The Plowman - A Story

I do what I have to do: mow lawns, build decks, odd jobs in the summer, and plow snow in the winter. That’s what I do, on account of having to support a family, and on account of dropping out of school at fourteen. I work hard because my father can’t. And I have to look after my little brother, give him a better chance than I had at being somebody. 

It’s winter now, close enough for Rochester, nearly Halloween. We got the first snow last week, just an inch or so. Not enough to plow. It has to be three inches. That’s what my contracts say. I printed them off the internet to look legitimate. I plow every time the snow accumulates three inches and I’m paid per trip. I have two accounts that pay per season. It’s a gamble though. The way I figure it, it’s gotta snow three inches or more at least twenty times; otherwise, I win out. Of course there’s no telling, and the truth is I plow the per season customers last so as to hedge my bets. Most customers want me to plow them last, as long as it’s before they gotta leave for work. That way they only pay for one trip. But three inches is the contract. I’m not trying to cheat anyone. Heavier snow takes longer to clear and is harder on my truck, which is pretty beat as it is. I got myself a new plow this year, a seven foot Western with dual headlights and joystick control. It better be a snowy winter. 

***

It’s snowing again! It snowed some last week, but just a dusting. I didn’t get to stay home from school or anything. I heard Mom say this one’s gonna be a real storm. I mean not real like sometimes when we get a couple feet and school is closed and everyone goes to the golf course to sled down the 10th fairway. But six inches. Maybe eight. Still not enough to stay home from school. Not around here. But enough that my brother will be plowing. I want to go so bad, but my parents won’t let me on account of school tomorrow. They say I need to sleep. They say I can’t miss school. My brother dropped out of school when he was just a little older than me. It’s not fair. 

***

It’s snowing again, goddamnit. And this looks like a real one. Six to eight inches they say. It’s not even Halloween. It doesn’t bode well. I probably should have paid that kid for the whole season. I’m gonna get raped trip-by-trip. That little bastard will probably come two times tonight. There was a time I could clear the driveway myself with the snowblower. There was a time. Now I don’t know what’s more broken, the snowblower or my fucking back. Twenty dollars a trip! Goddamn. Maybe he’ll plow me last like I asked. 

***

It’s been snowing for hours. There must be three inches on the grass, two on the street. It’s time. My mother and father already went to bed. Clay is in the truck. The little sneak. My parents put him to bed two hours ago, on account of school tomorrow, but I saw him tiptoe out after they went upstairs. He’s probably freezing his little ass off out there. There’s an old Carhartt in the truck. I bet he’s wrapped like a burrito in that thing. 

“You’re crazy,” I say, climbing into the truck alongside my brother. “Mom and Dad will kill you if they find out.”

“You won’t tell?”

“I ain’t gonna tell.”

“Thanks, Arch.” 

“Put this on,” I say, tossing him my wool hat. “And keep the jacket wrapped around you for now. Soon enough you won’t need it.”

I start the truck and light a cigarette. I could make him go back to bed. I should. But I raise the plow and start down the driveway.

***

We drive out along Ridge Road toward the old bowling alley and arcade. I had my birthday there last year, that’s how I know where it is. Arch says that’s the first stop. “We plow the lots first,” he says. “They pay the most. We gotta make sure they’re clear.” 

The snow is falling faster now. I don’t know how my brother can see anything. The truck headlights shine against the back of the plow. The plow headlights shine against the falling snow. The road is empty. At least as far as I can see. I’ve already taken off the Carhartt. Arch has the heat on full blast and the windows rolled down. I ask him why don’t we put the windows up and turn the heat down? “It’ll overheat,” he says. “The radiator doesn’t get any air with the plow blocking it. So we gotta run the heat.” I don’t mind. It’s cool to ride around in a t-shirt with the windows down in the middle of a snowstorm. Besides, Arch is smoking cigarettes one after another and I don’t like the smell. 

***

I think I saw that kid drive by a minute ago. Already out and barely three inches on the ground. He’s definitely shooting to get in two trips tonight. The little bastard. Goddamn these winters. A man can hardly get by as it is. And without a plowman, you’re fucked. You can’t clear it all yourself. And if you don’t clear it, it’ll melt and freeze, melt and freeze. Then you’re royally fucked. One way or another, fucked.

***

“How’s school?” I ask, as the piles build at the edges of the bowling alley parking lot. Clay’s not paying attention. He’s staring wide-eyed out the window. The heater fan blasting and plow scraping make it hard to hear. “Hey, Clay, how’s school?!” I shout. 

“Huh,” he snaps out of it. “It’s okay.”

“The kids being cool to you?”

“Yeah.”

“You let me know if you have any problems. I know most of those kids. I know their older brothers and sisters. I’ll take care of any problems you have.”

