The Precarious Adventures of Johnny Snowbank

Then it snowed.

It snowed for five straight days and when all was said and done, I had 54" of fresh snow outside my windows.

It rained somewhere in there, too, for about three hours. That was a nice added bonus. I drove to the grocery store that night through about a foot of melted snow and rain water.

It was raining pitchforks and hammer handles when I took this picture. As you can see, neither me nor my little four legged friend were very thrilled about the situation.

The snow shut down everything and anything. It collapsed some buildings around town, it caused flooding down valley, it was even snowing hard enough at one point that they closed the, um, ski resort. Now that's some snow. It was the biggest snowstorm to hit the City of Flagstaff in forty three years. I do have to say that it was impressive. A few degrees colder and we would have had another couple feet.

At any rate, Johnny Houseman forged on, for Wyndham Resorts stayed on its A-game, even though there was not a single road open in any of the cardinal directions to get in or out of Flagstaff. (I guess no one really thought about that.) Johnny Houseman became Johnny Cabdriver because nobody wanted to drive in the snow. Someone said, "Hey! Isn't Josh from Colorado? Have him pick everyone up."
"Jesus P. Christ," I mumbled.

Driving through a blinding blizzard in a frigging Ford Minivan full of Mexicans and Navajos is not necessarily my idea of a whopping great time but when life gives you lemonade...you thank the lemons.

A Navajo: "Is Mary der?"
Johnny Cabdriver: "Yeah."
A Navajo: "You should call her. Tell her we got stuck. We'll go cruise around."
Johnny Cabdriver, waiting before responding to see if the Navajo was, indeed, serious. He never offered any information to the contrary. So, I said: "In the company van, eh? The one that has Wyndham Resorts, Flagstaff painted on both its sides in four inch letters? In the worst blizzard in over forty years?"
Another Navajo, laughing: "Yeah. Real smart, Derrick. Steal the company ride and go cruisin'. What are you, an Indian?"

Everyone - Mexicans, Navajos and the one white guy - in the van had a good laugh at that one. And on we went.

The real excitement came, though, on Sunday evening. I had made it through the blizzard, made it through 95% of the work week, dug myself out of the snowbank only to find out that due to all of the snow and rain, the antenna on my Sirius radio at home was done for. (I have eschewed television since moving here.) I wanted to listen to the Vikings/Saints game but, alas, could not. I checked NFL.com and discovered that the game had already started.


I debated for a moment or two and then decided what the hell. Go have a couple beers, maybe eat a burger, watch the game and come home. Off I went.

The Collins Irish Pub in Flagstaff, AZ is a good bar. Possibly incongruously named but that's the way it goes. It was the first and only place I went to back in September because it looked normal from the outside. I was hungry and frustrated that night and just wanted a drink and some real food. It surprised me when I did, in fact, get both.

It sits on the corner of Leroux Street and Route 66, in the literal heart of Old Town, about a hundred feet from the Burlington Northern/Santa Fe railroad and the original, still functional train depot of Flagstaff. It has the typical red rock construction of the Mountain West with hardwood floors throughout; the whole building shakes when the freight trains rumble by; they have a good but not confusing selection of beers on tap; and reasonably priced food that is not your typical bar fare. One can order corned beef and cabbage for about eight bucks or a bread bowl full of beef stew or a Shepherd's Pie sort of thing for nine bucks. A teeth-shatteringly cold Coors Light in a glass will cost you two bucks during happy hour. It's my kind of place.

And the waitstaff is 99% sizzling hot chicks.


Okay, that may be an exaggeration. But not too much of one in my head, at least.

At any rate, I ordered my beer, squeezed through the crowd and found a table meant for four people and seized it. I set my beer on the table, reached in my black leather jacket pocket for my pen and promptly realized that I had forgotten my notebook. Damn.

Just then, one of the waitresses swooped down on me from out of nowhere.

"Would you like to see a food menu, too?" she asked.
"No, no thank you. Not yet. I was wondering, though, if you could bring me a piece of paper of some sort?" I drew the outline of piece of paper on the tabletop with my finger tips. Like an idiot.
She smiled. "Sure. Would a kid's menu be okay?"
"Perfect."

