoa for myself and collected the change.

"No popsicles, but I got you this." I handed him the thirty-two ounce cup of squishy ice and green food coloring.

"Lime, my favorite!" He slurped it down as if we'd just walked forty days in the desert. "That hits the spot!"

I shook my head and sipped cocoa. "Whaddaya wanna do now?"

"Dunno."

"Let's go bust bottles in Miller's Lot."

After fishing some smelly forty-ounce bottles from Stop'N'Go's dumpster we trudged toward the gravel mound in Miller's Lot.

"Last one to the top's a monkey's uncle!" Snap screamed and tore off. He bounded up the side of the mound and hollered: "Come on, monkey-boy! The view's great up here!"

My feet crunched through the hill's frozen surface as I tried to trace Snap's path. His footfalls hadn't left a mark. Was that possible? "Come on slow-poke!" he shouted.

From the other side of the hill two older kids emerged behind Snap. One was a fat redheaded kid named Richie Pascal. The other was Danny Schowalter. My blood froze.

Danny was not an archetypal bully. He was short, for one, and he had a hair-lip. Despite this, Danny was a boy you didn't messed with. He was a tough kid, I guess he had to be.

Richie chomped on a cheap, brown cigar. His flaming red cheeks matched his hair. Guys like Richie were too cool for winter caps. Danny sported a knit Bears cap. You'd have to be a real nutball to tease him for wearing a hat. Danny was a three-time Illinois State Wrestling Champion.

Snap turned and saw the older kids.

"Hey dorkus, whatcha doing with that beer?" asked Richie.

"Oh, hey guys," said Snap, oblivious to the mortal danger we were in. "We're just gonna pitch some bottles into the lot. Wanna try?"

Richie spotted me. "Hey, shithead."

Danny said nothing; he hardly ever spoke. I figured it was because of his speech impediment. His glance cut through Snap.

"Who are you?" demanded Richie.

"Jimmy Snapperelli, but you can call me Snap."

"Did ooh sthay STHLAP?" muttered Danny, slapping him in the face.

Richie erupted with laughter.

The forty once bottle splintered over Richie's head with a crash and he fell face-first into the snow. Snap was beaming.

Danny leered at us. I could see the fire behind his eyes-the same fire that fueled three wrestling titles. It might as well have been a funeral pyre.

"Snap, let's get out of here." I was already halfway down the hill. Snap laughed and crunched after me.

I looked back: Richie was on his feet, red rivulets rushing down his flushed face.

"We are so dead!"

We raced down the alley behind Stop'N'Go, ducking behind the dumpster.

I doubled over, resting my hands on my kneecaps.

"Did you see the looks on their faces!" Snap boasted, sucking his Super-Slurper.

"They're gonna get us."

"Nahhhhh," said Snap. "Don't worry, I can take care of 'em."

"Then take care of me right now." There stood Richie, his fat face glowing with rage. I turned to run only to discover Danny Schowalter rounding Stop'N'Go's opposite corner.

What happened next can only be called crazy. Months later the shrinks insisted that "crazy" was inappropriate and not very clinical. "Crazy" was a generic word for someone-or something-who's off kilter with the logical world. Assuming that's true, then what I saw next was crazy, with a capital C.

Snap filled his mouth with Super-Slurper and swished it around his chipmunk cheeks. Like a cherub in a fountain, he shot a great stream of green slush from his lips. Richie mewled. Snap followed the lime-goo with a frigid steam-plume so dense you'd swear it'd come from a clothes drier.

Richie's chin was covered in lime-goo and the smell of searing flesh was unmistakable. His jaw melted like candle wax; I actually saw his left ear lurch down an inch. He tried frantically to pat it out, like it was on fire. But the lime-goo burned his hands too. Richie was way too cool to wear gloves.

Snap giggled at his handy work and took off in the direction of Miller's Lot. I stood there for a moment unsure what I'd seen.

Danny gaped in shock. I bolted after Snap.

Back at Miller's Lot, Snap was nowhere to be found. Snow was falling again, as if to cover our tracks.

"Snap!?" My voice echoed in the white stillness.

I ran home and didn't look back.

Sleep didn't come easily that night. And before I knew it, Mom was shaking me awake. "Time to get up, Nick."

My eyes fluttered.

"Nick, I have to talk to you."

I raised myself onto the haunches of my forearms.

"You know a boy named Richie, Richie Pascal.?"

I shook my head and my heart pounded like a bongo.

"He was attacked yesterday," she said biting her lip. "He's in the hospital. School is open again, so I'm going to drive you, okay?"

I nodded.

In the shower I pondered the possible and impossible. Even as the hot water poured down on me I shivered.

Somehow they would know I was there. They always knew.

And Danny Schowalter, he was there too. He'd rat us out. And Snap...

THUMP-THUMP

-that sound!-

THUMP-THUMP-THUMP

"Come on, kid. Get the lead out."

The stepfather.

"Just a minute." Steam rose from my body as I dried myself.

I opened the door and the stepfather stood there in his boxers. "'Bout time."

I walked past him without a glance and he flicked me in the head.

In the car, Mom prattled on and on about this and that. I couldn't hear her. My mind was filled with a million what-if scenarios.

What if she's really taking me to the police station? What if this is all a trick?

But no one had said another word about Richie all morning. The cops hadn't burst in during my Fruit Loops. It was just another day. Except that I had witnessed something I couldn't explain without sounding bonkers.

"Here we are."

To my relief our destination really was school. Mom promised to be back at 3:30 and drove off.

Everyone at school was talking about Richie:

"Richie got clobbered by a wino."

"Richie Pascal tried busting a bottle with his teeth on a bet."

"Richie tried eating a bottle."

It was becoming the stuff of suburban legend.

