P.E. Newswire - Frosty the Snowman was spotted by a sharp eyed PE reader out in Shanghai today. Here is his account of the encounter.
One might not expect a snowman to flourish in a city where it only snows twice a year. Then again, one might also expect drivers to follow the rules of the road…mostly. I met Frosty the Snowman today. He was a bit yellow (bad liver I suppose), and covered in grime.
“Frosty, what’s up man? You don’t look so hot.” I took a seat next to Frosty on the ceramic tile bench.
Frosty looked at me with those big, black coal eyes, shook his filthy head, took a drag of his cigarette and said, “Since when did snowmen ever look hot?”
Realizing the stupidity of my remark, I decided it might be best to ask a less invasive question. Never conversed with a snowman before, I found it difficult to start a conversation.
“So, what do you think of this weather we’re having?” I asked.
Again with the coal eyes. “It’s snowing out, I can only live when it snows.” Frosty took another drag from his smoke and leaned over on his snowballed knees with his stick elbows. Unfortunately, the sticks went through his knees and nearly severed his legs.
Frosty pulled his arms out of his legs. “Shit.” Dirty snow clung to his arms, Frosty lost his grip on the cig, and it fell to the ground where his perspiration put out the flame.
“I really don’t like this city,” he said as he lifted up his top hat and pulled out a pack of Red Dragons wrapped in plastic, and deftly pulled out another smoke.
I became curious as to how a snowman could smoke. “How can you smoke if you’re made of snow?”
“How can you piss if you’re not made of water? How the hell should I know.” Frosty waved his cigarette in the air before lighting it by roasting the tip far away from his body.
Considering it was not every day you come across a talking snowman, I decided to push on with my questions. Normally I would have taken the hint and left, but I couldn’t know how long Frosty would be solid. The weather in Shanghai can change on a dime so I knew that Frosty’s life span could be less than that of a fruit fly.
I worked up a question in my mind and tried again, “So…do you come here often?”
Frosty took a couple drags of his smoke, jabbed and yelled in Mandarin at a passerby who almost spit on his foot then said, “Only when it Snows.”
“Oh.”
“Got any more questions?”
“Not really.”
So there I sat on the corner of Yanping Road and Xinxhu Road, watching the locals go about whatever business they go about doing on a Saturday morning in Shanghai. It was cold, though I couldn’t tell how cold because I hadn’t a clue how cold -1 Celsius was. All I knew was that despite my long johns my boys had crawled up into my stomach.
“Well crap, I don’t have much time left” Frosty said as his squinted and pulled down the brim of his top hat. The sun had started to break through the clouds and he started to perspire.
“Hey man, you’re sweating a bit.” I said.
“I’d say I’m sweating a lot, moron.” Frosty replied as he wiped away a chunk of his forehead with his stick hand. He grunted, stood up and started to waddle down the crowded sidewalk towards nothing in particular. The locals cursed him for getting their coats wet, and Frosty cursed the locals for being solid.
I stood there with my frozen hands in my pockets, bundled up in 24 layers of clothing, and wondered how many inches per second Frosty was shrinking. At the time I didn’t believe he would make it ten meters.
He actually would have made ten meters it if a taxicab didn’t plow into him by swerving onto the sidewalk to avoid a scooter. With a spray of wet, white mist and a gleam of sunlight Frosty was gone. His short stint in Shanghai had ended.
In the land of dragons and fake DVDs, Frosty isn’t such an incredible creature. Though if he could soak himself in Vodka and sell himself as a summer treat at the local expat bars, he might get some attention and stand to turn a profit at the same time. Good luck to you Frosty, and do come back next year for a visit.