And so I made my notes in tiny print on the back of two kids' menus.


The problem with doing that in a bar during a pretty good football game is that people seem to feel the need to comment about it.


"What are ya doin, cramming for a test?"
"Sure am. With no books or computer in the middle of a packed
bar during the NFC Championship game. I figured it would be the perfect time and place."


"Boy, that sure is some tiny handwriting!"
"It's a small space and I have a lot of thoughts."


"What are you doin, writing a book?
"Yep. Do you want the part in it as the person who always asks that stupid question?"

And so on.



What I was actually writing about was how interesting it was to watch the dynamics of a room full of people who were, in fact, watching another event. It's like sitting in an airport for an extended period of time; you're not just people watching. You're watching people people watch.

So when the 300 pound lineman landed on Favre's ankle and people cheered, I got a little pissed. "Hurt him again!" "Ha ha! The old guy's done for!" I swiveled my head around with a puzzled look on my face. I scribbled a note on the back of my kid's menu: "Pro sports turns people into pricks."

I sipped my beer. It was a good game. And I have to admit that ruminations and misty reminiscing had me silently pulling for Number 4. I mean, the guy defies a lot of odds and I like that. I never uttered a sound in either team's favor and I only applauded the good play, lamented the blown call. I enjoy watching Adrian Peterson just run right the hell over would-be tacklers. Drew Brees is amazing to watch. (Plus, the huddle breakdown he comes up with before every game is pretty damn cool.) I like sports. I like watching professional and amateur athletes do what they do. They are finely tuned machines meant to do one specific task: win.

A nondescript and slightly overweight man moved past the back of my chair. He was having fun, it seemed, and he precariously navigated the narrow gap between the chairs draped with jackets and scarves and my table. He turned, presumably, to have his picture taken by an acquaintance for he gave the camera operator over my right shoulder the double thumbs up.

Just then, I heard a small noise; the nearly airless gasp that is the combination of surprise and pain. Not five feet away from me, the man started saying, "Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Oohhhhhh. Ow! I think....ow, ow, ow, ow, ow."

I looked over my shoulder to where I thought his buddy would be, the guy with the camera. He was there and did have his camera but he was showing another guy at the table some pictures on its screen. I turned back to the man who kept saying, "Ow."

"Hey, man. Are you all right?" I asked. Dumb question, I know, but how else do you go about it?

"Ow. Ow. Ow. Oh my fucking god! Ow. I think I broke my fucking ribs. Oh my fucking god." His breathing was heavy.

"Broke--how the hell did you--? What?" I was confused.

Then he moved. When he moved, I saw what he meant. When he had bent down to get the double thumbs up in the camera shot, he backed up quickly and right into the very corner of a 2-inch thick slab of marble that was the bar top for a second, smaller bar in the corner of the room. It looked like it would hurt like hell to crash into it the way that he did. But I wasn't convinced anything was broken. Besides, it was the last drive during regulation for the Vikings. Buck up, man, quit being a distraction.

"Here, dude, just come sit down," I said. He tried moving but seemed like he was in considerable pain. He stumbled. Hell, maybe he had broken something. I was on my feet. "Do you want me to have the bartendress call an ambulance or something?"

I wondered how, in the name of all that's holy or even unholy for that matter, do I manage to be involved with these types of things?

It's been a strange week: last Tuesday, I saw a girl wipe out on the ice outside the bookstore and crack her head open on the concrete steps. Firefighters and stretchers and shit like that. Neck braces. Impending lawsuits. (Just guessing.) It was the first time I had ever set foot in the University bookstore. Then Monday morning I watched this hotshot biker haul ass around a hairpin corner and completely lose it on the ice. It was funnier than hell. Splattered himself all over the road. Made my morning, that's for certain. Later that morning, a gal at work went down on the ice outside the warehouse. Again, I heard the distinctive "Ow! Oh. Ow. Oh, shit! Ohhhh...." And now this guy. What the hell?

At that point, many things happened at once. The man sort of went down into a half-kneel, half-crouch sort of position, wheezing, at my feet. I glanced from him up to the television. Favre rolled right, pumped, threw back across his body towards midfield and the Saints intercepted the pass. The bar was dead silent. Right up to the point where the other team caught the ball.

