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"People don't mean it literally." The snow was calf high, and Jacob had to put considerable effort into walking forward, lifting his feet up and over and stomping through. "It's, like, the emotion of it. Not literally Hell, or literally a black sail. How it makes you feel."
Gregory trudged behind him, shaking powder from the cuff of his slacks after each step. No others passed through the empty street, just the two teachers and a tiny white sun overhead. "I know that, Jacob. I mean--" Gregory frowned as Jacob's back foot flung snow onto his thigh. "I mean, I just expected flames."
Jacob stopped. "Yeah, I guess I did too." He tilted his head as Gregory came to stand beside him, the latter patting powder from his legs. "It was a little misleading. I hope it wasn't disappointing, though."
To that Gregory gave a little half-shrug, which Jacob had learned to not take to heart. It was just Gregory. And Gregory didn't emote like he did.
Everything was where they'd left it, thankfully. The storm had put the city to sleep. Jacob had skidded here on half-plowed roads, his legs stuck out to catch every time he fell. The whole time he'd seen only one car.
"Okay!" Jacob slipped off his mittens, pocketing them in exchange for his ski gloves, one of the few things he'd managed to take from Albany before his room was stripped, gutted, and fitted with a treadmill and weights and big inspirational Nike posters with 'Just Do it' in bright, white letters, all pasted over his pictures of Pete Wentz, which he never did manage to find. "Let's get to work."
Gregory just grunted, and the two bent into action. Like a dog, Jacob pawed snow backwards between his open legs. Gregory, more methodical, used his personal, engraved trowel, a gift from his father for his 21st birthday and a rare sentimentality. The idea was to clear enough snow to open the shed and grab some shovels, and from there they could unearth the rest of the garden.
Gregory, idly, was sort of unsure as to why Jacob had agreed to help him. In fact, despite Gregory's relentless planning beforehand, Jacob had been the one to actually pressure him into action. Gregory's passively anxious suggestion in their three-man group chat had been taken by the redhead and snowballed (no pun intended) into actively anxious movement. Jacob was apt to do this. He seemed to love jumping into things head-first, with little thought for consequence. He was easily swept up into joyous destruction or protest or, like now, vaguely defined "community action." Gregory, after finding Jacob sprawled on an empty street, his bike upside down with the wheel still spinning, had driven his coworker the rest of the way to Abbott and endured a long speech on how gardens are community centers and thus a top priority for rebuilding after this storm.
Gregory didn't disagree. He just didn't have so much to say.
Now, however, Jacob was silent, red-faced, huffing as he slung out snow in big handfuls. For a moment, Gregory stood silent, trowel at his side. Jacob was all consumed. His small brown eyes sat narrowed, focused on his task, black-gloved hands moving rapidly, almost manic. Quickly, he cleared enough for Gregory to open the door.
Grabbing a shovel, Jacob spun around and marched awkwardly into the drift. "I think we should have a plan." He stuck the shovel in the snow, upright, leaning on the handle with a wide grin, lips cracked and pale. The whites of his eyes shone around his entire iris, glittery with delight. "Like, left to right, or over, or something."
"Yes." Gregory surveyed the garden. His plans for the excavation of his goofballs' garden had kept him up all night. They needed a place to dump the snow, and a way to get it there. They had to work slowly and in layers. Ideally, he'd've come out throughout the storm and worked incrementally. This, of course, had not been possible. Now he had to work with a foot of snow and a hyperactive dog of a coworker. "Here's what we're going to do."
Gregory directed Jacob to the front steps. Slowly, the duo began with small chunks, scraping the top and depositing it on the road for a roaming plow to catch.
"How's Janine?" Jacob lifted another shovel of snow, tossed it into the street. "At home all cozied up?"
Gregory nodded.
"She didn't want to come out and shovel with us?"
He shook his head. Jacob gave a dramatic pout, leaned on his shovel.
"Aww. I wish she were here. The whole After School Crew… back together again!" His head tilted, eyes drifting away. "But that's alright. She deserves a little break."
Again, Gregory nodded. The storm, having appeared out of nowhere due to wild gusts from the North and the humidity of a failed hurricane from the East, had sent the Philadelphia school system into a tailspin, shutting down nearly every school in the greater Eastern Pennsylvania/New Jersey/Delaware region. Which meant the shutdown, too, of the public transport system, and, consequently, the whole city. But Gregory decided early on to brave the snow drifts and shovel his garden, even though the cold front would be gone tomorrow and it wouldn't take clearing more than half a foot for the sun to melt the rest.
After the blizzard ended around noon, Gregory deliriously texted the After School Crew group chat about his plans to clear the garden, and Jacob latched on to it like a tick to a dog. So now Gregory was sharing this potentially-meditative time with his earnestly excited coworker who seemed maniacally obsessed with pursuing his friendship. Why Gregory accepted, he wasn't sure. Maybe it had to do with the sickening realization he had actually (sort of) begun to enjoy his neurotic, talkative coworker and, even more hideously, started to consider him a friend. Horrifically: his best friend.
So now they stood side by side, bent over like two shrimps, shoveling a foot of snow from the steps of the elementary school where they both worked.
