29 September, 2004
tear the roof off the sucker

after that last bit, i feel like i've taken one massive metaphysical shit.

problem is, the mental colon re-accumulates quickly enough.
but, enough of that metaphor, s'il vous pla�t.

almost two weeks ago, on that Friday that reeked of apocalypse, nothing more than a deluge fell on the house. no limbs were disturbed, no crescendo of heart-stopping thunder rattled the foundation... even the flooding ditches were only temporarily overwhelmed. at the time, my only concern was why my wife had chosen to drive back from her daughters' at dusk, with flash flood warnings posted everywhere.
logic is not usually an option.
so, to keep me from casting a glance out the window every minute of two for familiar headlights, i decided to make dinner. when the going gets tough, the tough make... chili.
after the usual perfunctory "hellos," the first words were warnings that the chili had better not be too spicy.
surprise or gratitude are not usually options, either.
then, the silence set in... interrupted by the phone.

"Scott... doood... you won't believe what just happened," in the surfer-ish cadence of akebono, miles away at work.
"A tornado just destroyed the building. don't plan on coming to work in the foreseeable future." he went on the shakily recreate the events of just a short while before of an F2 that approached from Dulles, which tumbled cars into the gas line, toppled tractor-trailers, and peeled off the pressroom roof like the skin off of an orange.
nobody hurt.
but debris, everywhere, three days later... when i was told to report to work at the usual time. the offices, and my terminal, untouched.
yellow tufts of insulation scattered like hellish snow over the building and the landscape, which was accented by broken trees, sixty-foot sections of metal roofing and blindingly bright sunlight. miraculously, the presses fired up to run a day later under starlit skies.
fast forward past a head cold, death of the volvo's transmission... another solitary weekend punctuated by the radio show, the beginnings of real paint on the house, and an accusatory return. surely i had visitors at the house in her absence, since there were so many coffee cups.
yeah. me. and the cat.
so it has gone since last time. as i type, yet another hurricane passes overhead... and the latest tornado watches expire.
apocalypse, it seems, can assume all sizes and shapes.

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