Tornadic Activity
Part I
The sound of an indistinct television set in the opposing room interrupts the would be silence in the house and into its neighborhood. Save the intensifying gusts of wind that push themselves into the newly constructed building that the young couple in this room is responsible for, it is all tired, lacking conversation. The couple goes by Hercules and Susan, respectively. Interesting names to make up an engaged relationship, no doubt. On the one hand, a name indicating masculine strength, certainty, exuberance and celebration; on the other, perhaps one of the more standard name for a woman imaginable. They are lovely people, they compliment each other well. The two have just been left by Hercules’ mother, who was over for dinner this evening. The television set is on the weather channel.
(And expect some fierce winds and heavy rain over the night and through tomorrow. This’ll be a big storm people so stay inside, flash-flood warnings are in effect and we are also picking up some tornadic activity. This will continue tomorrow in the day and through until tomorrow at midnight. Alerts and updates will come as soon as we receive them, now here is a look at your weekly forecast, stay dry out there…)
It is Monday. Monday night, actually, around ten o’clock p.m. Susan has taken a maternity leave from her profession as a fourth grade teacher, and has spent the time preparing for her child’s birth in one month, and the wedding in three. Hercules has to wake up early in the morning for a meeting at his office. Over the past four years he’s acted as a life insurance salesman, though he finds that he hates the work.
He’s an attractive man, smaller; some could go as far as to call him on the weaker looking side, but attractive nonetheless. Hercules himself never felt weak. However, while Hercules lacks a certain something in size, there is certainly something to be said about the man’s hardiness. He is sharp, competent, and enjoyable. He has a friendly face, inviting features, a nice smile and 20/20 vision. Perhaps these are the qualities that have allowed him to excel as he does in his line of business. His dreams were to be the next great late-night television talk show host, always feeling as if he had a penchant for the profession, relating himself through coincidence to the idyllic individuals. That fancy has long passed, though he still watches Letterman every night. Hercules, still, very much enjoys Susan and uncovers pleasure in all situations. He loves her, and she loves him, this is what they say to each other.
He and his mother are very close, probably because of his father leaving all those years ago, and she has come over every Monday since the couple purchased the house a week ago. Hercules was never very close with his father to begin with; he had been estranged for as long as he could remember and, by the time it happened, it was not surprising that he was going to leave. He wondered about his father, his intentions, his whereabouts, those elements his mother never revealed; it was never clear that she herself had deciphered them fully. Neither Hercules nor his mother could say what the man is doing now, just that he wasn’t here.
There are boxes still cluttering the floors in each of the rooms, five in all, two and a half baths. Nothing but the television, dinner table and chairs, and bed are fully distinguished in the places that they will remain for a completely unknowable amount of years to come; it could be quite some time. The two sit at the table in the kitchen, the living room opening up from the kitchen, lacking a wall or a doorway. The house is small, again, five rooms, but cozy; sky blue panel exterior with white shudders and a black, tile roof. It is a house in the far back of a wooded, under-developed neighborhood, with a gravel driveway hidden through trees.
“... And don’t forget tomorrow we have to meet with the florist at four, and we need to start on the baby’s room soon...” Susan said something along those lines. They’ve opted to keep the sex of the baby a surprise until the birth, Susan figures it’s better that way, Hercules would rather he know it, that way at the baby shower and other shopping excursions for the offspring there would be some definiteness to products they were purchasing, but still, he felt a type of excited suspense to the whole idea. The thought of being a father excited him.
“Yea okay I’ll remember,” Hercules responded, his typical response to reminders like this that had become repetitive. He often found his mind wandering during these sorts of conversations, not that he didn’t want to hear what his fiancée had to say; Hercules simply had the type of mind that wandered. She could be speaking of potential names or wedding ideas or even more important things that Hercules had every interest in listening to. However, he could at the moment not be able wrap his head around, as a simple example, the necessity of the multiplicity of numbered golf drivers and clubs; although he is certain there is a logical and practical function for each number for any golfing situation, it is knowledge he may never fully grasp. Or, again purely an example, if people who are red-green colorblind enjoy Apple Jacks as much those who have normal sight. The phone rings and she begins talking to his mother over the phone, indicating that she has made it home safely through the impending storm.
(And after the week of rain expect clear, sunny skies on the weekend with highs in the 70s on the weekend… Back to you in the studio…)
“... Anyways I’m goin’ to bed. You stayin’ up sweetie?” She asks him as she leans her heavy self over to kiss the man on the top of his head, her arms momentarily caressing his shoulder.
