| General Fiction posted July 2, 2023 |
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Not every storm has a silver lining.
Eden in the Rain
by Loretta Bigg
Storm Approaches Contest Winner
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
It was pouring down the day I left Eden. At 10am, the sidewalks were already soaked with hard rain and soft mud. Too late to leave my too-large luggage at home with the leather ruined and probably the stuff inside too.
Alice Faye's birthday. I was going to leave on Elvis's but I chickened out. So it would have to be Alice Faye or bust. My soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend had always said, "You sing just like her." But I knew he had a crush on her, even though she'd been dead for years.
"I'm leaving on her birthday as a tribute to you, Bobby." I don't think he heard that. He was too busy crying.
My two huge bags had been longing to leave Eden since January, but saving money took that dream away. Every time I started to go, something awful stopped me. First the "my-fault" fender-bender with Bobby's truck, then Gramma's needed cataract surgery and then a small fortune on a going-away gift. I got Bobby an Alice Faye autograph from ebay, signed for some other Bobby in 1938. But that wasn't enough to stop his sobbing. He almost gave away my escape, what with all the waterworks.
Cicadas sang their water sprinkler song as I limped along with my bags. I regretted packing so much, but I couldn't afford to buy new equipment in Memphis. So to keep my mind off my sore shoulders, I wrote a song about Cicadas in May and then forgot it in ten minutes.
With only 2000 dollars slapping burgers at Speedy's the whole damned year, I had only three months to make it in Memphis. I'd sold my cell and my piano and told Gramma I was planning to pay for her implants with the money, but that was a black lie. She was the only family who'd ever treated me decent. Still, by July, I would have sold a song and I'd make it up to Gramma with a whole mouth of new teeth.
Why leave Eden at all? An okay town, but not to get famous. It was hard to judge against Memphis because I'd always lived in Eden. But this was my one chance. And I could always come back home, tail between legs on the small chance that I failed.
For now or never, Memphis was the only place for Lolo and Her Solo Harmony Band.
The first solo harmony band in the world, exotic like the Chenille Sisters, copacetic like Cab Calloway. It might be hard to make it with old school jive, but I had more than just talent. I had the courage and the grit to face my fears and try. 'Cause if you don't even try, you might as well die.
I only had to go two blocks with those suitcases stuffed with costumes, sheet music, demo reels, my little keyboard, recording equipment and 2,078 dollars in cash. Bobbu drove me to the Greensburo bus station with the suitcases tied to the roof, tears mixing with the rain that hit his face through his open window. By the time we hit Greensburo, he was as wet as the luggage.
"I love you, Lolo, and if you come back we can get married and have kids. Promise?"
"Just give me three months. If I don't make it, I'll come back." I didn't even kiss him goodbye. I was that cruel.
When I put my soaked luggage on the scale, the weight arrow threw a fit. I had to pay extra for too many pounds. I threw a couple of outfits out and some percussion, but I still had at least 75 pounds of what I now saw as unnecessary ballast. And the operater lied about the ticket price to Memphis. I had 1,943 bucks left day one.
The bus to Memphis had passengers waiting around the block. The driver counted out loud and stopped everyone behind me. "Stop shoving," she said to the losers. "You'll all get there soon enough, on the next one." We might as well be cattle to her, hurry up this, and hurry up that.
"You don't have to be rude, I've got the ticket right here," I said, but then I couldn't find it, and by the time they'd pulled out my suitcase and I rumbled through it, there was only one seat left on the bus. Everyone dirty-looked when I rushed in covered with rainwater and mud. My courage started to filter away. Had to prop it up right quick.
This really fat old man moved over for me. He smelled of sweat and cheap cigars. He smiled apologetically and tried to squeeze himself even closer to his side of the row, but he still took up half of my seat as well as his own. "Do you want to change seats with me, Darling?" he said in this rich dark baritone. But I shook my head. Shy.
The bus lurched and threw me back. Before I could even get comfortable, we were on the road. The nice fat man started whispering a soft prayer. I heard him singing, "help me, sweet Mary full of grace." He kept time with the windshield wipers. A baby cried once and gurgled and after a couple of minutes all this gentle rhythm knocked her out.
