Winter winds gather behind Steve’s garage to chat.  A particularly noisy wind tells the others, “Who is this Steve dude?  I think I saw him run outside, sub-zero, in his underwear.  He looked like he was dancing.”

A gentle wind replies, “He wasn’t dancing.  He never dances.  I’ve seen him through the picture window huddled under a blanket, his face like a sad philosopher who has no philosophy.”

            Steve doesn’t know he’s the subject of conversation, but he thinks something’s up.  His ears cock up like his cat Dicey when she hears what she thinks is a mouse.  He opens the door and looks right, then left, but sees only genies riding a few snowflakes.  They wave.  He waves.  Everything’s cool.

            Steve mulls a lot.  He wishes mulling were a paid skill.  He has few skills, but he’s adequate in his job selling appliances at that Wang and Johnson store in downtown Hedgehog.  Mr. Wang hired him in 1992.  It’s not a job with much chance for advancement, but Steve isn’t ambitious.  He’s not sure if Mr. Johnson knows his name.

            Steve’s thirty-eight and has never been in love.  This doesn’t worry him.  He plays love songs instead.  For a while, he thought he’d like to marry Sheena Easton, that was in 1981, but when “Morning Train” fell off the charts, fickle Steve turned to other singers.  He was eleven.

            Winter winds disperse.  That’s mostly what they do: quick chats and then another town to blow through.  The snow flurry stops, stranding genies all over his yard.  Steve starts to make dinner, the same almost every night—chicken wings and corn on the cob.  He thinks corn is holy, so he eats it all the time, his own form of Communion.  He believes in God.  God pops.  Or can be boiled.

            The wall phone rings just as he’s about ready to remove the wings from the toaster oven.

            “Hello.  May I speak to Mr. Mertz?”

            “Speaking.”

            “We’re calling on behalf of the Cuyoga Falls Marching Band.  The Band is almost broke and we’re hoping that you would like to contribute twenty-five dollars to keep it alive.  The Band will be fifty years old this year, and we’d like to make it something to be proud of.  Can we count on you?”

            Count on

            you.

            This is not a term Steve understands.  Who counts on him?  Who does he count on?  He doesn’t count.  The Mayor counts.  Click.

            Wings and corn on his plate, he turns on the Weather Station.  Some go to church; Steve has the Weather Station.  If Adam Forecaster says it, how could it not be true?  Adam looks sincere.  Steve wonders is there an Eve in the studio?  A Steve?

            Winds.  A front is about to push through.  Prepare for terrible winds.  Can anyone prepare?  That’s a dream.

            Such news seems to make Adam’s day.  Steve doesn’t know if he’s ready to take on terrible winds.  So much in a single day demands facing.  What will these terrible winds say about him?  Will they follow his car to work?  He would like to set some have-a-heart traps, capture and let them go several miles out of town.  You can’t trap wind, he thinks.  It’s like the spirit, impulsive and sometimes “terrible.”  He hears window panes rattle, just a bit.

           Adam is right.  They’re coming.  Steve eats his dinner.  It’s good—not too done.  The winds will do with him as they will.  They’ll gossip, steal his identity--but they’ll skidaddle.  The weather will change and a souped-up sun will drive into the sky’s ample garage.  Steve will go to work.  Steve will go.  To work.  He can hitch a ride with a genie.  One with a kind heart who listens to guys like Steve but has no magic to spare.