“I know.”

The plowing goes pretty smooth. I have to work around a broken down Corolla. He’ll be stuck there ‘til we get a good thaw. I try not to box him in, but there’s only so much I can do. I tell Clay not to worry. It won’t be this boring all night. I’ll put him to work when we get to the driveways. He can shovel the paths and spread some salt. I’ll even throw him a few bucks. It’ll honestly be a big help, and I won’t have to get out of the truck.

***

That was so cool. I don’t know how Arch can do that. The way he works the stick shift and the plow joystick and steers and smokes a cigarette all at the same time. Where’d he learn to do that? He says I can help when we finish the lots. He says I can shovel the paths from the driveways to the front doors. The contracts just call for plowing, but he says shoveling keeps his customers coming back. So while he plows the driveways, I’ll get out and shovel the paths and put some salt down. He says he’ll even pay me a dollar for each one. I’m in charge of the clipboard too, and I counted twenty-five driveways.  That’ll be twenty-five dollars!

We’re driving to the next lot. The old church out past the high school. My brother says they asked him to only plow on Saturdays. But he explained to them that it doesn’t work that way. The snow will accumulate and melt and freeze and become impossible to clear. He says he told them he’ll only plow when he really thinks he has to, despite what the contract says, and he’s not in the habit of cheating anyone, least of all God. This is a close call, he says, but it’s the first snow of the season and better safe than sorry. 

We pass the high school where Arch played quarterback for the junior varsity team as a freshman, before he dropped out. I’ll be going there next year, but I’m no quarterback. Arch says I’ll like high school more than middle school. I’m not sure how he knows that. I hope he’s right. I’m not exactly the most popular kid in middle school. Not like Arch. He was and he has my back. I know that.  But I don’t want him to get involved. I don’t want him to get in any more trouble.

***

Where is that kid? I probably should’ve hired Skip Cooper. I know Skip’s reliable. I know Skip would be here, and I know he wouldn’t try’an cheat me. But this kid. I don’t know this kid. All I know is he charges twenty dollars a trip and Skip charges twenty-five. You get what you pay for, I guess. I’ll be up all night waiting. I can’t go to sleep. He’ll probably come once and say he came twice. The little cheat.

***

That’s the lots done. It’s 1:30. Clay’s hanging in there. It’s hard to fall asleep with the windows down, but the damn truck will overheat if I turn the heat down and we’ll melt if I put the windows up. I probably shouldn’t have let him come along. He’s got school tomorrow and the kid’s gonna go. I won’t let him make the same mistakes I did. I won’t let him end up cutting grass and plowing snow. He’s too smart for this shit.

“We need gas,” I say, pulling into the Citgo. “I’ll run inside and get you a hot chocolate. You pump the gas.”

“Okay, Arch,” he says.

I go inside and buy two packs of Camels and a hot chocolate. Clay is waiting in the cab when I come back out to the truck.

“It’s cold out there, Arch,” he says. “Without the heat blowing, it’s cold. I put fifty dollars in. Then the pump turned off.”

“I know,” I say. “I paid inside. Here’s your hot chocolate.”

“Thanks.”

We drive out into the falling snow. It’s time to plow the driveways. I tell Clay to call out the names on the clipboard, and check them off when we finish. Twenty-five driveways. Even at ten minutes each, we’ll be out ‘til morning. And he’s got school. I really shouldn’t have let him come. 

***

I thought the parking lots were cool. You should see how Arch plows the driveways. He doesn’t push the snow at all. I mean, he does, at the end. He drives all the way up to the garage and drops the plow inches from the door, then reverses back down the driveway pulling the snow along with us. I don’t know how he reverses so straight. After a couple passes he backs the truck through the pile at the end of the driveway. That part is fun, it feels like we get air! Then Arch pushes the snow pile to one corner of the driveway at the street. It’s been snowing steady. The piles are getting big. 

Most of the houses have a path from the driveway to the front door. I get out and shovel the paths like Arch told me to. I pile the snow alongside as I go. Then I sprinkle some salt from a fifty pound bag with a coffee can. It’s not too bad. The snow is pretty fluffy, not heavy. And it’s not even that cold, even in my t-shirt, between the warm truck and the shoveling. Arch says I’m doing a great job. 

“Next one is Callahan, 23 Oak Street,” I say, reading from the clipboard. 

“That’s a new one,” Arch says. “An old man who saw my flyer at Tractor Supply. Do a good job on his path when we get there.”

“I will, Arch.”