Next thing I knew, the driver called Jackson, Jackson. And I looked out the window for who he was calling. I think the bus had stopped, but I couldn't see anything because my eyes were shut tight. Through the window, I heard rain plashing, and a couple of words rose up next to me:
"A storm is coming."
"Turn that radio off," the driver said, which shook me completely awake. The fat old man held a hand-sized radio to one ear.
"Yes, ma'am," he said, but he only fiddled with the volume a bit, giving me a long wink as he did. "You're not going to tell on me, are you, darling? I just want to make sure everything is okay back home. Just tell me if it gets in the way of your beauty sleep."
I didn't feel very beautiful; I just felt bus-sick. He was kind and gave me a bottle of water.
"So where are you going this lovely day?" he finally asked. Dark chocolate bass more like. He must have been a singer himself once. He waited for me to answer and when I didn't he said, "Is this sweet child going to Jackson or Memphis?"
"Memphis, sir," I answered.
"No need to be so formal. Call me Guy. Like Lombardo. And where are you from?"
"Eden."
"Eden? Well, how do you like that? That's my home town. That's the place I'm worried about, because of the storm coming, you know?" He was a real talker, not like me, so I settled into my seat to listen.
"Eden, I loved that place. I never forgot it. Beautiful home. My folks the best, religious, taught me right. But things went wrong. I got lost and ran away."
"Lost?"
"Did some wild things, took some wild drugs, you know, the same old story all over the world. Spent time in the pen, too. But I'm okay now, don't be afraid. I got saved, you see. I found my way. Found the courage to go one living."
"I found my way." Those soft dark words faded me back into a snooze. And a new dream wrapped me up in cotton-candy, Eden, Beautiful home. Saved. I saw gramma waving, and the ex crying, but try though I would, I couldn't go back, my feet were stuck in the mud, and the rain fell like icy fingers down my neck.
Suddenly I saw the kind fat man in my dream, what was his name? He was running as fast as he could from our town, away from Eden, and this huge tornado tried to run him down and snatch him up, scooping up stones, stores, cows.
"Storm coming, girl," he called to me. "Storm on its way. We got to get back to Eden before it's too late. I've already been saved. I'll be okay. But the town... and you... missing... You gotta be brave, girl, hard times on the way."
The bus lurched again and pushed the old man against me. I didn't know if I was awake or still dreaming, but suddenly the wheels slipped against the road and the bus got caught up in a wild gale, tossed, turned, lifted. The driver slapped down on the brakes and I almost fell out of my chair..
"We have to wait this out," she shouted through the storm.
We all 30 souls sat as still as we could, as though that would save us. Some prayed, the baby bawled. His mother started to cry, and the old fat man hummed "Ill wind, ill wind blow away.".
Then the storm passed over the bus and went flying in the other direction.
"Safe," the bus driver called, and revved the engine.
"Oh, my," said my old man friend. "I wonder if this storm will reach all the way to Eden?" And he fiddled with the volume of his hand-sized radio again. The announcer screeched, "and gale force winds up to..."
"Who's got that radio?" the driver asked. "I told you to turn it down, whoever you are. Music's not allowed."
"Sorry," said my fat friend. "I'll turn it down, ma'am." But he only fiddled with the volume. "Mama don't want no jazz music round here I guess. But we gotta find out what happened to Eden, right, girl?"
By accident, he twisted the channel selector instead of the volume. Soon a silvery voice reached my ears. It was Alice Faye, singing "Stormy weather."
"I love that song," I said to him.
"Well, let's turn up the volume up a little more," he said. "See, the lord works in mysterious ways." He started to hum along in his beautiful bass voice. I crooned along in my solo harmony style. "Don't know why, there's no cloud up in the sky."
"You're good, girl! You know, my manager use to change those lyrics. 'Don't know why, there's no button on my fly, just a zipper.' I thought that was so funny."
And we both laughed and kept singing. And the baby cooed. And some people clapped. And the windshield wipers kept time.
