The Inside Storm

THE MANIAC

 

The sky is a most heavenly blue. Its clouds are a fluffy white and look strong enough to hold a thousand angels. I sit in the park, watch the children make sand castles around and under the sliding board. A tall cloud becomes an instant giraffe and changes in the wink of an eye into a fat Santa Claus. Before I can find Santa's big, black leather belt, he becomes a roaring lion. Clouds darken around him. Just a few moments ago the sun was like shining buttercups and now is an angry orange/red.

 

Shorty, our neighborhood clown, full of tricks, stands on a green bench like the one I was sitting on, and adds his initials to the others already carved in the bench slats. His go into the top slat of the back rest- all alone for the time being. Shorty is seven feet, 3 inches tall, towers over all of his friends and enemies too. The people he really dislikes are the fat ones, the Sumo wrestlers, the knahshers who live on sweets, mostly hand-outs, and go to the clinic to have their cavities filled, while tax-payers cover the costs. Sometimes he is so full of anger, I fear he will explode.

 

Thunder begins to rumble far in the distance, gets louder and louder. Lightning zigs once and I run as fast as an elderly lady can to my car. In my rear view mirror I catch a glimpse of Shorty defying the sky, the blackness, even a god. The bolts of lightning do not deter him as he  waves his long arms, clenched fists into the air, surely shouting curses.
I honk my horn to him, try to get him to my car but he stands firm. Heavy rain drops begin to pound on my roof, the windshield. Trees are swaying, worry me enough that I take off alone, try not to picture Shorty frizzled like an over-baked waffle.

 

Getting traction on my balding tires spits a stream from my two worst back tires. It warns me, screams at me to watch for a special sale at Goodyear. Like a jerk, I kiss my pinky finger, get too good a look at a bolt of lightning maybe miles away that is aiming at me, and swear to a god, any, all gods, that I'll get new tires tomorrow, if tomorrow comes.

 

Oh, it comes alright, but Shorty is not around his usual haunts. I doubt anyone beside myself cares. The morning paper, packed in a plastic wrapper, is bone dry so I can comfortably read the morning ads. Heaven has sent one that fills page 22C. 'BIG SPECIAL SALE–GOODYEAR---Buy two A1A tires and we will install them, balance them at no extra charge and give you the third one free!' My check book says I can do it but my mind tells me I am smarter than some people and know I will have to buy a fourth tire at regular price to be balanced. The ad gets folded, put on the side, so I can call Goodyear before I make an ass of myself and complain.

 

From my window, from my sidewalk, I still don't see Shorty anywhere.
A few neighbors are outside, cleaning sopping leaves out of their gutters. No one has seen him since before yesterday's storm. It comes down to I must have been the last person who saw that fool fooling around with lightning and god.

 

My eyes pop out on page 36, the next to last page of section one, is always the obituary page. Every single time I happen to see it, I smile because my name isn't there. A box in the page's right corner describes the death of an exceptionally tall man, found in the park when the storm was over. His hair is singed off and his clothes, most of his body is burned.

 

To myself I begin to cry, can't think straight,  but I have no doubt the body that is at the morgue has to be Shorty's. Paragraph two requests calls that may identify the man. The city will have to pay to have an extra long casket made and they aren't going to do it. They will dump him in a pauper's grave with no name at all.

 

I take it upon myself to call on neighbors, ask for donations to have a  casket made for that god defying maniac. Some sort of eulogy should be said. Nobody asked me to do it but I am ready to stand up for Shorty.

 

'Percunus and Zeus, forgive Shorty, for defying you, mocking you. Thor is angry, too. Hermes, the god of good luck, smote Shorty down. He was a little tetched in the head, ashamed, mortified at being so different from other people. I speak to you for my friend. Let him rest peacefully. Try not to fill his grave with mud. He never liked water too much. It frightened him and that is why he put the blame on you gods in the sky. Thank you, Mighty Gods and I know Shorty would thank you too, if he could.The sun comes thru the gray sky.

 

Fluffy white clouds float like marshmallows in hot chocolate milk.The slight wind bows a tree and I hear its bark say, 'taddy, taddy, Friend.'