A light snow
had been falling against the windshield of the black F350 Super Duty for the
list few hours. The four travelers were headed north on back roads with their
heat blasting and their windows open, searching for a cabin somewhere in Vermont.
The
driver spoke, "Where I'm taking you, you must promise to never
return."
A
young buck in the back said, "You kidding me? I couldn't find this place
again if you gave me an address and a smartphone."
"All
that proves is you don't know how to use your phone," said a red-bearded
man who sat in the backseat across from the speaker.
The
F350 slowed at a driveway that was immaculately plowed in spite of the snow, but there
was no mailbox to indicate a number. No, there. As the headlights swept across
the woods when the truck turned onto the drive, there, about 3 feet back from
the road, was a rusty grey box that had been the target of mailbox baseball so
many times I doubt it would even open.
The door to the cabin opened as the
forth door of the F350 slammed shut. Standing on the porch was a man with a
long grey beard pointing a shot gun, lazily in their direction.
"Oh shit," said one of the
passengers, "What'd you get us into Rig?"
"Keep your mouth shut Barry and
you might just live through this," the driver said, then called up to the
porch, "You going to kill us old man?"
The shot-gunner's beard waggled as
he spoke. "Not unless I confused the buckshot and the rock salt again."
"Let us in Mister Henderson, we
won't stay long. Can't. Not with snow falling like this. Me and my guys gotta
get back to Worcester county before we get the call. You still remember what
it's like wondering if it's better to go to sleep or just stay up waiting for
the call? I know we're gonna be out there until seven am. Snow like this,
people gonna wanna ski, if the state don't call us Wachusettes will."
"Shit." The shotgun
lowered, "I knew you'd be coming one of these days. I knew I should've
moved to Maine."
There were no lights in the small two-room
cabin, save the glow that came from the
fireplace.
Above the mantle was a glass case containing a football signed by Matt
Cavanaugh of the '82 New England Patriots. By the time Henderson had finished
hanging the gun up above the door, three of the four visitors had positioned
themselves in chairs around the fire.
"Whaddya want Ron?"
Henderson asked.
"Oh, shit, you're name's
Ron?" said the youngest of the crew. Turning to Henderson he said,
"We all call him Big Rig 'cause he drives the dump truck. He can clear a
whole lane, including the shoulder going fifty-five, practically in his sleep."
"Respect your elders boy, who
do you think taught him how to plow in his sleep?"
"I'm guessing you?"
"You're goddamn right! Now,"
he said turning back to Ron, "Ask me what you came here to ask."
Rig/Ron the driver of the F350
cleared his throat, "We..."
"Goddamnit Ron I'm retired. The
day I got my last check Betsy made me promise not to plow a road other than my
own driveway."
"Just hear me out mister
Henderson. It isn't just me that needs you, your county needs you."
Henderson pointed
toward the door, "It's not my county
anymore! I made a promise!" he yelled with fire in his eyes.
"Haven't you been listening
Mark Henderson?" Yelled a voice from the other side of the cabin, and out
of the bedroom walked a slim woman in a tight fitting satin nightgown. Her grey
hair was cut short like a man's and showed of the length of her neck. Her face looked
like a combination between Jamie lee Curtis and Sigourney Weaver. "To hell
with your promise; these boys need your help."
Henderson sighed, "Boys, this
is Betsy. Go ahead and introduce yourselves."
As each introduced themselves in
turn Betsy approached them and shook each of their hands. A red-bearded man in
his mid-forties came first, he tipped his John Deer Hat and grinned at her
through a grill of tobacco-yellowed teeth. "They call me Sandman. Used to
be called The Spreader, but once my reputation got around--"
"Once your crabs got
around!" said the youngest, and Ron slapped back of his head. Betsy
approached him next, "Barry," he said taking her hand and kissing the
back. "I'm The Blower." He was the youngest of the group but far and
away the tallest. Barry played linebacker in highschool, praying someone would
scout him, but eventually realized that God wanted him to plow.
Betsy moved on. "Ron, it's good
to see you again."
"You too Betsy."
"How's Martha?"
"Still kicking, I just replaced
her rear differential."
Betsy moved on to the last member of
the group, and the only one who kept his distance from the fire. He was wearing
navy-blue quilt-lined coveralls with "Mr. Plow" embroidered across
the back. "And I suppose you work for Mr. Plow?"
"No ma'am. I AM Mr. Plow,"
she shook his hand, clearly impressed. "Our fleet of trucks keep the
streets of Worchester county free and clear of snow 365 days of the year."
"Ron, you've hired outside
help. This must be serious," Betsy said.
"I'm afraid it's the other way
around, Mr. Plow is bankrolling this operation," Ron said.
Henderson pulled up a chair, and sat
in the firelight. "Let's not put the salt before the grader boys, tell me
the situation."
Mr. Plow nodded at Ron, so Ron
started first. "No secret that plowin's a big business, and Mr. Plow has a
fistful of high-end contracts. Few years back he finds a sweet honey that seems
to be into him, talks him into buying her a wedding ring, they get married the
whole deal. Few weeks back he finds out she's been cheetin' on him with the
postmaster. Probably the whole time. Now no one said nothing about
pre-meditated, but Henderson you and I both know this war between the plows and
the post office wasn't over."