The bus driver slammed on the brakes hard and turned to stare at us. She shouted in her stringy-high voice, "That's it, final straw, nigger. I told you to turn off that radio. Do it now or I'll throw you out."
The bus fell deep down into a silent shock. The rain stopped and the windshield wipers paused for breath. I felt my mouth open in an "Oh," but no sound came out. In all my years on earth, I'd never heard that word except on TV.
But the old man didn't even blink. He shut off the radio. I guess he didn't want to be thrown out into the storm.
I stood up to tell that driver a thing or two. I cleared my throat, but nothing came out. I looked around at everyone, but only saw worn-out faces in the netherworld of the bus. Someone I didn't know whispered, "so sick of this. But don't you worry, girl. Things will work out in Memphis. You just have to find your way."
I realized it was him, my friend, Guy was his name. I would help him once we reached Memphis, I would complain to her boss. but right then I was too scared to get thrown off the bus myself.
When the bus arrived in Memphis, the old man was sleeping. I didn't even shake him awake, I was that ashamed.
The bus driver had a big old fake smile for me. "Don't you forget your luggage, sweetie, and you have a nice day." She knew she was in trouble with me.
And I would have said something to that damned bus company, made her lose her job. But I couldn't, too scared, even though the storm had passed.
The next day, I bought a paper: "EF1 Tornado Slams into Eden. Girl Missing." I was missing all right. Where was my courage and grit gone? For a month I tried to talk myself into going back to the bus station, writing a complaint, but everytime, I had some lame excuse.
****
Years later, I'm still here. My car's windshield wipers mark the time now on my way to a dead end job. I wrote a song that no one wanted: "His smile, his voice, his weary face, singing sweet Mary full of grace." That tune didn't even buy me a can of beans.
The same old story all over the world: Never got famous, never got saved. Lost luggage, couldn't go back, couldn't stay. Courage? Grit? I didn't even have the guts to defend a kind man from one ugly word.
It was pouring down the day I left Eden. At 10am, the sidewalks were already soaked with hard rain and soft mud. Too late to leave my too-large luggage at home with the leather ruined and probably the stuff inside too.
Alice Faye's birthday. I was going to leave on Elvis's but I chickened out. So it would have to be Alice Faye or bust. My soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend had always said, "You sing just like her." But I knew he had a crush on her, even though she'd been dead for years.
"I'm leaving on her birthday as a tribute to you, Bobby." I don't think he heard that. He was too busy crying.
My two huge bags had been longing to leave Eden since January, but saving money took that dream away. Every time I started to go, something awful stopped me. First the "my-fault" fender-bender with Bobby's truck, then Gramma's needed cataract surgery and then a small fortune on a going-away gift. I got Bobby an Alice Faye autograph from ebay, signed for some other Bobby in 1938. But that wasn't enough to stop his sobbing. He almost gave away my escape, what with all the waterworks.
Cicadas sang their water sprinkler song as I limped along with my bags. I regretted packing so much, but I couldn't afford to buy new equipment in Memphis. So to keep my mind off my sore shoulders, I wrote a song about Cicadas in May and then forgot it in ten minutes.
With only 2000 dollars slapping burgers at Speedy's the whole damned year, I had only three months to make it in Memphis. I'd sold my cell and my piano and told Gramma I was planning to pay for her implants with the money, but that was a black lie. She was the only family who'd ever treated me decent. Still, by July, I would have sold a song and I'd make it up to Gramma with a whole mouth of new teeth.
Why leave Eden at all? An okay town, but not to get famous. It was hard to judge against Memphis because I'd always lived in Eden. But this was my one chance. And I could always come back home, tail between legs on the small chance that I failed.
For now or never, Memphis was the only place for Lolo and Her Solo Harmony Band.
The first solo harmony band in the world, exotic like the Chenille Sisters, copacetic like Cab Calloway. It might be hard to make it with old school jive, but I had more than just talent. I had the courage and the grit to face my fears and try. 'Cause if you don't even try, you might as well die.
