Summer strains of a Beach Boys tune hum out of the dash
while we grind deep snow under the wheels of my
Pontiac.

"Boot 'er," Ed says.

I give her some more gas, but I don't floor it,
that'll get us nowhere.

The rear end of the Pontiac slides out behind us and I
jerk the wheel, too hard and too fast. The back end
starts catching up on us, and where I used to see the
road, I see Ed's big head taking a swig of Canadian
Club.

"Hold her, hold her," he says and then hands me the
mickey.

I ignore the offer and urge the wheel the other way.
In protest, the car gives a shake and returns to its
rightful place. Patches of gravel peek through the
packed snow and the road straightens. It's still
slippery as hell, but at least I feel like I'm back in
control. Ed places the rye bottle in my outstretched
hand. Not taking my eyes off the road, I ease up and
chug a couple of ounces.

"You know what we should do?"

"What?" The whiskey burns raw down the back of my
throat.

"We should drive onto the lake."

That's fucking nuts, I think.

"Sounds good," I say. Then I ask, "You ever do that
before?" I make sure there's not the slightest hint of
fear in my voice.

"Nah. But I always wanted to. Don't worry, the ice
will be thick as hell by now."

I wonder how he knew I was worried.

The road narrows and stiff branches tap against the
windows of the Pontiac. A long spindly one reaches out
and scrapes and squeals along the car like a steak
knife slipping on a plate.

"Which way, Ed?"

"Fucked if I know. How 'bout there?"

He points at a break in the treeline. I start to slow.

"Not too slow, we'll get stuck for sure."

The Boys are singing about surfing and I know Ed's
right. I glance at the speedometer. 20. I take it to
25 and hold it steady. The break comes up and I try to
ease the Pontiac into it, the back end starts sliding
again, but this time I caress the wheel like that
place between my girlfriend's shoulder blades,
and I make the turn. I look over at Ed for a
compliment. He's staring right ahead, but he's holding
his thumb up. I'll take it.

With a sudden jolt and a whump, we drop what feels
like ten feet but I know is only a couple. The road
has become a barely plowed path -- a path that is
being swallowed by the surrounding bush and ends at a
point just yards away. Just before we hit the tangled
bush, I see, through a rough oval torn in the
branches, a shimmering expanse of ice.

The wheels churn deep snow, and we're spitting ice and
leaves and gravel. To hell with it -- I floor it. With
a lurch, the Pontiac erupts through the bush's
stranglehold and hurtles onto the ice. We're spinning
and sliding, but who cares, there's nothing in the way
to hit.

"Wooo-hooooo, Smitty!" Ed slams the dash with his
fist.

We both have to squint to see where we're going.
Where are we going? There's a slash of sky that's
bluer than anything I know and the only other colour
out here besides the whiteness is the muddy brown of
a couple of ice shacks.

We spin effortlessly across the lake like we're a
couple of drunk figure skaters.

"Hey, Smitty, figure-eight."

Obviously, the two of us are on the same wavelength. I
start a big loopy circle and then duck and circle
back. Ed looks out the window and traces the tirelines
with his fingers.

I stop the Pontiac and we toast, one at a time, our
athletic feat. The sun bounces off the golden hood and
dances around the cracked windshield. It's a helluva
moment. I'm looking at one of the ice shacks, when I
see a figure in a gray snowsuit come out and start
waving at us.

When I hear a crack, I whirl around to see if Ed
dropped the bottle on the floor. He's in mid-swig,
when he lowers the bottle and looks at me.

"Boot 'er."

I do.