December, D.C. Snowfall; “Our American Dream”

Katie practically broke down my door she was knocking so hard. “Get your coat. We’re going,” she says, a bright smile on her face. “Journalists in the snow.”

It didn’t seem like I was going to have a choice in the matter. She already has her winter hat, jacket and gloves on.

Katie is from Wisconsin. Her accent isn’t nearly as thick as the actors and actresses on TV portray people from Wisconsin as having, though. She always has a bottle of whiskey and is always willing to share in the time of need. She says she wants to be an actress one day.

I look out my window and huge snowflakes are coming down; everything is beginning to turn white. “Lets go,” I say with a smile on my face, excited for the first snowfall of the season. I put my sweatshirt, my thick winter jacket and my scarf on. “This is going to be a fun.”

I run up the hall to find Chris and Deanna. I tell them the same. Katie runs to get Andy and Silvie. She tells them the same. They all agree.

I run down the hall to find Elissa, the girl I have had a crush on for the past few months.

“Get your coat. We’re going,” I tell her. Smiling big. My cheeks are probably bright red.

Elissa is from Ohio. I’ve often described her as being “the most beautiful girl in the world.” We talk a lot and sometimes we get coffee together. I never tell her the truth: “Whenever you smile, I smile.”

She agrees to come and play in the snow with us, too.

* * *

The seven of us stand there, on the front lawn of where we live: Tenley Town, a small northwest suburb of Washington, D.C. All of us are smiling; somewhere above us, shyly hiding behind the clouds, the moon is smiling, too. It is a beautiful night.

The street lamps illuminate the big, fat snowflakes slowly floating down from the night sky. The flakes collect like feathers on the ground; everything is white. In the distance I can here snow plows angrily scraping along the pavement, clearing the roadways for motorists; otherwise, everything is silent, everything is calm.

Chris brought a bottle of wine with him. He passes it to me, and I take a deep swig. As soon as the warm red wine hits the pit of my stomach I can feel my body becoming a little warmer. The warmth radiates from my stomach and spreads through my veins and through my limbs.

“You are a savior, my friend,” I say, smile on my face.

Chris is from New York City. He smokes a lot of pot and speaks French. He wants to be a writer one day, like Kerouac or Hemingway, and I have no doubt in my mind that he will be. Chris is a genuine person, an all around optimist and a good friend.

“Hey, Chris?” I yell, bottle of wine in my hand. “Is this The American Dream?”

All fall Chris and I had debated about what we believe The American Dream is. Up until tonight we had concluded that The American Dream is something between The Little League World Series, fireworks and receiving oral sex; now we could add the first snowfall of the season to that prestigious list.

“I think it might just be The American Dream, Jason,” Chris yells back; he and Deanna are wrestling each other on the snow covered grass. They are playfully pushing and pulling and clawing at each other. Chris has her in a headlock; he trips her and down they go into the snow. They lay there in the snow, a heap of loving, laughing, happy bodies not caring about the cold or anything.

Chris and Deanna have been together since their first week in Washington; ever since the night he asked her, “Je voudrais te donner un baiser?” Ever since then whenever I mention the name “Chris” to her, her cheeks blush bright red, kind of like a mackintosh apple, ripe for the fall picking.

Deanna is from Upstate, New York. Every night for dinner she eats macaroni and cheese and ice cream; it’s reminiscent of eating with a small child -- I always find myself amused by her youthful innocence. She is the kind of girl whose presence will brighten your day.

I tightly pack the powdery snow into a snowball and throw it out into the night. I turn and smile at Elissa and she smiles back at me. She looks really happy; the other five of my friends look really happy, too. I hope I look as happy as I feel.

Deanna brought her camera and every few minutes a bright flash illuminates the night for a brief second. “Hey Deanna, over here with that thing.” Deanna snaps a picture of Silvie and I, our arms around each other, bright smiles on our faces.

Silvie is from Massachusetts. When the Red Sox were playing the Yankees for the AL Pennant a month ago we would always jokingly fight. “Boston sucks,” I’d tell her. “At least we don’t buy The World Series every year,” she’d answer. I like Silvie.

After Silvie and I break our embrace, I scoop up a pile of snow off the sidewalk and playfully throw it in Silvie’s face; she laughs and then throws a snowball at me. I duck and it misses. “Just like Pedro Martinez!” I yell, pointing at Silvie. I can hear Chris, the New York City boy, laughing somewhere in the background. Silvie playfully pushes me.

Deanna snaps another picture, this time of me, Chris and Andy all posing like tough guys, showing off the muscles that we don’t have, the snow falling all around us.

Andy is from Pittsburgh. He wants to be a writer one day just like Chris and I. Andy is one of the most genuine people I have ever met; he is the kind of friend that you’re thankful to have: insightful and caring.

I turn and wrap my arm around Elissa’s shoulder and I ask Deanna to take a picture of the two of us. “Smile,” I say as the flash blinds us both for a brief second. I take the camera from Deanna and snap a picture of her and Chris deeply engrossed in a kiss, the snow falling all around them.

Chris, Deanna, Andy and I take each others’ hands and count “THREE, TWO, ONE, GO!” and run and dive down the snow covered hill on our stomachs. I can feel the snow going up the sleeves of my jacket and up my pants legs, immediately turning my skin numb. But I don’t care. I’m too happy to care about anything.

When everyone else goes back inside, Chris and Deanna to be alone, Katie, Andy and Silvie to warm up, Elissa and I stay out in the snow. I tell her it is still too beautiful to be warm and I ask her to walk with me.

We make little miniature snowmen on the sidewalk and we find little sticks and rocks in the bushes to give our miniature army arms and eyes. With our feet we etch our names in the snow: with her stylish looking leather shoes she writes “Elissa”; next to her name I carve “Jason.” For a second I think about etching a “+” between our names and then a big cartoon heart around both our names. But I don’t. I want to be somewhat subtle. I think about tossing her into the snow and then playfully jumping on top of her. But I don’t. I don’t want to show her how much I really like her or how much she makes me smile.

We walk around for a little while, just talking about our lives; how we got here and where we’re going when we leave. We agree that when we go our separate ways we well still stay in touch and I sincerely hope that we do.

When the night ends, we’re standing outside her door. We are both cold and soaked to the bone. My pants were stained with mud from when we went sliding down the lawn like a slide.

We hug and then I say goodnight. “I think it was The American Dream out there tonight,” I tell her with a smile on my face.

“What do you mean?” she asks, a bright smile creeping across her face.

I just smile. “I’ll see you soon I hope.”

* * *

A week or so later Deanna gave me the pictures that she had taken that night in the snow. They all came out perfectly.

Elissa works for the EPA. In her office I imagine there are framed posters and pictures hung on the walls; pictures that, capture America’s most beautiful and serene natural wonders: a tall, snowcapped mountain in Alaska; a rolling, wheat-covered plain in Nebraska; where the Pacific crashes on the most beautiful beach in California. A landscape of our nation’s capital after an inch and a half of snow belongs there, too. Right outside her office, there should be a picture of me and her, standing there, arms around each other, big smiles on out faces; those big, fat snow flakes frozen in time.

The EPA protects these kinds of things -- the beautiful miracles that God creates (on an environmental level that is). Our scenery is just as beautiful as any national park worth preserving.

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