Read Online Clearly Now, the Rain by Eli Hastings - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Eli Hastings
Ads: Link
practice despite the fact that itâs a three-minute walk from Samarâs door. The master is a world-famous fighter and the exercise is hard and good and necessary to keep violence from spilling out of me at foolish moments. I pass the exam and hurry back to campus for some other test in Mexican Politics or Middle East Conflicts or some such thing. But I have to shower and so I stop by the Batcave where I find Serala sunglassed despite the dim room, smoking angrily and stabbing her computer keyboard with an aggression that I canât believe is poetryâbut there it is, tumbling to life on the screen. I put an arm around her from behind, intending an abbreviation of a hug, but she grabs it and reaches up for the other.
Did you pass?
Yeah.
I knew you would.
She pulls me closer.
Iâm super sweaty,
I say, because itâs true.
I love it,
she says, and holds on for a long moment, looking up at me frankly, before I can break away, step into the shower and stare up into the spray of hard water and wonder just what the fuck that was.
That weekend, the hip-hop group the Roots comes to perform on campus. It turns out to be a genuine disaster: they show up two hours late, disrespect everyone they meet, demand strong weed (not a problem) and chamomile tea with honey (a bit of a problem) before going onstage. Then they give a mediocre performance until their soundman blows the schoolâs entire speaker system. But I donât care so much because Iâm pressed up next to Serala in the surging crowd and I donât have to do a thing but listen and feel her body push and yield with mine.
When the show ends with the explosion of speaker static, we go to meet my father who is visiting. The hallway in the Riverside Inn is dim and thickly carpeted; his room is dimmer. I find acute feelings of both nervousness and excitement about introducing her to him. He lies supine on the double bed, right ankle up on his left knee, stretching the damaged ligaments. There is an old movie on the TV, his pills under the bedside lamp. He doesnât look his worst by any means tonight, but I wish that she could see him when he was younger, thinner, unbroken.
He cuts off the TV and removes his glasses; she sits on the other double bed closest to him and I sit at the foot of his. We are carrying around a bottle of wine and we share it in the tiny hotel cups. I know that we talk about films, about the Roots show and what it says about fame and corruption, and about our dog Sky, a thousand miles north, probably hobbling around looking for Dad at that very moment. I recall all this, though, as more of a feeling than an event; picturing the two of them chatting brings me comfort. I know that for both of them, the otherâs presence also brings comfort. I know it that night when we leave the hotel and she is quiet for a long time. I know it the next day when he asks more than he ever has about her, as if he were writing a profile.
I didnât find it odd when Serala became the second person that year, after my father, to suggest we drive to Tijuana. Really let the highway carry us this time, instead of the mere miles between campus and diners. Her objective is the same as my fatherâs was: to get our hands on some painkillers.
The wind and flying cigarette ashes make my study of the British partitioning of Palestine tedious. Somewhere closer to Riverside than Tijuana, I put my texts aside on the empty backseat. Locks of Seralaâs black hair roll and snap behind her, nearly touching my face. In the shotgun seat is Monty. Björk does her best to escape the static-shot speakers of Desert Storm.
Hustlers take us very quickly to what we want. Monty and I together make short work of the alleys and drugstores with our Spanish skills, honed in points farther south. The white-coated pharmacists sometimes balk; we are more risky clientele than my father, but when we extract larger bills, their scruples crumble and we gather
Did you pass?
Yeah.
I knew you would.
She pulls me closer.
Iâm super sweaty,
I say, because itâs true.
I love it,
she says, and holds on for a long moment, looking up at me frankly, before I can break away, step into the shower and stare up into the spray of hard water and wonder just what the fuck that was.
That weekend, the hip-hop group the Roots comes to perform on campus. It turns out to be a genuine disaster: they show up two hours late, disrespect everyone they meet, demand strong weed (not a problem) and chamomile tea with honey (a bit of a problem) before going onstage. Then they give a mediocre performance until their soundman blows the schoolâs entire speaker system. But I donât care so much because Iâm pressed up next to Serala in the surging crowd and I donât have to do a thing but listen and feel her body push and yield with mine.
When the show ends with the explosion of speaker static, we go to meet my father who is visiting. The hallway in the Riverside Inn is dim and thickly carpeted; his room is dimmer. I find acute feelings of both nervousness and excitement about introducing her to him. He lies supine on the double bed, right ankle up on his left knee, stretching the damaged ligaments. There is an old movie on the TV, his pills under the bedside lamp. He doesnât look his worst by any means tonight, but I wish that she could see him when he was younger, thinner, unbroken.
He cuts off the TV and removes his glasses; she sits on the other double bed closest to him and I sit at the foot of his. We are carrying around a bottle of wine and we share it in the tiny hotel cups. I know that we talk about films, about the Roots show and what it says about fame and corruption, and about our dog Sky, a thousand miles north, probably hobbling around looking for Dad at that very moment. I recall all this, though, as more of a feeling than an event; picturing the two of them chatting brings me comfort. I know that for both of them, the otherâs presence also brings comfort. I know it that night when we leave the hotel and she is quiet for a long time. I know it the next day when he asks more than he ever has about her, as if he were writing a profile.
I didnât find it odd when Serala became the second person that year, after my father, to suggest we drive to Tijuana. Really let the highway carry us this time, instead of the mere miles between campus and diners. Her objective is the same as my fatherâs was: to get our hands on some painkillers.
The wind and flying cigarette ashes make my study of the British partitioning of Palestine tedious. Somewhere closer to Riverside than Tijuana, I put my texts aside on the empty backseat. Locks of Seralaâs black hair roll and snap behind her, nearly touching my face. In the shotgun seat is Monty. Björk does her best to escape the static-shot speakers of Desert Storm.
Hustlers take us very quickly to what we want. Monty and I together make short work of the alleys and drugstores with our Spanish skills, honed in points farther south. The white-coated pharmacists sometimes balk; we are more risky clientele than my father, but when we extract larger bills, their scruples crumble and we gather
Similar Books
It's Always Darkest Before the Fridge Door Opens: Enjoying the Fruits of Middle Age
Phil Callaway, Martha O. Bolton