“Huh, yea I’m going to stay up and watch Letterman, I’ll be in though.” He shakes his body minutely, awakening from a brief span of dazedness, then reaches his right hand to touch his love’s alternate cheek, returning the kiss on the one closer to him.
Hercules sits at the kitchen table, looking down into the glazed wooden constitution, both of his hands curled around a glass of ice water. It could appear that he’s trying to look through the table, more than just at it. He appears so focused, that nothing could interrupt his thoughts, as if he’s working out the world’s hardest calculus problem. Then all at once, he breaks himself away, losing his thoughts to the underbelly of the table. Maybe that’s where lost thoughts go, he considers to him self and sighs, looks around and settles back into another, completely different trance. He at one point changes the channel, it is about ten-fifty and Letterman is about to come on. Its really not even that Hercules enjoys David Letterman anymore though, its just been a tradition of his since he was young and got his first television privately in his childhood bedroom. He felt so grown up at the time, now it seems he does it to keep up with his passing youth. If someone would ask Hercules he’d probably admit that Fallon to be the most promising at the moment and that Letterman’s time has certainly passed, but no one asks that type of thing. Noticeably, the lights are off in the bedroom and could hear his fiancee’s bellowing snores coming from the unlit quarters. It is from her having to sleep on her back, from the baby, it narrows the airway and causes more nasal congestion, and she snores more as a result. At the first instance of the snores Hercules slowly got up from the table and moved over to a pile of boxes in the far corner of the room, boxes labeled “Movies,” and “Papers” and “Hercules’ Stuff.”
On top of the box that he is solely entitled to, his “Stuff,” lays an old and torn, green back-pack, full of his personal belongings like his laptop, a portfolio, his mp3 player, and his small bag of marijuana. Susan knows that Hercules smokes, but he still tried to do it away from her, not only because of the baby but he enjoys having a bowl as a way to unwind by himself most evenings, after she had gone to bed, right before Letterman. He was running a little behind schedule since his mother took too long to leave, and Monday is always the best episode in the week of any late-night show. But he took out the weed, packed the bowl on the table anyways, and proceeded outside to his new front porch to smoke it, leaving the television on for Letterman to be there waiting. There was also a lawn chair and end table on the front porch, Hercules had put them there the night that they moved in, ten days ago. He sat in the chair, placed his water on the table and remained with the filled pipe and lighter in his hand.
The wind picked up, as the forecast had predicted. The dark clouds hovering above only briefly revealed a small shred of light to indicate the waning gibbous that was the moon. The rain remains at a slight drizzle, frustrating and unsettling. The winds pushed the trees around in disarray, the bare branches at the tops clattering against one another in assumed rage. Hercules hears the sounds of wind chimes jangling in the gusts that coincide more with screams of terrified screech owls and angry neighborhood dogs than tones of melodious and lyrical balance. He couldn’t light the bowl without opening the screen door, crouching down into type of ape like position, and covering himself from the wind with his jacket within the corner the open door created. The whole motion appearing just a touch on the pathetic side. He arises, exhaling a thick cloud of white smoke that is quickly swept away by the persistent wind. Neighbors’ floodlights create optical illusions with the shadows of the trees and buildings, and the air-conditioning vent above the house bellows as if it were imitating a cow being milked. In a moment of pure bewilderment, largely due to the hit he just took, Hercules convinced himself that the house he had just invested so much in was haunted, however he quickly rebutted the idea in his head and settled himself down. He wasn’t seeing things, he wasn’t hearing things, the power of nature’s ability calmed him, but at the same time sent a shiver down his spine that would take more than reason to overcome. He takes another hit, it is good weed. He exhales another cloud, quicker than the first being whisked away to nothing. Eerie. He laughed out loud at his thinking the line, “all we are is dust in the wind,” by Kansas, finding himself humorous. During the smile a gust of wind pushes into Hercules, nearly tipping him over to the ground himself, losing control of the bowl. Remarkably, the glass piece keeps its form; it lays bruised on the painted wood porch. Through the force of the wind it rolls down into the grassy side of the porch, and he assumes that it will stay intact. The sky, Hercules thinks, looks bruised itself. It is beat up; the wind is tearing the sky apart, crashing over trees, through houses, chaotically uprooting sheds from their foundation.
(There is a tornado watch in effect, there is one touched down on the ground as we speak, stay indoors, get into a safe place, a room without windows, downstairs…)
Hercules can hear the television through the screen door, a weather alert interrupting the normally scheduled program.
