Brian Whitney is a recovering addict who loves to write. He shovels snow to pay the bills.
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I shovel snow for money. It has snowed a lot this year. I have heard, and I am pretty sure this is true, that more snow has fallen in the last month over the Northeast than has ever fallen in such a time period before
Through it all I stand outside, with a shovel in my hand, making my way around and around a large office building. I salt when it is icy, I scrape the walks to make sure the going is safe, and I shovel the larger amounts of snow that pile on the stairs.
I walk to work, sometimes at 2 or 3 AM. The wind blasts my face, my fingers get numb. I wonder, for the first time of the day, but not the last, why I am doing this.
I work in the heart of my city, and there are drunks leaving bars screaming and having snowball fights, the usual sketchy characters roaming around, and chicks in heels falling down, but then at some point it is just me, in the snow and the cold with a shovel.
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I like nights the best. I work in the heart of my city, and there are drunks leaving bars screaming and having snowball fights, the usual sketchy characters roaming around, and chicks in heels falling down, but then at some point it is just me, in the snow and the cold with a shovel. Once I get through that initial time when I am cold, when I want to quit, when my back feels like it is breaking, I get my second wind, and I work into the dawn, and throughout the day.
I circle around the building all day, keeping the walkway cleared for the business people, the shoppers that have to move around and spend money, and the few miserable tourists that were stupid enough to be in my city this time of year.
The building where I work is large. There are shops on the bottom floor, a restaurant, a bar, a high end hair salon. Then there are offices above, where lawyers and accountants ply their trades.
I am a writer, but not a wealthy one, and I am an addict. I need this money.
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I am 49. I am a writer, but not a wealthy one, and I am an addict. I need this money. It has been a long time since I have thought of having a real job, and of fitting in with normal society. Marriages, real jobs, financial security, that part of life is gone. So instead I clear the pavement, so normal society can move along on their way.
When I was younger I would have felt shame doing what I do. I would feel that those walking past me would think that I was a loser, and just the fact that they thought that would mean I wouldn’t have done it. With age comes a dignity about such things, I do what I do because I need to, and there is pride that comes with that.
Marriages, real jobs, financial security, that part of life is gone. So instead I clear the pavement, so normal society can move along on their way.
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Now I spend my days with my odd little cadre of shovelers, replete with the understanding that none of us could do what all the people inside do, and they couldn’t do what we do either.
The time that is usually the worst is between 7 and 9 AM, when they all come to work. They walk past with their eyes down, struggling against the elements. The world I live in for 10-12 hours is one that most of them can’t deal with for more than a minute. They squint, they scowl, they totter, they run.
The world I live in for 10-12 hours is one that most of them can’t deal with for more than a minute. They squint, they scowl, they totter, they run.
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But if I were to admit it, I could never last in their world either. I tried quite a few times. I worked in social services, I ran programs, I worked for large insurance companies. None of these jobs lasted, I couldn’t survive inside where it was warm. It scared me in there. I remember when getting fired stopped being something humiliating and started being something I expected. It was just a matter of how long I could last before they found out what I was up to.
I was a good liar back then. I would do anything to make people think I was something I was not. To me if would be a fate worse than death, it would be unimaginable, to be a 49 year old man pushing a shovel around in the city where I hung out. My whole scene was subterfuge, if you didn’t know who I really was, then you might hire me, or hang out with me, or have sex with me, but only if I could fool you.
I make what a bartender might make in a shift, but of course I am cold, and I am tired at the end of the shift, much more so than a bartender would be.
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We get paid more than people think. I make what a bartender might make in a shift, but of course I am cold, and I am tired at the end of the shift, much more so than a bartender would be.
I never know when I am going to work. I might not work for two weeks straight, then I might be working for 20 hours. I quit smoking, but when I shovel, I smoke. It can be a wind chill of minus 20 and I will stop and smoke. Any weapon you have in your arsenal, anything that you can use to get you through the day.
What would have been shaming a few years ago is now a source of pride. I can, and will, do what I need to do to survive.
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Of course I think of quitting. Almost every time I work I do. My boss is a friend, and I would feel stupid if I did. I would let him down. I would let me down too. What would have been shaming a few years ago is now a source of pride. I can, and will, do what I need to do to survive. I can, and will, do what I need to do to pursue my writing. At the end of the day, there is a peace that comes with hard work, and that peace is always welcome.
The guys I work with come and go. There are a few hardcores. A couple guys are 60 or so. They are in AA, and have been doing it for years, both of them are artists, and they both like to talk a lot. They do the building across the street, but they work for my boss too. They yell, and they run around. One of them even wears shorts sometimes. But they also are slow, sometimes when I am done with my building I have to go across the street and help them finish too.
I have worked with a lot of different people. One was a 23-year-old woman who has been clean of heroin for a week; she has a tattoo on her face that looks like a penis.
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My crew on my building varies. I am the only guy there every time. I have worked with a lot of different people. One was a 23-year-old woman who has been clean of heroin for a week; she has a tattoo on her face that looks like a penis. She showed up twice, the last time she sat down on the stairs and cried while she called on the phone for a ride.
Then there is a younger guy with a beard who is stoned all the time, The last time he worked his lip was swollen like a sausage, he got punched on the street after leaving a bar the night before because he imitated the way a girl talked as she walked past.
Last time I worked with a homeless guy my boss picked up at the shelter. He had sneakers on. He said he couldn’t feel his feet. He kept walking around carrying two shovels and bellowing. My boss paid him at the end of the day and gave him twice as much as he was owed. The next storm my boss brought in some boots for him, but he never came back.
Most of the people who walk past while I work treat me like I am invisible, and that is my favorite way to be treated of all.
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Most of the people who walk past while I work treat me like I am invisible, and that is my favorite way to be treated of all. Some say thank you, which is nice of course, but isn’t necessary. I am doing this because I am being paid, not because I am trying to help.
Others make jokes—they try to act like we are all in the same boat: “Man I am sick of this” or “Great weather huh?” In the past I would have been irritated by these people, but now I understand that they really are just trying to reach out to someone else on their planet, and that’s cool, it really is. But I still don’t need it, I want to be not seen and not heard. I want to just be a guy, shoveling snow.
I was up at 3 today and worked the whole day through, tomorrow it is supposed to snow again. I will be there.
Photo—momentcaptured1/Flickr