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Nobody felt it was incongruous that a snowman should be standing at the door of a fish and chip shop.
He had a sign around his neck: Generator Here. Business as Usual. But that was apparent given the fluorescent shimmer from inside and the whiff of batter that spread across the darkened street to where I was standing.
I saluted him for his fortitude. He returned the salute. We have never had so much snow here, I said.
Lucky for me, he said. True, I said.
I crossed the street so that we could converse less publicly.
Have you considered the danger, I posited, that each time a customer opens the door a hot blast of air will rush out and diminish you.
True, he said. That could be an issue.
…and that by five o’clock there will be a queue down the street, and the door will be propped open. There will be no respite from the murderous heat.
I believe this to be my just fate, said the snowman. For in helping to serve this community’s need for a fish supper, even when the snow is deep and the power has failed, I have found a purpose in life beyond being a short-lived child’s plaything or the subject for a Christmas card.
True, I said as I shook the snowman’s hand, taking care not to radiate any warmth. I crossed the street and returned home without a fish supper. I just couldn’t face it.