(A tornado is on the ground this is a severe storm advisory, flash-flooding and extreme winds…)
The lights in the house and the sounds of the television quickly cease. Because of the failure in electrical power Hercules can once again faintly hear the terrible noise exuding from Susan’s nostrils as she rests in the bed inside, and he chuckles at his momentary pondering of what is a scarier noise. Hercules remains outside, facing the wind, feeling it pass through him. This is all so fascinating and beautiful he assumes that he can’t very well run frightened back inside like a coward. His curiosity at one token and romantic tendency on the other merged into a force too powerful in his psyche that has taken him over. A branch that assumedly was ripped from a tree to the left of the house fiercely tumbles toward the porch, lifting off of the ground and flying close to Hercules, it passes through the window next to him. The sound of glass shattering pierces Hercules’ earlobes but is immediately dulled by the roar of the storm. Shards float everywhere in a mess around his face and body. A magnificent bolt of lightening, like a sniper from the heavens, cracks into a tree in front of the porch, sending it the opposite way to the ground. The thud made by the tree as it fell to the grass was matched by a synchronized boom of thunder. The storm itself seemingly could not grow stronger. The wind lessens, at least considerably enough to ensure Hercules’, Susan’s and the house’s safety. He can still hear the sound of snores coming from the interior of the house, she had slept through the whole ordeal. Hercules’ hair peacefully flows back and forth on his head, the wind calming to what one could call a strong breeze. The trees have begun a peaceful swaying of sorts, only brief touches between branches. The dogs and owls have quieted, hiding from the earth; and the wind chimes Hercules heard clanging minutes ago are scattered across the yards of those who own them. He falls to the porch floor, awed and lightheaded, feeling weak.
Part II
(Storm Watch, Day 3: The winds are stronger than ever, the rains are torrential. People have lost their lives, loved ones and homes where the only thing then to do is rebuild. The eastern coast has been in shock since Monday when the biggest tornado on record for the area swept through the Chesapeake Bay Watershed. The death toll as of now has increased to twenty-seven; hundreds remain hospitalized. The storm is making its way through the country, taking many small towns with it. As of now, as you can see, its over Columbus, Ohio, still very strong. If the storm continues, expect to start feeling its effects as early as tomorrow evening. We will keep you informed on updates and new developments.)
A rest stop twenty miles outside of Cove Fort, Utah is completely empty, save those that are working the various restaurant chains represented at the station. A few big rig truck drivers sit at the table in the dining area adjacent to the Roy Rogers, listening to the weather broadcast on the television in the corner. Each of them has a large coffee in front of him, as well as a mountain of cheeseburger wrappers and empty rench fry holsters. They are all turned, arms slung around the back of their respective chairs, eyeing the broadcast that is now scanning pictures and brief videos of the catastrophe of the past few days.
“Well shit, what’re you gunna say?” one of the men breaks the unsettled silence, leaning back to face the table, sighing and clapping his gums together.
“Any of you all goin that way?” Another offers, eyes glued to the screen. This one’s name is Floyd. Most assume that is actually his last name, unclear whether the man possesses a first. He is gray-haired, old, a veteran. His voice wouldn’t suggest that though, meager and unsure. His leathery tan skin, most noticeably on his arm, is as withered as his voice, his age has caught up to him. The man who spoke before him is not within the same achieved status, he is a punchy and abrasive one, young. Lars, the name that his colleagues call him at chance meetings such as this one, has been driving his truck for “Yellow” truck shipping for five years, still a rookie by some people’s standards. Although on the boorish side, he’s developed into a reliable truck driver, and he’d certainly be the first to recognize that and flaunt his underappreciated ability.
“Nah, one way to Cali-forn-I-A,” Lars says, putting on his duck-billed cap and pointing two fingers towards what can assumed to be West, it was towards the door at least.
“South to New Mexico, I got a whole truck full of patio furniture,” Floyd says in reciprocation. “What about you, Vic?”
The other man who hasn’t said a word, who hasn’t been able to take his eyes off the screen, is Victor Sullivan. Not that the full name of the guy makes any difference, just another truck driver. Victor is a medium sized man, far older looking than his age would suggest: fifty-two. He is going on his twentieth year of driving, a milestone for most in the business; generally the stress catches up to one first, either that or the constant risk taken by operating a twenty-five foot long, eighteen-wheeled mammoth does.
“Yeah I gotta go East,” he says, unmoving, matter-of-fact. He runs his hand through his thick, greasy hair, pushing back his bangs and places his pair of Brett “the Hitman” Heart sunglasses on the top of his head to hold them in place. “Takin’ 70 most of the way.”
