The Storm

As lightning bounced over the tops of the clouds on the horizon, a battered, rust-

coveredtruck flew down Highway 49 E. Off in the distance, a lone dog howled as the bugs backed him up with a zillion part harmony.  It was summer.  And it was miserable. The Delta evening was like living under a tongue.  Hot. And wet.

Sweat rolled down his back.  He wore clothes only because of modesty. Otherwise, they’d be back home in the drawer.  The little old ladies at the Delta Flats Baptist Church would have not approved. No, they would have died from shock.  No one got nekkid at the Delta Flats Baptist Church. So no nekkid tonight.

Not that anyone would have noticed.  He was on the radio after all. Not exactly a visual medium.  The engine of his ’69 Chevrolet pickup sputtered to a stop as he parked in front of the studio.  (no, he did not drive his Chevy to the levee). Lightning flickered again.  Storms were thrashing the Mississippi River. An outflow boundary blew the first breeze of the summer across his face.  At least the mosquitoes were blown to Alabama now.

He flicked on the lights in his studio. He liked to say “his” although it was really the bank’s. Let’s just say that Dave Ramsey wouldn’t approve. He was in debt up to his eyebrows.

He was alone tonight.  His producer had called in sick so he was juggling the board and the mic.  Tonight’s show would not be pretty.

The wind blew the screen door open against the brick of the building. WHAM!  He jumped.  The storms were coming closer. He could hear the thunder now.  The bugs had decided to call it a night.

SHOWTIME.  The disclaimers played followed closely by the theme music.  He cleared throat, drank one last gulp of coffee and got ready to start the show.

The storm boiled over, spilling out over the flat Delta landscape. Thunder crashed, drowning out his own voice.  The National Weather Service out of Jackson had called a Severe Thunderstorm Warning for his county.  He passed it along to his listeners.  All three of them.

The door slammed open again thanks to the storm’s angry fit. If it had been March, he’d have headed for the tornado safe room.  Yup, there’s nothing more comforting than being connected to watts and watts of electrical equipment in a severe thunderstorm.  Hail began to hit the metal roof.

The door flew open again.  But this time it did not slam back shut.

“Hello?” he called out.  His call was answered with footsteps.  A shadowy man entered the doorway.  “Do you have room for a guest?”

He should have been afraid. He wasn’t. “Sure.  Take a seat by the empty mic.  What’s your name? Would you like a glass of water?”

The man nodded and limped over to the chair and planted himself behind the microphone and smiled. BLAM.  A clap of thunder drowned out his answer.

The radio host continued on with his show.  Lightning struck waaay  too close.

“What do you do for a living,” the host said during the first break.

“I’m a fisherman,” the man smiled.

The host had had the year from Hades.  His family was gone. His sanity was on the brink. And his heart was hard.  Loss had drowned most of his hope — the bottle finished off what was left.  His soul was as crumpled as the two cars in the Delta junkyard.  Each night had been a personal journey into an emotional abyss.  The old man gazed at him.  The storm continued to howl.

The lights flickered.  The lightning left a shadow burned on the wall.  “Learn to laugh at the things that scare you.  Laugh at the things that drive you crazy.”  Another flash of lightning revealed a face that seemed like it was nearly 2,000 years old.  “Love again. Let your pain go.”

The host squirmed.  How did this stranger know of his pain?  “What?”

“Let your pain go.  Learn to forgive.”

Forgive? Who was he kidding? But then the host thought about the pain he had been through.  He realized his own anger was holding him prisoner.  Anger at the man who had taken everything from him.  The man who stumbled out of the car that had killed his family. The man holding the bottle of liquor. Speaking of drinking, his resentment was like swallowing acid to punish another.

He looked into the old man’s eyes and took a leap of faith.

He let it go, laughed uncontrollably and then began to weep.

The old man waved his hand in the air.  The storm mysteriously calmed.  “I can go now.  The worst is over.”

The man placed his hand on the radio host’s shoulder.  Warmth flowed from his touch.   “Remember, laugh, love and forgive.”

As the door shut, the man looked down at the glass of water he had given the stranger, he noticed it had changed color. He picked it up and sniffed it.

It was wine.