I saw Danny Schowalter in the cafeteria. He didn't say anything, he just glared at me like I was kindling for his fiery eyes.

Between fifth and sixth period, Danny caught up with me. I was in the boy's room when a pair of black Reebok sneakers appeared in the stall door next to mine. He kicked a folded piece of paper into my stall. My hands were
actually shaking as I reached for it.

The sixth period bell sounded and the black Reebok's exited.

I unfolded the note and it read:

I'M GOING TO GET YOU
AND YOUR PSYCHO FRIEND.
JUST WATCH YOUR BACK.

My heart-the Tito Puente of internal organs-pounded wildly.

Later, as Mom drove us home, my anxiety shifted. It was no longer the authorities I feared, but a garden-variety bully.

"That boy I told you about, the Pascal boy. He's in a coma."

"A coma?"

"The doctor's don't know what caused it."

"Crazy," I said.

I set out after dinner. The stepfather was at the bar, so he wouldn't be a problem. Mom was paranoid about Richie's "attacker," so I quietly slipped out the backdoor.

The park seemed a good place to start my search for Snap. It was well after sunset and the frozen tree limbs glistened in the moonlight.

At the park's center was a pavilion with picnic tables underneath. Someone was there; steam clouds flowed intermittently from his or her mouth. An orange cigarette flame winked in and out.

"Snap...?"

Danny Schowalter emerged from the pavilion.

"I toed you too wash you mback." He flicked the cigarette and charged.

Before I could run, he pinned me facedown.

"Wheth's thet fwend of yous?" His cigarette-breath made me nauseous.

"Right here, mush-mouth." Snap was poised on a tabletop, hands on his hips, superhero fashion. His coat shed, he thrust out his t-shirted chest defiantly.

I could feel Danny's heart pounding against my back. "Uwhut did you thsay?"

"Are you deaf, too? M-uuuuuuuhsh-Mooooooowth."

"I'm unna buthst yewr head!" Danny jumped up and lunged at him, but Snap was too quick. He leapt from table to table, just barely avoiding Danny's reach. Finally, Danny cornered him at end of the pavilion near the fireplace.

Danny unzipped his varsity jacket and dropped it to the cement.

"Thithis ith it!"

Snap reached into the fireplace. "Yes, it is."

A splash of frigid water drenched Danny.

Snap dropped a bucket, grabbed Danny's hair and thrust his face onto a picnic table. He leaned in, as if to kiss Danny, and released a dense cloud from his mouth. Danny's hair-lipped howls still fill my nightmares.

Danny's arms and legs flailed like a fly caught in a web; his face seemed stuck to the aluminum surface.

Snap grabbed Danny's hair again and pulled his face away from the table. It stretched like chewing gum on the bottom of a shoe. He shrieked again and I could see musculature red and pulsing. Elastic skin dripped onto his black Reebok's.

Crazy with a capital C.

Tears and snot ran down my face in a frozen delta as I ran home. I found enough strength to lift the garage door myself. My breaths came in heaves as I tried to get myself under control. I thought I heard Danny shrieking again, but it was only the wind.

"Nick?" It was Snap, standing sheepishly outside the garage door.

I backed up against the stepfather's workbench.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." I wasn't sure what he meant. "You still wanna play?" he asked, childlike.

"Play?"

"Yeah. Say, why'd you run off?" He sounded genuinely confused, as he hadn't turned Danny's face into taffy.

"What about Danny?"

He laughed, "I took care of him."

My knees were rubber and I dropped to the floor.

"You all right?"

"Y-yeah, I think so." My hand frantically searched behind me. "I think I hurt my ankle." I twisted off the plastic cap.

With that same terrified look as the last time he'd been in the garage, he stepped in.

I wish it had gone in slow motion-like in the movies - so I could describe it better. It went like this: I pulled a plastic jug from the workbench and doused Snap with antifreeze, liquefying his hand. He pulled back in agony and I stood up, holding the jug out for protection.

Snap's eyes filled with hurt. "Nick..." His white t-shirt was a sweaty map, water seeped from everywhere.

"I just wanted to play..."

Tears running down my cheeks, I did the only thing that seemed logical at the time: I squeezed the jug with both hands. A stream of lime-green antifreeze arced up and into Snap's face. He shrieked as his face decrystalized. Deformed and dehydrated, Snap stumbled backward into the alley and disappeared into the night. That was the last I saw of him.

Inside I discovered Mom crying. "Your stepfather's dead."

Not exactly what I expected, but it was an excuse to uncork my emotions. I let it all out into the safety of Mom's arms.

Between her own sobs, she told me what happened: A drunk driving accident. He hit a patch of ice and plunged into the river.

Ice?

I began to cackle madly.

I spent the rest of the winter and most of the spring in a nut house. When I got out Mom made the decision to move. "This town has too many bad vibes," she'd said.

The day the movers came I was strangely sad. Mom assured me things would be okay. "It's always warm in Arizona. And you won't have to shovel snow anymore. But," she added "No more sledding. No more snowball fights. And no more snowmen."

That was fine by me.

I don't care much for winter anymore. Haven't seen a real one in quite some time. In fact, I haven't left the state of Arizona since we moved here. That was nearly thirty years ago.

Sometimes I lay awake at night thinking about Snap. As fantastical as he was, I knew Snap was real. How else could I explain what I'd seen?

Winter is almost nonexistent here. Still, the nights can get awfully chilly. And sometimes, on particularly cold nights, I think I hear that sound:

THWUMP-THWUMP

I'm sure it's just my imagination...but not a hundred percent sure.

©2001 Jeffery T. Ramone

Jeffery T. Ramone is a full-time editor and writer of marketing propaganda. Also, he is a freelance writer and his work has appeared in The Windy City Times and Outlines newspapers. When not reading, writing or editing, he continues his crusade to find a cure for death.