Before the two can respond Victor removes his gaze from the television, his body from the table, and walks up to the counter to refill his coffee. No cream, three sugars. He gives a little wink to the middle-aged woman sitting disinterestedly at the grill and turns away towards the door. She livens up enough at the gesture for him to have a look on his face indicating an “I still got it” mentality as he finishes the turn. Lars and Floyd quickly gather their things, throwing away their trash, and catch up to him outside as he’s lighting a cigarette.
“You not gonna wait it out?” Lars asks, concerned, throwing his jacket over his shoulder, putting it on in frenzy.
“Nope, can’t,” He exhales a big puff and looks towards the eastern sky. It was a beautiful day outside, warm, not a cloud overhead with exception of the one made by Victor’s breath, only a refreshing, light breeze.
“Why not, you got like frozen food in there or something? It’ll keep Vic, you gotta be smart about this,” Floyd says.
“I am. I just gotta get there. The haul is empty I delivered a day ago, gotta pick another load up.”
“It can wait I’m sure,” says the veteran, “sometimes you gotta wait out a storm, pick up some extra rest.”
“Nah it can’t.” And with that final thought Victor tosses his cigarette onto the asphalt, gestured towards his colleagues and opened the door to his cockpit. He turns. “I’ll see you boys soon, safe driving.” He hops in and slams the door behind him.
“Best of luck!” Lars yells over the rig powering on, Floyd already turned around heading silently back to his truck.
Victor’s cockpit of his truck is his home; he’s spent the better part of twenty-years in it, luckily only breaking down twice. His driver’s seat has a beaded cover for added comfort and muscle stimulation; he has a few family pictures posted on outward sun-visor, one from his wedding long ago and one of him and his kid son standing in front of their house. He has a 7-11 Big Gulp cup filled with ice water, and a few pillows and trinkets here and there that are relevant really only to Victor himself. A carton of cigarettes is strapped into the passenger seat, half of the packs missing, one of them residing in the pocket of Victor’s t-shirt. He successfully merges onto the interstate, takes a long gulp of coffee even though the beverage is scalding hot, to the temperature he pays no mind, and pops in a cassette tape- The Dire Straits “Live at Alchemy.” His voyage begins.
(And the time now is 2:00 p.m. Severe thunderstorm warnings are in effect until further developments. This is a doozy folks so stay inside and make sure you got your bread, candles and toilet paper cause there’s no telling what this storm can do. I don’t need to remind you of the devastation that this storm has caused in all the cities so far, so stay safe and we will keep you updated…)
Victor turns the radio off, having heard enough. He leans back in his seat, his right arm outstretched, curling over the top of the steering wheel. The other is reaching into his shirt pocket, opening the pack, pulling out a number, sticking it between his lips, reaching again to grab the lighter, lighting the number, and then finally resting on his knee, all the while not removing his eyes from the point two inches directly above the steering wheel. Behind him, the same happy and nice, relaxing day he departed from yesterday. Ahead of him in the horizon he can see the darkness of the clouds slowly stampeding towards his rig, one of only a handful of vehicles occupying the road. Around him the Nebraska skyline is open, flat, only tall grass waving in the increasing winds, chaotically dancing together.
Slightly before zenith, dark clouds meet sunny day, though Victor can’t see it in the rig. Streaks of fantastic lightning shoot periodically down in front of him, often holding onto the thunder until over twenty seconds after the strikes, Victor counting. A rigid and breathtakingly thick bolt; “1…2…3…4…5…6…7…8…9…10…11…12…13…14…15…16…17…” and then a sound of crashing and booming, each one growing louder and closer, and closer still.
“1….2…3…4…5…6…7…8…9…10…11…” The thunder is louder, as if a building had just exploded, or if Victor was staring a roaring lion in the face. Raindrops begin to fall onto the windshield, increasing exponentially in number with the passing seconds. After a minute, the rain is at a steady pour and the rig’s windshield wipers frantically try to push the pools of water off of the glass, only to be met in the next swing with more to clear. The open windows leave a gap of about an inch on both doors, keeping the innards of the cockpit dry, the intrinsic side of the windshield un-fogged. The wind begins to nudge the rig, letting it and its driver know that they have entered a realm they will wish that they hadn’t.
“1…2…3…4…5…” Crash.
“Vic, you there?” It is Floyd over the radio.
“Yea I’m here,” Victor grabbed the receiver and spoke into it. “Ran into some weather along the way but still chuggin.”
