Death on the snow shovel | Medizynicus doctor blog
Schrapp, ratchet, clack.
Rrrrratach, clack, Schrapp. Schrapp. Rrraaaatsch. Ratchet. Rrrrrrrraaaaaatsch. Clack. Schrappt. Clack. Ratchet.
What's going on, damn shit?
Look at the clock: Not even six. Alarm clock has not broken down. But now I can not sleep anymore, so get out of the feathers, into the clothes, coffee machine on and look out the window: what's there to see? Nothing but dark, dark winter night! No, not dark at all: in the lantern light it shines suspiciously white: street, cars, roofs, gardens, all winter wonderland over-sugared. Also the sidewalk. And on it is Mr. Rumburak. Oskar Rumburak lives in the house opposite, is in the main profession pensioner and incidentally honorary garbage policeman. Two months ago, he convicted me of secretly smuggling a load of dirty yogurt cups full of teabags into the yellow sack. They belong in the organic waste, not the yoghurt cups, but the tea bags, but only after the label has been removed and you know, the yogurt cups have to be cleaned before they are thrown away. Mr. Rumburak has explained to me. And now he scrapes and scrapes the white splendor of the sidewalk with his bright red shovel. At six in the morning. Damn, is not that quiet too?
Schrapp, Ratchet, clack.
Recently, Mr. Rumburak has given me a lecture on the Räumpflicht: at the latest from seven the sidewalk must be free, even on the weekend, it says in the corresponding provision of the city. And if it keeps snowing, you have to rebuild every few hours during the day, until one in the evening, then you will be exempted from duty until the next morning, unless you are an innkeeper and have opened even longer. On my own side of the road, the snow is now determined nearly twenty inches high. How good that we have a janitor! He has not been seen yet, but it's still not seven o'clock.
My coffee is ready. I sit down and burn my tongue at the first sip. Ouch!
Mr. Rumburak braces himself with both arms on the snow shovel and takes a short break. It is snowing again. On the freshly paved sidewalk a new thin white layer forms. Mr. Rumburak disappears into the house and comes back shortly afterwards with a bucket of road salt. I almost feel sorry for him. He's supposed to be eighty years old, the good one!
I drink the coffee and put the cup in the dishwasher.
When I get home in the evening, the sidewalk on my side of the street has been swept clean and clean Janitor comes to meet me with his motorized snowblower. Opposite, on the other hand, the trampled slush is ankle-high.
Mr. Rumburak was taken to the clinic with an emergency doctor in the morning: suspected acute myocardial infarction due to physical hard work at freezing temperatures.
But what do you want to do? Razor duty is a bummer!