Short Story / Rain

        He sits on his porch staring at the rain. It’s summer, and another storm triggered by heat and humidity has amassed above his house, his kingdom. He sits on his porch keeping sentry, allowing himself to be close to the chaos so that the domestic calm behind him is felt more deeply. If it weren’t for the dark nothing would ever seem light.
        It’s calming watching the rain. This is no passive process; this is an unravelling of thoughts and the day’s stresses. He’s an ineffective perfectionist. He wants to be the best at what he wants, he dreads making mistakes, yet he is guilty of always messing up, or worse, never trying. He fears that others think he’s a joke and at the same time, he’s found a way to turn this fear into reality.
        The rain washes this away.
        You don’t have to make conversation with the rain. It’ll keep falling while he smokes his cigarette – a little too quickly and anxiously- without saying a word. He’s afraid of people. He’s afraid of saying the wrong thing so he often doesn’t say anything at all. His coworkers think he’s strange and awkward because of this. His coworkers are strangely vicious and sweet, in that bizarre socially competitive way. It’s important to be one of the group, to be accepted by the group, to not waste time with the periphery.
        Sometimes his little daughter sits outside with him. She has his eyes, those almond shaped, blue-grey-green product of Britain. They say she’s a bright girl. That she should be in gifted classes. This makes him smile. He’s proud of his little girl. He hopes that her preternaturally happy disposition stays the way it is. He dreads the day she grows up and sees the world for how it really is – he worries that it’ll crush her and corrupt her the way it almost crushed and corrupted him. He dreads the day she becomes more successful than him, even though he hopes with all his heart that her dreams come true.
        He takes another drag on his cigarette and exhales these troubles. They are not for today. Today she’s still small, still bright, imaginative and obedient. It’s easy to love her. He doesn’t want to think about what it’ll be like in a few years. He can relate to children, adults are more difficult.
        A crash of thunder jolts him slightly, but he goes back to smiling within an instant. He is mildly drunk – tomato juice and beer have softened the nerves unaffected by nicotine. He appears serene, with a slight smile on his face, watching the sky give the suburb hell. He never thought he’d end up like this. Growing up he always wanted to be part of a good family, a nice family. He wanted the cat and dog, he wanted to be able to bring his friends over without getting in trouble. He wanted friends.
        But then he did grow up and became bitterly rebellious. He was going to be a rock star. He was going to show them. He was going to live outside the boredom he assumed existed in those nice houses with the nice families. His life would be exciting and he’d surround himself with exciting people.
        He forgot that poor doesn’t mean exciting.
        He met a girl though. The exciting alterna-life wasn’t working out, but she was. And she could offer the nice house and the nice family. She was there, she was solid, she was wonderful.
        He didn’t know that she was his only until the beautiful little girl was born. He didn’t know that being the designated breadwinner would result in his being pushed to the periphery of his kingdom. Their lives and their roles had been segregated to the point that there was little overlap. He felt helpless and maybe this was the problem. He expected things to be bad, and he expected things to fall into place. When the going got tough, he retreated to the periphery. He didn’t believe that he could fix it so he didn’t even try.
        He dreams of the alterna-life now. Of the concerts and after parties. His wife doesn’t like the people he used to hang out with so he doesn’t hang out with them anymore. He neglects to remember that this might not be such a loss, that they may not have been such good friends anyway.
        He sips his beer and in his head hums some Zeppelin. God some weed would be good right now.
        The rain is starting to slow. Time to go back in. He guesses. His wife’s been cooking dinner, he can smell it. It probably won’t be very good. Maybe if he turns the TV up loud enough he won’t have to make dinnertime conversation.

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