I only had to go two blocks with those suitcases stuffed with costumes, sheet music, demo reels, my little keyboard, recording equipment and 2,078 dollars in cash. Bobbu drove me to the Greensburo bus station with the suitcases tied to the roof, tears mixing with the rain that hit his face through his open window. By the time we hit Greensburo, he was as wet as the luggage.
"I love you, Lolo, and if you come back we can get married and have kids. Promise?"
"Just give me three months. If I don't make it, I'll come back." I didn't even kiss him goodbye. I was that cruel.
When I put my soaked luggage on the scale, the weight arrow threw a fit. I had to pay extra for too many pounds. I threw a couple of outfits out and some percussion, but I still had at least 75 pounds of what I now saw as unnecessary ballast. And the operater lied about the ticket price to Memphis. I had 1,943 bucks left day one.
The bus to Memphis had passengers waiting around the block. The driver counted out loud and stopped everyone behind me. "Stop shoving," she said to the losers. "You'll all get there soon enough, on the next one." We might as well be cattle to her, hurry up this, and hurry up that.
"You don't have to be rude, I've got the ticket right here," I said, but then I couldn't find it, and by the time they'd pulled out my suitcase and I rumbled through it, there was only one seat left on the bus. Everyone dirty-looked when I rushed in covered with rainwater and mud. My courage started to filter away. Had to prop it up right quick.
This really fat old man moved over for me. He smelled of sweat and cheap cigars. He smiled apologetically and tried to squeeze himself even closer to his side of the row, but he still took up half of my seat as well as his own. "Do you want to change seats with me, Darling?" he said in this rich dark baritone. But I shook my head. Shy.
The bus lurched and threw me back. Before I could even get comfortable, we were on the road. The nice fat man started whispering a soft prayer. I heard him singing, "help me, sweet Mary full of grace." He kept time with the windshield wipers. A baby cried once and gurgled and after a couple of minutes all this gentle rhythm knocked her out.
Next thing I knew, the driver called Jackson, Jackson. And I looked out the window for who he was calling. I think the bus had stopped, but I couldn't see anything because my eyes were shut tight. Through the window, I heard rain plashing, and a couple of words rose up next to me:
"A storm is coming."
"Turn that radio off," the driver said, which shook me completely awake. The fat old man held a hand-sized radio to one ear.
"Yes, ma'am," he said, but he only fiddled with the volume a bit, giving me a long wink as he did. "You're not going to tell on me, are you, darling? I just want to make sure everything is okay back home. Just tell me if it gets in the way of your beauty sleep."
I didn't feel very beautiful; I just felt bus-sick. He was kind and gave me a bottle of water.
"So where are you going this lovely day?" he finally asked. Dark chocolate bass more like. He must have been a singer himself once. He waited for me to answer and when I didn't he said, "Is this sweet child going to Jackson or Memphis?"
"Memphis, sir," I answered.
"No need to be so formal. Call me Guy. Like Lombardo. And where are you from?"
"Eden."
"Eden? Well, how do you like that? That's my home town. That's the place I'm worried about, because of the storm coming, you know?" He was a real talker, not like me, so I settled into my seat to listen.
"Eden, I loved that place. I never forgot it. Beautiful home. My folks the best, religious, taught me right. But things went wrong. I got lost and ran away."
"Lost?"
"Did some wild things, took some wild drugs, you know, the same old story all over the world. Spent time in the pen, too. But I'm okay now, don't be afraid. I got saved, you see. I found my way. Found the courage to go one living."
"I found my way." Those soft dark words faded me back into a snooze. And a new dream wrapped me up in cotton-candy, Eden, Beautiful home. Saved. I saw gramma waving, and the ex crying, but try though I would, I couldn't go back, my feet were stuck in the mud, and the rain fell like icy fingers down my neck.
Suddenly I saw the kind fat man in my dream, what was his name? He was running as fast as he could from our town, away from Eden, and this huge tornado tried to run him down and snatch him up, scooping up stones, stores, cows.
"Storm coming, girl," he called to me. "Storm on its way. We got to get back to Eden before it's too late. I've already been saved. I'll be okay. But the town... and you... missing... You gotta be brave, girl, hard times on the way."