Barry scratched his head, "How
it all start anyway?"
"No one knows," said
Henderson, the fire lighting his face from below. "Some say it was them,
deliberately losing important mail, paychecks, bills, and such. Some say it we
brought it on ourselves not being more careful about burying-in, or just plan knocking
over mailboxes--"
Barry clenched his fists and
shouted, "If it's up to them, they'll keep pushing mailbox guidelines
until the boxes are in the middle of the goddamned road! Six to eight,
forty-one to forty-five inches my ass! Get some longer arms!"
"Barry!" Ron hollered,
"Behave yourself, or so help me God I will put you back on blowing
sidewalks."
Barry looked down, "Sorry
sir."
Ron continued, "It doesn't
matter who started the war, what does matter is that Henderson ended it back in
oh-three. Or so we thought. Seems like the mail pushers want some salt in their wounds."
"Then let's give it to
them!" Sandman said.
"So you want me to come out of
retirement over some small town politics?" Henderson said.
"Haven't you been listening?"
Betsy said, bringing a pot of strong coffee and refilling each of their plastic
Duckin' travel mugs, "The man's wife is sleeping with the enemy. Probably
always was. This may be small town for now, but once word gets out how the P.O.
took down Mr. Plow, it's only a matter of time before our mailbox is stuffed
tighter than Mary's cooch with catalogs we never asked for."
Henderson grumbled. "Who's
going to take care of my driveway while I'm out causing ruckus with you?"
The question went unanswered and Henderson looked in each of their eyes and saw
helplessness. "Fine. What's the plan?"
"That's why we're here,"
Ron said, "I'm the muscle, Barry's the tech, Sandman's the cleaner, Mr.
Plow is the millionaire, obviously. And you're--"
"I'm the veteran."
Mr. Plow said, "Mrs. Plow's
attorney mailed the divorce paperwork yesterday via registered mail, which
means it got delivered to Worchester for processing will be on the road to my
house tomorrow. Once that envelope gets to my house it's white-out for Mr.
Plows'."
Henderson stared into Mr. Plows
face, "That isn't going to happen, son."
#
3:28am
Exterior of a
fenced-in post office parking lot with five mail trucks covered in snow. Close-up
on the gate as some black-gloved hands pick the lock. A wrecker with its lights
off slowly backs through the gate, and a team gets out and quickly and
systematically changes the tires of each of the mail trucks.
#
7:58am
The postmaster
approaches the post office and finds that a small pile of snow has been pushed
in front of the gate. He chuckles. "Pathetic," he says, and personally
blows the snow out of the way.
#
11:58am
A registered
letter addressed to Mr. Plow arrives on a postal worker's desk, they look at
it, begin to enter it into the system, and decide to take their lunch break
instead.
#
1:00pm
The worker
returns from lunch, enters something into the computer and slips the letter
into a mailbag. Close-up on the mail bag as it's loaded into a mail truck. The
door closes and the engine starts up.
#
3:47pm
From above we
watch the mail truck along its route but suddenly the road is covered in snow
as if it hadn't been plowed since the night before. The mail truck fishtails,
but the driver controls the skid and continues on at a slower, more cautious
pace. The camera pulls out, to a bird's eye view and we can see that all of the
roads are clear except the mile long section of road where the mail truck is.
Half a mile up the road is a line of dump trucks spewing snow out all over the
place, and half a mile behind the mail truck is another plow cleaning up the
snow. A radio transmission breaks the suspenseful music, "Goddamn it,
Barry, you blew it again. You were supposed to put on the worst tires you could
find! I guess that's why the call you the Blower!"
"It's not my fault! Those
trucks are driving on treads balder than Bruce Willis! This guy's just a really
good driver."
"Wrong again, Barry, it's a
woman!"
"Cut the chatter Rig 2, I'm
sending in the Frost Giant!"
#
4:13pm
Interior of
the mail truck looking out. The wipers are smearing salty grit back and forth
across the windshield. The driver pulls the washer fluid lever and we see the
last few drops sputter out. She curses. The windshield get steadily worse and then,
like a ghost ship emerging from the fog we see a huge plow come around the
corner straight at her. Realizing she's in the middle of the road she swerves
and as the plow passes the windshield is covered in a cresting wave of snow. She
hits something and the airbag punches the screen white. Seconds later the sound
of another plow coming from behind throws another wave of snow crashing on the
mail truck.
#
The mail woman
tries to open her door, but can't. She tries the passenger side, but it too is
stuck. Just as she's climbing out of the back door, a wrecker comes around the
corner, and she flags it down. It stops and Sandman gets out. "Care for a
pull?" he asks. "Why don't you come warm up in the cab and I'll see
if I can't get you out of this."
Sandman opens
a compartment to take out a chain to attach to the mail truck, and inside is a
small teenage girl. Sandman checks to make sure the mail woman isn't watching
and nods to the girl, "It's all you Maria, go sneak in the back and find that letter."