Out in the Kold

When it is as Kold as it was yesterday when I was at an evening shift, it should be spelled Kold.

Kold, I am useless. My mind is glaciar-thick and thoughts crawl across it like the Donner party on its last knees.

It was THAT kold and once again I patted myself on the back for not even being vaguely tempted to sign up for the evening 5-7 night shifts. People huddle in front of the smoking barrel while the more useful ones hand out pamphlets to the entering cars. Not me, no no. I energetically huddle and quiver and stare at sparks and pay vague attention to the conversations around.

That Kinda Kold makes you appreciate the vigor of those who hop about, cheerfully. Arthur, the picket character, breaks into song he wishes people would take up and I would on an ordinary temperature but not even a Queen song can snap me out of my dedicated spark-gazing. Maria, usually a subdued presence on the job, has turned totally jolly and even gets excited over a particularly poetic wording in an official report. "Look! Look!" she slaps me on the shoulder, flaps a pamphlet at me. The writing is oddly rousing: "'We risk romancing mediocrity," it says. "From that embrace, only decline will follow.'We could show it to our students when we get back. It's a real report and yet it's so poetic!"

Indeed. A good turn of metaphor is a leap of flame on a Kold dank night.

Afterwards I get home and remote it through useless programs, sipping hot choc. I have no brain left. It will have to grow back at night.