The bus lurched again and pushed the old man against me. I didn't know if I was awake or still dreaming, but suddenly the wheels slipped against the road and the bus got caught up in a wild gale, tossed, turned, lifted. The driver slapped down on the brakes and I almost fell out of my chair..
"We have to wait this out," she shouted through the storm.
We all 30 souls sat as still as we could, as though that would save us. Some prayed, the baby bawled. His mother started to cry, and the old fat man hummed "Ill wind, ill wind blow away.".
Then the storm passed over the bus and went flying in the other direction.
"Safe," the bus driver called, and revved the engine.
"Oh, my," said my old man friend. "I wonder if this storm will reach all the way to Eden?" And he fiddled with the volume of his hand-sized radio again. The announcer screeched, "and gale force winds up to..."
"Who's got that radio?" the driver asked. "I told you to turn it down, whoever you are. Music's not allowed."
"Sorry," said my fat friend. "I'll turn it down, ma'am." But he only fiddled with the volume. "Mama don't want no jazz music round here I guess. But we gotta find out what happened to Eden, right, girl?"
By accident, he twisted the channel selector instead of the volume. Soon a silvery voice reached my ears. It was Alice Faye, singing "Stormy weather."
"I love that song," I said to him.
"Well, let's turn up the volume up a little more," he said. "See, the lord works in mysterious ways." He started to hum along in his beautiful bass voice. I crooned along in my solo harmony style. "Don't know why, there's no cloud up in the sky."
"You're good, girl! You know, my manager use to change those lyrics. 'Don't know why, there's no button on my fly, just a zipper.' I thought that was so funny."
And we both laughed and kept singing. And the baby cooed. And some people clapped. And the windshield wipers kept time.
The bus driver slammed on the brakes hard and turned to stare at us. She shouted in her stringy-high voice, "That's it, final straw, nigger. I told you to turn off that radio. Do it now or I'll throw you out."
The bus fell deep down into a silent shock. The rain stopped and the windshield wipers paused for breath. I felt my mouth open in an "Oh," but no sound came out. In all my years on earth, I'd never heard that word except on TV.
But the old man didn't even blink. He shut off the radio. I guess he didn't want to be thrown out into the storm.
I stood up to tell that driver a thing or two. I cleared my throat, but nothing came out. I looked around at everyone, but only saw worn-out faces in the netherworld of the bus. Someone I didn't know whispered, "so sick of this. But don't you worry, girl. Things will work out in Memphis. You just have to find your way."
I realized it was him, my friend, Guy was his name. I would help him once we reached Memphis, I would complain to her boss. but right then I was too scared to get thrown off the bus myself.
When the bus arrived in Memphis, the old man was sleeping. I didn't even shake him awake, I was that ashamed.
The bus driver had a big old fake smile for me. "Don't you forget your luggage, sweetie, and you have a nice day." She knew she was in trouble with me.
And I would have said something to that damned bus company, made her lose her job. But I couldn't, too scared, even though the storm had passed.
The next day, I bought a paper: "EF1 Tornado Slams into Eden. Girl Missing." I was missing all right. Where was my courage and grit gone? For a month I tried to talk myself into going back to the bus station, writing a complaint, but everytime, I had some lame excuse.
****
Years later, I'm still here. My car's windshield wipers mark the time now on my way to a dead end job. I wrote a song that no one wanted: "His smile, his voice, his weary face, singing sweet Mary full of grace." That tune didn't even buy me a can of beans.
Years later, I'm still here. My car's windshield wipers mark the time now on my way to a dead end job. I wrote a song that no one wanted: "His smile, his voice, his weary face, singing sweet Mary full of grace." That tune didn't even buy me a can of beans.
The same old story all over the world: Never got famous, never got saved. Lost luggage, couldn't go back, couldn't stay. Courage? Grit? I didn't even have the guts to defend a kind man from one ugly word.
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Writing Prompt Write a short story where a storm is approaching. Minimum length 700 words. Maximum Length 4,000 words. |
Storm Approaches Contest Winner |
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