On the drive out there Don was telling John about his new parka. "Look at how thick it is," Don extended an arm for inspection.

"It looks warm," John commented, looking out the window. John sighed, another trip where Don was going to extoll how great his stuff was and, by implication, the inferior quality of what John's stuff was. Fall was evident in the red and yellow trees, dry, yellow grass, leaves lying in wind blown drifts.

"Look at the hand warmer pockets." Don demonstrated.

"Don, you need to pay attention to the road," John said.

"I am. I was just showing you my new parka." Don looked miffed.

"How much further?" John asked.

"About ten minutes," Don said without glancing at John.

Don turned off the pavement onto a dirt road.

"It looks cold outside,"John said.

"I'm not worried," Don stated. "My parka will keep me warm. It's got PolarGuard insulation and hand warmer pockets."

` John thought of his down jacket, its age and was wondering about its abilities. It wasn't new, but it always kept him warm. John brightened.

"Hey, you know my jacket has hand warmer pockets, too." John said.

"They work?"

"I don't know," John admitted. "I've never used them."

He didn't say much more for the remainder of the drive.

While Don parked the car John was examining the area. He looked at the lichen covered rocks, the trees around them, the pond, frogs, fish, spiders and their amazing webs. He was starting to feel great, looked over at Don to tell him . . .

Don stood hunched up, wrapped in his, big, puffy, blue parka, hands stuffed in the hand warmer pockets, red face buried in the hood, eyes squeezed shut, looking utterly miserable.

John stared at this spectacle, his mouth fell open.

John finally said, "Don, are you warm?"

Eyes screwed shut Don replied, "Man, I'm freezing my ass!"

"But you sure look warm." John stated.

"I'm not warm," said Don. I'm freezing."

John went back to examining plants, listening to the songs of the birds, noticing paths made by cattle, bales of hay, looked over at Don again. Don hadn't moved, stood there looking worse than before, eyes screwed shut, face pinched, hands stuffed in the hand warmer pockets. His face was redder than ever, the hood puffier than before. John couldn't believe that Don was as miserable as he said. Maybe Don was putting him on?

"Don,” John said. “Are you warm?"

"Man," came Don's reply from the depths of the hood, "I'm freezing my ass."

John couldn't believe it.

"But you sure look warm."

"Well I'm not. I'm freezing my ass!"

John couldn't relate to Don's being cold, his jacket being unzipped. He was wearing a t-shirt under it.

"Don?"

"What!" Don snapped.

"Don, are you warm?" John asked.

From out of his puffy, blue hood, a red face snarled, "F***! I told you! I'm freezing my ass! Now quit asking me."

` John couldn't believe he was cold.

"But you sure look warm."

"God damn!" Don said, eyes squeezed tight. "I'm freezing my ass, shut up!"

John was amazed. Here was a person that looked hot. His face was bright red. Was he sweating? Wrapped in his big, blue, puffy parka - he had to be hot. John was sure Don was pulling his leg.

"Don?"

Don's eyes popped open. He glared at John. "What!" He spat.

"Are you warm?" John asked him again.

His eyes screwed shut, his face grew pinched. "Jesus Christ!" Don whined. "How many times do I have to tell you? I'm freezing my ass. Quit asking me!"

"But you sure look warm."

"God damn! I'm freezing my ass!"

Don's misery had become John's new focus.

"Don."

"If I wasn't so cold . . ."

"Are you warm?"

"God damn!" the red face shouted. "I'd kick your f***ing ass if I wasn't so cold."

"But you sure look warm."

"I'm freezing my ass," he whined.

John decided to cruise up the ridge to see what was up there. He climbed up for fifteen minutes, weaving between the rocks, through the trees, through bushes, over grass and leaves. Sweating and puffing he reached a clearing, stopped, basking in the late afternoon sunshine, feeling the breeze swirling under his parka and through the opened front.

Standing on a fallen tree, he looked down on the pond. Don stood hunched up on the shore, the parka zipped up, hood pulled tight, elbows at his side, hands stuffed in the hand warmer pockets, a blue lump of misery. John stared at this spectacle for several minutes . . .

Whatever, he thought, shaking his head. A bird called from further up the hill. John turned, went to see . . .