He picked up another shovel of snow, then looked over to Jacob, his Best Friend (shiver), who's eyes stared wide and maniacal as he whispered something unintelligible to himself and moved back and forth like a twitchy hamster. "Jacob." Gregory picked up a chunk of snow, mouth downturned.
Best Friend tilted his head, still shoveling. "Yeah?"
"Why are you here?" He turned, threw the snow clear across the street in a display of strength that made Jacob's smile drop to a little 'o' shape.
"Wow! That was awesome!"
"Jacob, seriously."
With intention, Jacob kept his eyes trained on the snow and his movements consistent. Despite his socially-oblivious nature, he had quickly picked up Gregory's avoidance of eye contact and, in a triumph against his boundary-crossing impulses, had accepted and even indulged this curious quirk. "You said you were coming, and I thought I'd help."
"Why?"
That gave Jacob pause. "What do you mean, why?" He stepped into the road to drop a shovel of snow. Some Liberal instinct wouldn't allow him to block the bike lane, even for the sake of the children.
"I mean," Gregory waited for Jacob on the sidewalk. They'd managed to clear most of the way to the garden. Displaced mounds of snow boasted their hard efforts. "It's five degrees out, and you don't have to be here, and you said you had big plans for your free time…" They watched as a plow drove mechanically down the street, sweeping their piles into oblivion. Jacob gave a smiley wave goodbye.
"Because you're my friend." He scratched at the base of his neck.
Gregory narrowed his eyes. From five years of forced proximity, he had become aware of each of his coworker's tells. Ava made too much eye contact. Barb started using pet names. Jacob scratched his neck.
"Are you sure?"
"What?" Jacob's face dropped. "Of course I'm sure! You're, like, my best friend. I love you, man!"
Gregory glanced at an imaginary camera. "Right. I mean, about why you're here?"
"Yeah. I just want to help out."
Letting the silence hang, Gregory kept his lips closed. Silence, he had learned, was what upset Jacob the most. Already he was squirming. The man was a good liar, some of the time. A wizard at poker and incredible at keeping his history to himself. But sometimes things bothered him too much for even vigorous, wild friendship to distract from, and the bug-eyed smile he'd worn all morning was beginning to slip. Gregory held the line. When a car passed, it carried some of the powdery snow down the road with it, fog-like.
"And, I mean," Jacob wore that clenched-teeth expression, where his lips opened just a bit and you could see both rows of tightly held pearly whites. "It's just nice to get some fresh air." Gregory held tight his shovel. Another car passed.
But Jacob didn't elaborate. He spun on his heel and returned to shoveling. Gregory wavered, then turned to join him. "How's Melissa, with the storm?"
"She's great." Jacob replied flatly.
"I bet she's enjoying the time alone."
"I bet she is." A beat. He threw a shovel full of snow over the fence. "She's--" he screwed his jaw shut, gave a dry smile. "I mean, she a Schemmenti, right?"
Another car passed. Gregory slowed, eyeing his friend.
"They love to drink."
Nodding, Gregory spoke carefully. "I mean, she certainly knows her wine."
"Yeah." Jacob slung a shovel of snow into the fence, sending half of it spattering back into the garden, the other into the air. He stilled, shovel vertical between two hands. His eyes clung to his shoes. "She's not belligerent, or anything. She's not-- not abusive, I guess." Jacob shrugged, waved a gloved hand dismissively but still didn't look up. "But she is… sloppy, I guess… Oh. That's such a mean thing to say." He tugged nervously at his ear. "But it's weird... It's-- it's like being a kid all over again, you know?"
Pushing layers of snow off the tarped-over garden beds, Gregory tilted his head to Jacob. He tried an encouraging look.
Gregory didn't really know much about Jacob's childhood. He knew he had a nu-metal phase, way after nu-metal was even really a thing. He'd a lost year as a juggalo, and got in trouble consistently for not running the mile. He wore a lot of jean culottes. He had freckles and braces and really bad acne.
And his dad was a pretty heavy drinker.
Like, license suspended heavy drinker.
That's all Gregory really knew. Jacob only ever told them one story, and it was really more Caleb telling it than him, both of the brothers competitively shitfaced after a dinner at Melissa's. Their dad, three sheets to the wind, thinking he was being funny but really so angry it blinded him, flung a frying pan with two sunnyside up eggs into the kitchen wall, missing Jacob's calf by half a foot. Shivering with laughter, Caleb had described how the eggs landed over the opening and made it look like the wall was screaming. Jacob had stared at his shoes, wearing a big, flat smile.
The same expression he wore now, sitting in the snow with gloved hands on his knees.
"I don't know why it bothers me so much." He whispered.
Trying to ignore the disgusting feeling of wet pants, Gregory sat gingerly beside him, mirroring his position with two hands on his knees. "It's just like being a kid again?" He asked carefully, repeating Jacob's earlier admission. Some weeks earlier and entirely unprompted, Barbara had given him a book on the action of empathy, which Gregory felt was probably a thinly veiled attempt at guidance. Janine's tight-lipped, polite smile confirmed whatever impulse Barbara acted upon was based in reality, and probably something to do with an incident a few days prior regarding a student's decapitated doll and her wailing reaction to Gregory's attempts at comfort (which involved a diagram, an un-practiced smile, and the fact dolls do not, in fact, go to heaven.)
