Flash Flood
It was raining harder than he’d ever seen and he was an old
man and he’d seen a lot of rain. He
heard it hit the cabin’s metal roof and saw it rush right across the gutters,
pounding the deck. He saw little waterfalls splashing down the twenty steps to
the driveway, but it was workout morning and he would drive the twenty miles
there and sit in the hot tub, and he would walk a little and lift some weight,
a lot of weight for a man his age, and he would talk to his retiree buddies,
and they would watch the young women on the elliptical runners and the
treadmills, or he might walk into the aerobic room and move in time to the
party music for a few minutes. Then he would grab some fresh towels and head
for the sauna because Dr. Oz said that was the best way for a man of his age to
end his workout.
When he backed the Jetta out of the drive, his dog chased
him again, but he didn’t feel like reaching into the back floorboard for the
ammonia spray, so he drove on up the hill with her following till he reached thirty
mph. The rain had slacked some as he
drove past the road that cut off toward the emerald mine and headed through the
little town with its one stoplight, store and post office. Then he was on open
road descending the several miles to the river and the eighty year old dam that
held back the river and created real estate for the doctors and dentists and
mill owners and such. He tried to listen
to Rush Limbaugh who was talking endlessly about the radio conglomerate that
was trying to screw him and how his show would be stronger in the end. He knew
this was true because Rush was the only person in the media who had the guts to
tell the unvarnished truth. He could count on Rush even when he couldn’t count
on himself or when he felt himself slipping in some way.
But this morning he was having trouble hearing Rush because
the rain had caught another gear, and it was raining harder and harder the
farther south he drove. Finally he
crossed the river, and the 28 foot gates were wide open near the top, water gushing
through like madness. And the local
radio interrupted Rush to give a flash flood warning. All this happened as he
slowed to 20 mph. The water came across his car, endless waves of it, and he
could barely see. There was nowhere to pull over and he was sure he’d make it
anyway. He always did. Water surged down
the hill toward his car, but the Jetta stuck to the road, and he continued
forward. He was almost to the first turn off though he was fighting for visibility
since the wipers could not keep up with the deluge. Rush was talking about Trayvon Martin again,
and he tried to listen even as the car fish tailed a bit as he crested the
hill.
Suddenly another car came flying around him, traveling 50 or more with no lights on. He watched it in disbelief. How could anybody be that stupid and be that much of an asshole, he thought. As he was thinking that, the car began to turn right into the cut through road , hydroplaned in two spectacular circles and flipped into the ditch. He pulled left of it when he turned, then refixed himself in the right lane. The rain was even more furious and he wasn’t about to stop for that speeding asshole. Rush was talking about how George Zimmerman should be treated as an American hero, and he knew that was right. He checked to make sure he had his pistol in his pants pocket and he did. He always did. You never knew what might happen out here. Rush was calling Trayvon a drug head and a thug and a poor representative of his race. He knew this was true just as he knew there were worse things out there than flash floods and assholes turned upside down in ditches. And though he hadn’t done it in a very long time, he said a quick prayer thanking God for not making him an asshole.
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