Hank woke to the sound of rain hitting the green tin like drops of concrete as the rain crashed against the roof. It filled the small two-bedroom cabin with the sounds of an encroaching apocalypse, or something more akin to the howling of the damned.
Thunder rumbled in long bursts behind the cabin. The windows in the cabin rattled with the rage of the heavens. Lightning flashed and scarred the sky, the sheer white illuminated the black clouds with its radiance.
Then the bottom fell out.
Hank wandered into the kitchen and inserted a pod into his single coffee maker and pressed 12 oz. He waited until the machine began to drip, and he walked out onto his porch. The tall trees that stood around the cabin swayed with the fury of the wind, each bowing to the will of the gale-like tempest, seemingly microscopic in its own way.
Metal chimes adorned the porch, and Hank realized they were the source of the symphony he’d heard from the comforts of his bed. He watched as the metal rods clanged into each other with a ferocity he’d seen only on rare occasions. They seemed to prophesy the forthcoming of a cataclysmic level tornado that Hank feared would spring forth from the black thunderhead of clouds that encroached upon his cabin.
Ain’t nothing I can do about it. Might as well go drink this cup of coffee, and I’ll lay back down until the storm passes.
But as Hank knew all to well, some storms don’t pass. Some linger and grow worse over time, like humidity contributes to higher heat, or where wind, humidity, heat and other things contribute to the shaping and unleashing of hurricanes, some storms are unavoidable.
Even in life, the pendulum swung to the extreme on both ends of the spectrum. Storms served as a reminder we still lived. Scars served to remind us that we survived the storm.
Across town, Jayson Nom headed into work. His style of driving was as grating as his personality. He tailgated those he deemed ‘slow’, often gesturing with both hands in the air like a conductor in front of an orchestra. Oft times, he would swerve recklessly from one lane to another, passing the imbecilic drivers in front of him, all while screaming instructions on how they could improve.
Rain did not deter him, for Jayson Nom was a man on a mission. He knew his destiny called him to heights not yet envisioned by those older than he. “Older and wiser is not a thing,” he told his friends. “If age and wisdom walked hand in hand, then slavery should’ve never happened in America.”
Nom didn’t need anyone to verbalize his genius. He knew when it came to intelligence, wisdom, and general know-how, he stood unequalled. A man without peers.
Somewhere in the black of endless space, God laughed.