Clayton Shirk

Snowfall

As he crosses the street to the church, carrying with him an aluminum baseball bat and the remaining beers in the 15 pack (maybe there’s 10 left, maybe there’s five, he does not know), as his foot crosses the curb that separates the road and the church’s parking lot, one snowflake flutters down from the night sky and lands on his nose. The cold touch stops him in his tracks, and his eyes cross to look at the snowflake. It’s November. Last winter it hadn’t snowed anything worth a damn. It dawns on him that it may’ve been two whole years since he saw snow.

Somewhere inside of him, this upset his inner child.

The snowflake melts into water, and he wipes it away with his bare arm.

I don’t need another drunk in my life, she’d said.

The church parking lot was large, four laps around it would equal a mile and some change. It sloped downhill, and he walked down the lot in an uneven ramble, not completely steady on his feet, but not at risk of falling.

One night two months ago, while walking home from work and taking a shortcut through this very parking lot, a Dodge Challenger approached him from the darkness, headlights off, and did donuts around him, leaving behind ¾ of a circle made of skidmarks. Walking down the parking lot now, he sees the skid marks are still there. His eyes linger on them as he walks towards them, over them, past them.

I don’t need another immature adult to take care of, she’d said.

At the bottom of the parking lot is a concrete basketball court. Six poles stick out from the ground, each one meant to be a basketball pole. Back when the church had doubled as a school, this court was taken care of, cleaned, the cracks in it paved over, any broken net or backboard repaired or replaced.

The school has been closed for close to 12 years now. The only pole that still functions as a basketball net is one a the top of the court. The rest of them are bent out of shape, missing rims, missing backboards entirely. Weeds stick out of the cracks that fracture across the court like lightning in the night sky. A metal trash can is tipped over, garbage spread over the grass.

The snow has really begun now.

You know I hate drunk people, she’d said.

The bottom of the parking lot turns a sharp right, into a narrow road that leads to the back of the church. This road has its own cracks and potholes. Really, to call most of them potholes is being too polite. Some of these pits go down at least a foot. When it rains, an unaware passerby could mistake these canyons for small puddles. Won’t they be surprised when they’re suddenly face down on the asphalt, missing a tooth, bleeding from their nose, their ankle twisted, shin deep in water.

Do what you want, honestly, but don’t talk to me while you do it, she’d said.

At the end of the narrow road, taking another right, he arrives at the back parking lot of the church. This too has fallen into a state of disrepair. More weeds sticking out of cracks, more potholes. The grass has begun to have its tips frosted.

This is his destination. Not the parking lot exactly, but further down it. The dumpsters.

Above the dumpsters, sitting high above it all on the brick wall of the church, is a light. A mostly useless light. It does not send down a steady stream of illumination. Instead, it flickers between three states: bright, dim, and off. Each stage lasts less than a minute. The off stage lasts the longest.

This is okay, though. He does not need artificial light. The falling snow reflects the moonlight, an all encompassing pale blue that leaves no shadow. It too fills the air with a sound, a soft hissing as the flakes reach the ground. The weight they carry absorbs all sounds around it.

He has become very aware of his footsteps. Of his breathing. Of the weight of the beers, of the baseball bat.

Just, like, leave me alone. You can’t fuck that up, she’d said.

He has arrived at the dumpsters. He drops the pack of beer on the ground. He readies the bat, takes a few practice swings. He stretches his shoulders, cracks his neck.

He reaches into the pack and removes a can of beer. He tests the weight of it in his hand. The snow lands on his arms, melts off from his body heat. He realizes he is only wearing basketball shorts and a black polo shirt. He’ll catch a cold.

He readies himself. He tosses the beer can in the air. It rises into the ether, pushing the snow upwards. It begins its descent back down to earth. The light above is at its most bright.

He’s brought the bat up above his head, in the stance he’s had ingrained in him from years of little league, from varsity baseball.

You make it so hard to love you, she’d said.

In one clean motion, he thwacks the can of beer with the might of God, and the can might as well have joined the Lord, for our man loses track of it as soon as it makes contact with the bat. He looks around himself. In front, in back. Side to side. The thing is gone. Lost into the snowfall ether. The light above goes off.

He twirls the bat around, stretching his back. He reaches into the pack of beers, removes another one.

He weighs it. He tosses it.

I’ll quit for you, he’d told her.

Thwack.

I’ll believe it when I see it, she’d replied.

He squints into the sky, into where he feels it must have gone. But there is nothing but flakes.

It has joined the Lord.

This is it. This is quitting, he thinks.

Grab, weigh.

I’m many things.

Toss.

But I am not a liar.

Thwack.

And maybe she’ll finally realize that.

The Lord.

Rinse and repeat until all he has left is a damp cardboard box. He flattens it and tosses it into the recyclables dumpster. He breathes out, and he sees his breath. The vapor floats into the air. It vanishes. And, for a reason he cannot explain, this brings him peace. This tells him he’s doing alright. That’s all he needed to hear.

Clayton Shirk is a cashier.

