A Showy, Showy Night

I threaded my way through the streets, the empty streets, when I saw the first one. He was parked back off the road and had his headlights off, but the interior light was on and I could see him, hunched over a newspaper. It if hadn't been for the huge plow attached to the front of the truck I wouldn't have given it another thought, but as it was I wondered why he was even out. It hasn't snowed yet and there's nothing for a snowplow driver to do.
I drove on, letting the scene slip into the back of my mind and it was three blocks later when I saw the next one. He was stopped at a light and as I crossed his path I had to ask again, "Why are the snowplows out tonight?"
At Preston I had to stop and across my path, on the green, another snowplow trundled down the street. This was too much and I slipped in behind him. I guess curiosity was getting to me, but there was also a fair bit of indignation rising; indignation at the thought that the city was paying for at least three snowplows to drive around looking for snow that might not come for another three weeks.
I stayed a healthy distance behind the plow, until I noticed another coming up behind me and further back in the distance I could make out two more. I turned at the next cross street to let them all pass and I counted six in all, following the first one. This was looking more and more suspicious all the time and I followed now, further behind, spying on what they were up to. If it wasn't for the fact that seven snowplows make a lot of noise I would have guessed they were trying to be stealthy. I got lost after the third or forth turn and it wasn't until we stopped that I had a chance to get my bearings.
They had pulled into an enormous paved field to meet their brothers, about forty of them, all at the wheels of a city snowplow. At first I didn't recognize the place but then by a twitch of memory and some imagination, I did. You would have recognized it too if it had been filled with tons of snow, piled to the sky. Snow mixed into a gritty slurry of offal from our city streets, forming the dirtiest, most foul snowhill, a twisted fantasy to anybody with a sled. It was the dumping ground, empty on this early November night, except for close to fifty snowplows now driving in a huge circle, their lights casting about for any signs of intruders.

I can't say how long I was there, trapped in a state of near panic at being discovered while the crazed scene developed in front of my eyes. Part Masonic ceremony, part devil invocation, part feverish celebration during which at least three small cars were symbolically buried under a pretend load of snow, represented by a close to a ton of bleached wood chips followed by drive by laneway blockages and all the while the voices of the drivers could be heard over the noise of those massive engines as they cheered each pass and called out to their leader, who stood above the crowd in the bucket of the biggest truck there. At last he called for calm and with fifty trucks pointing at him he gave thanks to the skies, the city and lead a prayer for a bigger budget.

It was then that I finally found my bearings and could move away, back into the night, creeping to my car, still terrified that I would be discovered and sacrificed; used to consecrate the base of the mammoth snowhill to come. All the way home I tried to calm my fears, telling myself that no matter how powerful they were right now, these men would be out of a budget by January 15th at the latest. But I'm not so certain I'm backing the right guys. I've always supported their cries for more money, in the past, now, however, I'm not so sure we aren't all locked into a never-ending battle with the forces of evil. Be brave, citizens. We need them and in our need they will come, but they're already out spending the money for this year's snow removal and I fear we may not make it to the other side of winter.