Storm, Out by Michael Patrick Benning (best reads .txt) 📕

Storm, Out

by Michael Patrick Benning

I forgot to check if the Tribe played tonight. My parking lot, an island across from Progressive Field, had a $20 surcharge on game days if you left after six. It was about half past five when I stepped off one of the elevators and into the lobby of the Diamond building, twenty or so stories up off Superior and East 9th in downtown Cleveland. I thought about going back up to check on my computer, but it didn’t seem worth it. The rain didn’t look as bad down here.

Growing up in Indy, I loved the rain. I would sit with my mother on our porch, watching the water cascade down one street or up another, depending on the rain’s velocity. Sometimes I would lean forward, hand outstretched to feel the cool splatter on my palm. As long as I kept out of the rain’s path, I could stay outside. When the rain came in from the east it claimed our porch as well; watching was restricted to the dining room.

Cleveland is different; there is always a gray filter over the city. When it rains, the sky turns to coal. The difference was apparent looking out from Deb and Natsumi’s corner office on the tenth floor. I could see storm clouds rolling in across Lake Erie, a purple tinted mass creeping up on the ambient gray of a calm afternoon sky. The combination of elevation and distance generated the illusion that I was at the same level. It made us equals, and the storm and I knew our place. I stay inside drafting production revisions. The rain makes Cleveland bleaker.

In the lobby, however, I was back at ground level. Once I step out past the glass, I’m in the storm’s territory. I knew what could happen out here. Only last summer I’d taken my brother to and from his SATs across town, the timing of which coincided with some of the worst flooding in the history of the Midwest. As I navigated the flooded streets on the way home, rolling past houses and yards under a foot or more of water, I’d never been happier to own a Jeep. There’s safety with glass and ground clearance.

I didn’t have the Jeep now. It was summer, and I’d borrowed my father’s fuel-friendly sedan which was parked where East 9th hits the interstate. And I didn’t have that $20. I wanted to make it home.

I pulled out my compact umbrella—a gift from wise parents—and exited the lobby, heading down the access road to East 9th. The rain was moderate, lazy even. It dropped inconsistently, clumsily rolling off my umbrella, grazing my khakis as I clung to buildings for added cover. I decided against cutting though the parking garage. After four years of living in Cleveland, I didn’t trust anyone’s driving in Cuyahoga County.

Once I hit East 9th, I turned due South. Walking briskly, I’d managed to keep all but the cuffs of my khakis moderately dry. The umbrella was holding up, and the rain fell unassisted by wind. I looked around, seeking confirmation on if there was a game tonight. People were sparse and the ticket scalpers non-existent. Is rain an occupational hazard for scalpers, with their paper tickets and signs,

I wondered. There certainly weren’t any panhandlers, usually out in force on game day, but I had no weather-factored frame of reference for scalper and panhandler attendance. I continued walking.

While my eyes navigated me around larger puddles and the occasional person, my mind wandered along these lines: Would USA—my parking company—charge if the game was delayed—or if it was cancelled, would they give a refund? They wouldn’t be required to, but they could as an act of good faith. Do parking lot operators care about good faith; is that part of their appeal? Do people find parking lots appealing? Would someone park closer to the field if it’s raining—is rain a plus for parking companies? Would you have more or less customers if it rained?

The digital clock hanging off the Huntington Bank building brought me back from my ponderings. It was later than I thought. I rushed across the next intersection, catching the first crossing signal but not the second. I was stranded on the median.

The bastard found me. Halfway between work and my car, he exploited my vulnerability. An umbrella doesn’t help rain curving in sideways. It was revenge for those years of teasing him off my porch. I was drenched before I made it to the other side of the street.

Sheets of water continued to fall in different patterns, each determined to counter the ever-adjusting angle of my umbrella. Not that the umbrella did much more than keep me from feeling rain on half of my face. There is a point where you can’t feel any more wet. There’s just the cold, the punch, the roar, and the squish of the rain to remind the body that it can still feel. The sidewalk was completely deserted now; a few people huddled under a closed building’s entryway. Others stared at the storm through plate glass, behind their beers. The last thing I wanted was something else wet.

I crossed a few more streets, each flooded in a unique way. Then there was the cemetery I can only imagine turned into a lagoon because of how the land slanted; I didn’t take the time to look. Another street down and I was at my lot, powering over the last hundred feet or so. I forgot about the Tribe. I forgot about the surcharge. I just wanted to be in the car, out of the rain.

In stride, I slid the key into the door and turned it a quarter right. My fingers slid under the latch, pulling it up in a single motion. The door opened, I collapsed the umbrella with my left hand using my left hip to lock the shaft, and chucked the umbrella, along with my messenger bag, into the passenger seat before sliding in myself and slamming the door shut.

The rain continued to pour onto my windshield, unrelenting. I was behind glass once again, looking up at the rain. The storm peered down, knowing the call. No matter how loud he thundered and crashed, the call wasn’t going to change. I was safe.

Publication Date: 10-15-2009

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