Jacob's shoulders relaxed a bit. "Yeah." He looked up, eyes returned to their non-manic smallness. "Did your dad drink a lot?"
Gregory tilted his head. "Not a lot, not really." When Jacob didn't look away, he continued, moving his gaze to the store across the street. "I mean, he drank occasionally. Socially. Before my mom died. After that, never again. Maybe a beer if the Ravens are playing, but… not really."
A car passed, carrying the sound of wheels on wet snow. Jacob turned his gaze slowly to the half-covered garden. "I think mine drank pretty often. I mean, that I can remember." He blinked slowly. Wind blew a curtain of powdery snow from the roof and over their heads. "He slowed down a little when Caleb was born. But when Caleb was, like, two or three, he got arrested for drunk driving." His gaze twitched to snow-caked boots. "He almost lost his job, I mean. It's kind of crazy he didn't, well, actually, he worked for the police department--" Jacob rolled his eyes, "--so of course he didn't. But the whole thing-- everyone acted so normal. Even though Caleb and I were in the car, and a cop had to take us home. I must have been nine? Caleb doesn't remember. It's just funny to all of them, now." Jacob stretched his legs, pushed his hands against his thighs. "I don't know. I just think, like, I was thinking, 'oh shit, we could really die here, and Caleb is just a baby.'"
Shifting with a breeze, Gregory pushed his legs down, kept them just above the snow. The cold brightness of the sun reflected on the excavated tarps, cast blue halos onto the white. Jacob heaved a sigh, standing.
"Anyway. It doesn't matter now." His breath formed little clouds of steam in the winter air. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to trauma dump on you." That goofy smile returned as he grabbed Gregory's outstretched hand, pulling him up. "I hope your pants aren't too wet."
Gregory grimaced. "No, no at all." But the pain must've shown through his face, because Jacob gave a sad puppy frown and tried to pat the snow from his butt, sending Gregory flying. "Jacob!"
He snapped back, hands up. "Right, right. Sorry. My bad. You have snow on your… Um…" He gestured, the other hand still up.
"I know, I know," Gregory patted vigorously at his pants. When he felt sufficiently free of the powdery snow, he turned to Jacob. "You can always move out, you know. From Melissa's."
Picking up his shovel, Jacob shook his head. "Eh, I don't want to." A small smile warmed his pale face. "I get free food, my room is perfect, and I think I'm probably the most well protected person in the entire city." He handed Gregory his shovel. "She doesn't drink like this often. And, and when she does I can leave. I do leave."
Gregory held the shovel at ease. "Have you told her about it?"
"About what?"
"About…" He gestured lamely.
Jacob shook his head. "What's to say? Oh, my dad drank when I was a kid, so when you get drunk and start acting like him I get uncomfortable?"
Deadpan, Gregory blinked. "Yeah. That's exactly what you say."
"Mm," Jacob scooped a chunk of snow, flung it into the street. "I don't want her to think she can't drink in her own house, I mean, it's my issue, not hers."
"So, it's Melissa. She'll drink if she wants to, but maybe she can give you a heads up if she knows she'll be drinking a lot."
"Mm. Maybe."
Despite the cold seeping through the air, both teachers had shed their outer layers and shoveled comfortably in under-jackets. Nearly all the garden was visible. The tops of beds were all empty, the pathways clear. All that was left was the sidewalk, really. The drifts in the corners could stay, though it pained Gregory to say it.
Lifting with his legs, Gregory moved a pile of snow from the sidewalk. "You weren't dumping your issues on me, by the way." His mouth opened, then closed. It felt tacky, dry. "A month--" Gregory cleared his throat. "A month before my mom died, I remember my dad drinking. At least, one night. Mom had just gone to stay in the hospital, and he thought I was asleep." The white sun sparkled off the snow. Gregory let his shovel rest, painful, under two gloved palms. "But I could hear him downstairs. He was so drunk he couldn't get up. I had to basically pull him to bed."
Jacob nodded slowly, standing to his full height. He let the contents of his shovel drop. ”You don’t really talk about your mom much. Or your dad.” He spoke carefully, looking down.
“You don’t either.”
“No,” Jacob gave a toothy smile. “I guess I don’t.”
"Well," Gregory grasped mentally at everything he'd read. Listen, recognize, repeat. Create space. A safe space. God, he sounded like Jacob. He wanted to roll his eyes, but the part of him that was perfectly content alone, that had been content all 30 years of his life, had been beaten senseless by Jacob's relentless friendship. "Well, if you want to, you can tell me."
Jacob's head whipped up, a brow raised with half a smile, smirking.
Gregory pointed. "Fix your face."
"Right." Jacob squirreled his toothy grin to a close-lipped smile. "And ditto. On the sharing-- not, not the face." He blinked. "Your face is fine. I mean--"
Gregory held up a hand. "I get it."
"Yeah." Jacob's smirk broke into a full smile. "You get it."