Clayton Shirk

Snowfall

As he crosses the street to the church, carrying with him an aluminum baseball bat and the remaining beers in the 15 pack (maybe there’s 10 left, maybe there’s five, he does not know), as his foot crosses the curb that separates the road and the church’s parking lot, one snowflake flutters down from the night sky and lands on his nose. The cold touch stops him in his tracks, and his eyes cross to look at the snowflake. It’s November. Last winter it hadn’t snowed anything worth a damn. It dawns on him that it may’ve been two whole years since he saw snow.

Somewhere inside of him, this upset his inner child.

The snowflake melts into water, and he wipes it away with his bare arm.

I don’t need another drunk in my life, she’d said.

The church parking lot was large, four laps around it would equal a mile and some change. It sloped downhill, and he walked down the lot in an uneven ramble, not completely steady on his feet, but not at risk of falling.

One night two months ago, while walking home from work and taking a shortcut through this very parking lot, a Dodge Challenger approached him from the darkness, headlights off, and did donuts around him, leaving behind ¾ of a circle made of skidmarks. Walking down the parking lot now, he sees the skid marks are still there. His eyes linger on them as he walks towards them, over them, past them.

I don’t need another immature adult to take care of, she’d said.

At the bottom of the parking lot is a concrete basketball court. Six poles stick out from the ground, each one meant to be a basketball pole. Back when the church had doubled as a school, this court was taken care of, cleaned, the cracks in it paved over, any broken net or backboard repaired or replaced.

The school has been closed for close to 12 years now. The only pole that still functions as a basketball net is one a the top of the court. The rest of them are bent out of shape, missing rims, missing backboards entirely. Weeds stick out of the cracks that fracture across the court like lightning in the night sky. A metal trash can is tipped over, garbage spread over the grass.

The snow has really begun now.

You know I hate drunk people, she’d said.

The bottom of the parking lot turns a sharp right, into a narrow road that leads to the back of the church. This road has its own cracks and potholes. Really, to call most of them potholes is being too polite. Some of these pits go down at least a foot. When it rains, an unaware passerby could mistake these canyons for small puddles. Won’t they be surprised when they’re suddenly face down on the asphalt, missing a tooth, bleeding from their nose, their ankle twisted, shin deep in water.

Do what you want, honestly, but don’t talk to me while you do it, she’d said.

At the end of the narrow road, taking another right, he arrives at the back parking lot of the church. This too has fallen into a state of disrepair. More weeds sticking out of cracks, more potholes. The grass has begun to have its tips frosted.

This is his destination. Not the parking lot exactly, but further down it. The dumpsters.

Above the dumpsters, sitting high above it all on the brick wall of the church, is a light. A mostly useless light. It does not send down a steady stream of illumination. Instead, it flickers between three states: bright, dim, and off. Each stage lasts less than a minute. The off stage lasts the longest.

This is okay, though. He does not need artificial light. The falling snow reflects the moonlight, an all encompassing pale blue that leaves no shadow. It too fills the air with a sound, a soft hissing as the flakes reach the ground. The weight they carry absorbs all sounds around it.

He has become very aware of his footsteps. Of his breathing. Of the weight of the beers, of the baseball bat.

Just, like, leave me alone. You can’t fuck that up, she’d said.

He has arrived at the dumpsters. He drops the pack of beer on the ground. He readies the bat, takes a few practice swings. He stretches his shoulders, cracks his neck.

He reaches into the pack and removes a can of beer. He tests the weight of it in his hand. The snow lands on his arms, melts off from his body heat. He realizes he is only wearing basketball shorts and a black polo shirt. He’ll catch a cold.

He readies himself. He tosses the beer can in the air. It rises into the ether, pushing the snow upwards. It begins its descent back down to earth. The light above is at its most bright.

He’s brought the bat up above his head, in the stance he’s had ingrained in him from years of little league, from varsity baseball.

You make it so hard to love you, she’d said.

In one clean motion, he thwacks the can of beer with the might of God, and the can might as well have joined the Lord, for our man loses track of it as soon as it makes contact with the bat. He looks around himself. In front, in back. Side to side. The thing is gone. Lost into the snowfall ether. The light above goes off.

He twirls the bat around, stretching his back. He reaches into the pack of beers, removes another one.

He weighs it. He tosses it.

I’ll quit for you, he’d told her.

Thwack.

I’ll believe it when I see it, she’d replied.

He squints into the sky, into where he feels it must have gone. But there is nothing but flakes.

It has joined the Lord.

This is it. This is quitting, he thinks.

Grab, weigh.

I’m many things.

Toss.

But I am not a liar.

Thwack.

And maybe she’ll finally realize that.

The Lord.

Rinse and repeat until all he has left is a damp cardboard box. He flattens it and tosses it into the recyclables dumpster. He breathes out, and he sees his breath. The vapor floats into the air. It vanishes. And, for a reason he cannot explain, this brings him peace. This tells him he’s doing alright. That’s all he needed to hear.

Clayton Shirk is a cashier.

back to top