***

Well, I’ll be, the little bastard showed up. Of course he come in the middle of the night. Probably hoping for three more inches by morning and another trip. Looks like he’s got a child working for him. Look at him out there in his shirtsleeves, shoveling the path. That boy must be twelve or thirteen. Probably got school tomorrow. What kinda outfit are these guys running? I should’ve hired Skip Cooper. He ain’t got no children working on his crew. And look at that beat up old Dodge. That thing will probably break down in my driveway. I bet that Western is worth more than that truck. Now the boy’s spreading salt? That wasn’t our deal. I’m not paying extra for salt.

***

Clay has really been a trooper. Still, I shouldn’t have let him come. He has school. We’ll be home by six. The bus comes at seven. It’ll be alright. He’ll be tired, but he’ll manage. He’s a good kid. 

“Okay, who’s next?” I ask.

“Last one,” Clay says, reading from the clipboard. Then, quietly, “Cunningham, 12 Maple Street.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me, Clay. You sound like someone just shit in your cereal.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Do you know these people?”

“I know their son, Kevin.”

“And?”

“Nothing.”

“Does he pick on you?’

“A little.”

“A little?”

“A lot.”

“Goddamn, did you tell anyone?”

“I told my teacher. She told his parents.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

“Nothing changed? He still picks on you?”

“Yeah.”

Fucking hell. Kevin Cunningham, you little shit. I should kick your little ass. Maybe whoop your father too while I’m at it. This fucking town is full of kids like you. I should know, I was one of them. Little fucking assholes who have nothing better to do than pick on a weaker kid. What, because he’s smarter than you are? Because he’s actually gonna get the fuck out of here, and you’ll be fucking plowing snow for the rest of your life? There was a time I would knock your goddamn door down and whoop your ass in front of your parents and the whole neighborhood. You lucky son of a bitch. You don’t know how lucky you are.

“What are you going to do?” Clay asks.

“Nothing,” I say. “Don’t worry about shoveling this one. Let ‘em fall.”

***

“What are you going to do?” I ask.

“Nothing,” Arch says. “Don’t worry about shoveling this one. Let ‘em fall.”

We pull up to the Cunninghams’ and my brother stops the truck at the end of the driveway. He lights another cigarette and grinds his teeth. I can see the muscles in his jaw flexing beneath the stubble. I didn’t want him to know. I don’t want him to get in any trouble. I remember when I was in third grade and Pete Henshaw followed me off the bus and pushed me to the ground. Pete was in fifth grade. He got on top of me and started wailing on me. I tried to cover up, but I’ve never been much of a fighter. Pete wailed on me pretty good until Arch rode up on his bike. Arch was in eighth grade. He threw Pete off me. He threw him hard. I remember Pete landed on a tree root and it knocked the wind out of him. He lay there gasping and crying. Arch stood over him and yelled, “You fucking stay away from my brother!” Eventually Pete caught his breath and ran off down the street, but not before Arch kicked him in his ass. I thought Pete would tell on Arch, but I guess he was scared. Scared of Arch or scared of having to explain why he was wailing on me. Pete didn’t mess with me after that. None of the kids did. Not really. But Kevin Cunningham doesn’t know any better. He wasn’t around then. He doesn’t know Arch. 

Arch got in a lot of trouble at school around that time. He skipped a lot. He took a job at the service station. I didn’t know it but he was paying our rent. Dad was sick and couldn’t work. Mom didn’t work. She took care of Dad. The school didn’t know. They just knew Arch hardly ever showed up. He got into a few fights. Mostly with kids that had something to say about me. He got kicked off the JV football team. The school got to calling him a little demon. They suspended him three times. He dropped out before they could expel him. He started working full time at the service station. He bought a truck. He worked all the time. He works all the time. He still pays our rent. Mom calls him her angel. 

Arch drives the truck up the Cunninghams’ driveway to their garage. “Wait here,” he says, pulling the emergency brake. He gets out of the truck and looks through the garage window. Then he turns and tosses his cigarette in the snow and gets back in the truck.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Making sure they’re home,” he says. “The car is in the garage.”

“What are you going to do?” I ask again. 

“I’m gonna plow,” he says, lighting another cigarette.

But he doesn’t drop the plow. He keeps the plow raised and reverses back down the driveway. He reverses all the way into the street and then drops the plow. Then he starts back up the driveway, pushing the snow like he did in the lots. He pushes the snow all the way to the garage door where it piles up. After the second pass the snow is halfway up the door. I watch my brother as he takes one more pass and pushes the remaining slush and gravel from the driveway into the pile. The muscles in his jaw are still twitching. His eyes don’t flash like they used to, like they did when he threw Pete Henshaw like a ragdoll. But I know he’s pissed. I know my brother. 

Arch spits out the open window of the truck as he reverses down the driveway. Then he takes the clipboard and scratches the Cunninghams’ name out. 

***

I have to admit the kid did an alright job. He seems to know what he’s doing. He made a pretty neat pile at the end of the driveway and didn’t chew up the grass. The little one even cleared and salted the walk. Probably against some child labor law, but still. Maybe this kid will work out. Of course, the snow’s still falling, so he’s probably coming back to squeeze a little more blood from the stone. 

