Winter’s Magic
“Run man, run!” was all I could say after the snowball erupted on the picture glass window. It was time to get the hell-cat out of there and even though we were in danger of getting caught, the satisfaction of finally destructing the peace and quiet of Carter O’Malley put me on cloud nine. It was snowball time.
We had tried to hit that same window for three years. We went back once a week whenever there was enough snow on the ground to gather even one sphere of destruction. The window was wondrous, like peeking into a keyhole of a locked door. It called us. So we would crawl by in our vehicle each night, waiting for the perfect moment to thrust our wet, white balls onto the glass. But every single f-ing time, this guy, Carter, he would be sitting there in his Beyonce brown chair watching Jeopardy and painting his model soldiers.
What we would do was, we would stop the auto a block down and run up toward the house. That way there were no headlights. See, we tried the drive-by approach, but to no avail. But whenever one of us had the window in sight, and our arms cocked back like Tony Romo, Carter, that sonavabitch, would look directly at us. Then we would get spooked, miss the window, and then run off hoping he would chase us into the cold with nothing on but his Bottle Rocket housecoat.
We must have hit the bastard’s house fifty times.
But never the window. Not until Dustin Muirhead came along.
As Carter sat in his chair, unexpectant of the annihilation that was about to take place upon his window, Dustin and I rode in the back of R.C. Flemming’s truck. We tore through the quiet night with determination in our minds and rum in our bellies. When the house came into sight, Flemming slowed to a hault and Dustin jumped out of the bed of the Ford. Sprinting up to the house with no qualms, he fired a shot from about 12 feet away. Carter looked directly at the snowball as it crashed into his precious peering palace. The asshole didn’t believe for a second that it could happen to him.
But it did. And my satisfaction was handed to me from the gloves of Dustin J. Muirhead, III.
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