I don't know what happened. I involuntarily flinched. Well, it was more like a four-limb spasm - when I think about it - as though I had been electrocuted. It must have been caused by the memory of the last time he did that. In Green Bay. In the NFC Championship game. The inadvertent, uncontrollable convulsion caused my right foot to fly outward and kick the poor bastard at my feet right square in the balls.

He let out a strangled yelp.

I stood there, stunned. Awaiting prompt incarceration. A few people glanced in our direction but in the ensuing melee after the interception, no one had really seen what had happened.

"Oh, shit! Shit! Hey. Shit. Hey. Sorry, man. Jesus Christ. Fuck. Hey, are you okay?" I asked as I crouched down and put a hand on his shoulder. Again, dumb question. My guess was that he was not, in fact, okay. I had on my steel toe boots.

He didn't move for a few seconds. He just knelt there, panting.

Then, to my surprise, he straightened up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and slapped me on the back, wearing a crooked smile. He must have seen the look of shock in my eyes because he said, "You know that saying," he took a deep breath, winced a little and started again, "you know that saying that goes something like 'If you stub your toe, smash your finger with a hammer...it'll take your mind off of your toe?'"

I blinked stupidly.

My brain contemplated the fact that it wasn't necessary to state the obvious but my mouth had it's own plan. Consequently, I said, "Yeah, but...dude, I just kicked you in the balls."

He gave a little snort. "It's okay, man," he said. "I'm used to it. My ex-wife was damn good at it."

"Well," he continued, "I'm pretty sure my nuts are ruptured but my ribs don't hurt at all." And with that he limped off back to his table full of buddies.

"Hey!" I called out after him once I got my wits about me. "Damn, let me buy you a drink, huh?"

"Okay. Vodka rocks," he said through a groan. Then he said, "I guess it's karma. If I hadn't worn this damn jersey..."

I looked at the jersey. I hadn't noticed it until then. Known as the Vike-Pack jersey. I shuddered and struggled to keep the vomit down.

"Um, well, yeah," I muttered, "that might have something to do with it."

I scurried off to the bar, ducking under high-fives and between grumblings of discontent. I had broken a sweat by the time I got there.



The bartendress, whom I barely know, looked at me quizzically. "You okay?"
"Uh. Yeah. Well. I don't know. I, um..."

I couldn't contain myself. I lowered my voice and confessed quickly, "Shit. Look, I just kicked this guy in the nuts and he wants a vodka rocks."
"What?"
"It was an accident. Seriously. Favre threw that pick and I don't know, I just convulsed or something. Memories. That guy," I pointed, "had just thought he had broken his ribs on the corner of your back-up bar over there in the corner and I was helping him and - "

"By kicking him in the balls?" she asked a little loudly, in my opinion. We both glanced about.
"Dammit, Kristen, you're from Wisconsin!" I hissed across the bar at her. "Spooner, for shit's sake. Hell, I was born like two hours from there. You know how we get about football!"

She paused, poised to escalate the situation but then conceded, not in words, but by rolling her eyes, turning slowly and reaching for the bottle of Grey Goose. Her pace then quickened. She snatched a rocks glass off the bar back and plunged it into the bin of ice at her thighs. She silently tipped the vodka into the glass. The ice crackled and split. I sighed and pressed my left forefinger and thumb into the corners of eyes.

"Can you please pour me a Maker's in the same fashion?" I asked through my best smile.

"Do I need to call an ambulance?" she whispered. "Or the fucking cops?" She looked me directly in the eyes during the second question with the look that women unilaterally have when they are making a very distinct point to someone like me.

"I don't think so for the first question. And definitely no regarding the latter," I said.

She repeated the process for my whiskey.

I took a healthy sip of the drink she poured me. It was good. Smoky. A little sweetness to it. It stung a little, too. The inevitable fine line between warmth and burning. How women and whiskey can be the same is a mystery I'll never solve. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I picked up the vodka for the newly wounded and turned to leave. To go make amends, that is.

"Wait," she said. She turned her back to me for a moment. She pirouetted again and slid a folded bar napkin across the marble top of the bar. She darted off without saying a word to get another patron another drink. Duty calls.

To this day, I have no idea what I did with that damned napkin.