*** 

I hope the Cunninghams enjoy digging out of that shit. The fuckers. I hope it takes them all morning. I hope Kevin’s late for school and Mr. Cunningham’s late for work and Mrs. Cunningham burns the goddamn breakfast. I don’t care about their shitty account. Next time I hear about that kid fucking with Clay, I’ll put my plow through their living room window. 

“Hey, Arch,” Clay says quietly.

“Yeah.”

“Are they gonna be able to get out of their garage?”

“Sure they will. Might take a little digging.”

“They’re gonna be pissed, Arch.”

“Probably.”

“You’re fired, I bet.”

“I wouldn’t plow their driveway if they begged.”

“Don’t we need the money, Arch?”

“Not that bad. Don’t worry about it, okay. You just let me know if that kid gives you any more trouble.”

“I will. I promise.”

We don’t say anything for a few minutes. Clay is staring out the window. “Listen, we have one more stop,” I say eventually.

“I didn’t see anyone else on the list.”

“She’s not on the list,” I say, lighting another cigarette.

***

“Will we be home in time for school?” I ask.

“Yeah, Clay, I’ll get you back,” Arch says through cigarette smoke.

We drive out past the high school again. The town trucks have cleared the roads pretty good and the school lots are clear too. They never close school around here. It has to be a real blizzard. I guess if they closed school every time it snowed there wouldn’t be much school half the year. And Arch says I have to go. He says I’m too smart to quit. He says he won’t let me make the same mistake he did. 

We stop at a small white house with a black door. The porch light is on. “Whose house is this?” I ask.

“Mrs. Marley,” Arch says.

Mrs. Marley is the school principal. She’s the one who first called Arch a little demon. She’s the one who suspended him three times and let him drop out, washed her hands of him. 

“What are we doing here?” I ask. I really don’t want Arch to get in any more trouble.

“What do you think? We’re gonna plow her driveway.”

“For real, or like the Cunninghams?”

“For real, Clay.”

“I thought you hated Mrs. Marley.”

“No, Clay. I don’t hate her.”

I thought Arch hated her. I do. I wonder what might’ve happened if she didn’t let him quit. I wonder what might’ve happened if she fought for him to stay. 

“But she made you drop out,” I say. “She’s the reason you’re a plowman.”

Arch lights another cigarette. “You know that ain’t true,” he says.

“She was glad to see you go. She didn’t even try to make you stay. And I…”

“You what?”

“I’ve been alone at that school ever since.” I can feel my eyes water.

“Hey, you know I still got your back. I always got your back.”

“I know you do,” I say. 

Arch pats my shoulder and tells me to jump out and shovel her path. “And be careful with the salt,” he says. “Don’t spread any on her flower beds.” 

I shovel Mrs. Marley’s path down to the concrete pavers. I’m extra careful with the salt. I think about how she has always been nice to me. She could’ve held a grudge since I’m Arch Jacob’s kid brother. God knows he tortured her. But she doesn’t. She treats me like all the other kids. I think about how I shouldn’t hate her.

Arch finishes plowing the driveway. I climb back into the truck. The sky is just beginning to turn from grey to orange. The snow has stopped falling. I’d say we got about five inches, based on Mrs. Marley’s path. Not enough to plow twice. 

“Let’s get you home,” Arch says. 

“Are you going back out?” I ask.

“There’s not enough snow. I’ll get some sleep. You should too. I shouldn’t have had you out here all night.” 

“I’ll be okay, Arch.”

“I know you will, brother.”

Arch and I have some eggs and bacon when we get home. And he gives me twenty-five dollars for shoveling the paths. And some lunch money on top. Mom and Dad are still sleeping. Arch is standing at the door when the bus pulls up. He waves as the bus pulls away and then he turns and goes inside. I don’t know what Arch did that was so bad that he got suspended from school all those times. I don’t know what he did that was so bad that they just let him drop out. I don’t know if my brother is an angel fallen or a demon risen, but I know he knows right from wrong and chooses right near every time. 

***

I guess that kid ain’t coming back. I thought for sure he’d squeeze me for two trips. It looks like it’s snowed two more inches. It’ll probably freeze over and then I’ll be fucked. I can’t win with these plowmen. And that goddamn school bus just drove by and shot slush all over the end of the driveway. Even if the snow doesn’t freeze, the slush will. One way or another, fucked.

Copyright (c) 2026 by Bronson Bigelow. All rights reserved.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bronson Bigelow is a father and husband. He also writes books, stories, and poetry. He grew up in Rochester, New York, and now lives in New Orleans, Louisiana, far from the ice and snow.