“You gotta pull outta there, whatever your doin’ its gotta wait. The load will be there in a few days after this storm passes, turn around and rest I’m tellin’ you.”
“I can make this, I gotta, it ain’t about the load.”
“Then whats it about for cryin out loud? You don’t got nothing out there, your headed into a monster now I’m sayin, turn the hell around!”
“My family is out there, my boy and my wife” Victor yells back into the receiver, looking at the pictures above him, fluttering from the increasing wind shooting through the cockpit. The rain is falling heavily and visibility has reached a severe minimum. Lightning crashes in the field to the truck’s right about two–hundred yards away and immediately a thunderous boom from the heavens dominates the drums of Victor’s ears, deafening.
“Family? You ain’t got no family, you walked out on them over twenty years ago, you think they want you do be doing this? Do you think they care?”
“I got a phone call a week ago, my wife found me, must’a looked me up. I’m gunna be a grandfather, I got the address and everything. I gotta go back!”
“Why do you have to now? I’m telling ya, it ain’t worth it!” The radio began to crackle, the two were losing reception and the conversation was coming to a close. Victor said nothing. The photographs, each being respectively held only by a solitary paperclip, were worn. They were worn from age, but more from the trials that they have undergone in the past hour. They are ripping from their places that they’ve held for twenty years and, as they totter back and forth, Victor can see a faint rectangular spot, covered for so long by the pictures whose hue is just a bit of a lighter almond than the rest of the dashboard’s scheme. And, before Victor could react, both pictures wriggled free from the clips holding them down and quickly flew out the driver’s side window.
“No!” Victor yelps as he reaches his left hand towards the escaping photographs, only to be barricaded by the half closed glass.
“Look Victor, known you a long time, you can’t do this, you won’t make it, you have to turn….” Static. The reception is lost.
Victor returns his head forward, placing both hands on the wheel after a final gulp of the disgustingly cold coffee. An ocean coating the glass with every swish of the wiper blade, Victor cannot see four feet in front of him. Towers of electricity momentarily erect themselves then vanish as quickly as they came and, three of them at once on average, ensnare the gigantic vehicle. Bellowing explosions disorient Victor as they crash within seconds of one another, rendering him senseless. An enormous pillar of twisting wind tangos around the area, simply toying with the truck and its useless captain. The winds are paralyzing, keeping a two-ton vehicle from advancing in a straight line with ease, astonishing. Victor continues to drive, both hands on the wheel, his face a mere five inches from the outside terror of the world. He cannot say that he wasn’t warned.
(Friday’s come and the storm has passed. Devastating effects throughout from the Rockies and eastward, the death toll is in the hundreds. The amount of repair, unpredictable. This catastrophe has affected thousands, tens of thousands. All we can say is that the rebuilding will not be easy, the hurt will not end, and the devastation will never cease to amaze. Truly astonishing. We will keep you updated with any further developments but for now, lets take a look at our forecast for the weekend.)
Victor walks along a muddy and flooded gravel trail. Broken trees and disassembled branches lay mangled in a mess along the road and outlaying wooded area. The sun cracks through trees creating a spider web of a shadow on the ground below, cascading over Victor’s face. Victor’s sunglasses still holding back his greasier hair, his appearance radiates exhaustion. At the end of the road is a house, or at least part of one. The windows are shattered and dirt covers the exterior, a broken chair clutters the porch. From what he could tell, the house had a light blue hue, though it was hardly noticeable as most of the panels had been torn off and the dirt so heavily caked the structure. Victor walks through the house, only a television, a kitchen table, and a bed stayed within the house, as well as an old backpack resting in front of a box that reads “Hercules’ Stuff.” Victor picks up the pack and holds it in his arms, tighter than he’s held anything before.
Out of the house, policing the perimeter, he finds a broken pipe over a rock protruding from the ground on the right of the porch. He gives a slight smile and bends over, lifting up the damaged bowl and placing the two halves into his chest pocket. After a moment, he begins walking back down the same muddy trail. Just now, emerging from the line of broken and barely living trees, comes a black car, windows tinted, Victor unable to see inside. An extremely pregnant woman emerges from the left back seat of the car, an older woman from the right. They are both dressed in black gowns, handkerchiefs in their hands. They stop and stare at the man standing in front of their house, dropping their handkerchiefs, the expecting knowing exactly who he is. The older woman’s facial expression twists and turns, smiles and frowns; she begins to cry, dropping to her knees. Victor walks over to her, crouches to ground and wraps his arms around her, sobbing along with her. Victor felt weak, a new feeling for him. He felt both responsible and powerless, all at the same time.