Frank remembers buying his purple 93’ Ford Ranger: all the pain, anxiety, and stress on that day, as if he were a California Sky-Scraper at the mercy of a raging earthquake. Frank can’t remember much before that moment, except this buzzing, repetitive mantra screaming, “it is dead, it is dead, it is dead”. During his ‘escape’ (as he calls it), Frank felt guided to purchase this snow plow he found in a small Minnesota town. He doesn’t know why he bought it, but he did. Frank spent the last part of November trying to find snow, which lead him to Brookland Mills, Wisconsin. Frank emerges from the reclined driver’s seat around 2:30 Am, starts the truck, and begins to plow. Frank takes pride in his plowing, often waking up earlier and earlier to clear the challenging parking lots before their crew arrives. Frank spends this time trying to find his lost narrative. He feels like a confused audience member that arrived late to the movie. He feels meaningless, like he slipped into the shadows. He wipes the tears streaming from his eyes as the plow pulls out of the parking lot he calls home.  The moment the metal blade hits the snow, Frank transitions out of oblivion and becomes something: a guide for travelers. The sharp scrape of the metallic plow-edge gives Frank a refuge, he has a story: he is clearing a street. He wishes that he could just clear all the snow and not have to deal with his raging mind. Ideally, he could keep plowing forever, never ceasing. The plow cleared the main street and turned right into a large neighborhood currently under development, which hasn’t been cleared, giving Frank a jolt of hot excitement, fulfilling a duty.
Louis woke up sharply, like a balloon that’s been put next to a light ready to pop, with Tommy pounding on his mattress a few inches from his lips. “Snow-plow” Tommy yelled. Louis snorted and began to rise, and regain consciousness. “Let me change” Louis sleepily muttered.  Louis was Tommy’s Caregiver. Tommy – who had severe autism – needed someone to help him with adult responsibilities. Louis quickly put on a hoodie and some slippers and met Tommy in his beat-up minivan.  The van navigated the barren snowy streets and arrived at Big Boy around 2 in the morning. Tommy becoming increasingly more and more excited as they entered the restaurant. Louis was told about Tommy’s fixation with snowplows when he took the job, initially he found it frustrating to wake up so early every snowy morning, but got over it. Tommy always orders a hamburger and a coffee, always eating it in exactly 25 minutes whilst looking exclusively out the frosty window in hopes of seeing a snowplow. Louis has timed it. Tommy finished promptly at 2:35 and insisted on pursuing the snowplow. Louis follows a purple truck that departs from the Taco bell across the street from the Big Boy. Louis shoveled in his doughnut, left $8 on the table and followed an excited Tommy back into the van. The van swiftly drove through the intersection and waited for the Purple truck to start. This routine is so engrained in Louis’s head that he often gets lost in thoughts. Louis attended a mildly prestigious Liberal Arts college, in hopes of “doing something meaningful”. He tried everything: science, literature, math, philosophy, but couldn’t find something that he found worthwhile leading Louis to switch his major multiple times over 6 years  thus acquiring a fairly sizeable debt, forcing him into this job. Louis really doesn’t like being a caregiver, he feels that he sold his life and became Tommy, like he traded consciousness with Tommy and took control of Tommy’s story and not his own. Louis finds his life incredibly depressing, he feels trapped. Louis assumes his life is much like the snowplow he closely follows, clearing paths, but bound to them, stuck. Louis had always dreamed of being regarded as a young genius, but as years increase, his dreams feel like they’re hanging off of him with a single wire like the bumper on the pick-up in front of him. Like the truck, he feels rusty, declining, held together with tape, helping people get places but not going anywhere yourself. He feels like his prime is behind him, in a weird mix of emotion that Louis deems “like missing the school bus on the first day of school amplified by 1000”. Louis watched Tommy, engrossed with this plow. Louis wished he could find something so fascinating, so meaningful. He’s never been engrossed with anything. The van followed the truck into a neighborhood, currently in development. The van continued to follow the purple guide down the curvy streets until both reach an undeveloped part of the new neighborhood. The Purple truck stops. Louis watches the driver open his door and walk out into the field.
“Why’d he stop!?!” Tommy blasts.
Louis didn’t hear him, he was too focused on the walking man. The man sits cross-legged in the snow about 200 yards from the road, not acknowledging the minivan. Louis doesn’t know why, but he feels like this moment will be a guide marker for his life: everything will be remembered as occurring before or after this period. He stares at the husky driver, frantically – yet, unsuccessfully – trying to create meaning out of his action, a glimpse of clear intentions, failing, yet somehow knows this experience will be incredibly meaningful. Louis felt frozen. He doesn’t know how much time went by before Tommy punched Louis’s cheek in a rage pulling Louis back in, but it felt like a lifetime. Louis knew that something inside him had fundamentally changed, akin to a computer that’s been fixed by turning it off then back on: something inside him may still be broken, but in that moment, he was functioning.
Frank felt the wet snow engulf his pants as he sat. He watched the birds take refuge in the pines surrounding him. He felt the wind scrape against his skin, burning it. He watched a lone squirrel retreat from its high perch in search of food. He watched the deer, judging him as a threat or not. He heard the nearby road roaring with traffic, he watched the snowflakes slowly descend to his level. He felt hunger consume his stomach. He watched the sun infiltrate the night. He let go of his narration and just listened.