Rainy Days Revisited
Before the rain had even fallen, I had the opportunity to change my mind about it, but stubborn as I am, I decided to go out and get me a pack of lights. I put my coat on and just as I headed outside, I heard the roaring thunderstorm approaching. The cat was standing there by the door, gave me that “you out of your mind??” look. Her expression was priceless.
There had only been a handful of times when I ventured out in a storm. Last time, I recall, must have been in 2000, we were heading back to Weybridge from Gatwick Airport to make a stop in Redhill, just off the M25. It couldn't have been a gloomier day in all the senses. Alejandro and I met this girl some months before, her name was Emma and we had just dropped her at the airport, she was flying back home. Penny was driving and I couldn't help looking at the black clouds coming from above. Then it started pouring rain. God had decided to zip down his pants to go and have a piss all over south eastern England and I was right underneath to watch the whole show.
”I hope that plain crashes down!”, Alejandro said.
I just mumbled out some sort of “hmm, emm” but paid little attention to what he had said. He was upset about the night before and I did not want to start an argument about it.
“Cheer up lads, it can't be that bad!, I'm sure she will write back” said Penny, then added: “Or you guys can give her a call after she's got there and see if she arrived alright”
I was not going to add anything further to the conversation, it only had one destination, and like our ride, it was just as unexciting as Redhill. I kept contemplating the beautiful British motorway system, complex and well-thought as it's known to be, only that it had completely surrendered at the pissing weather. A never ending red tail of lights that looked like the long red tape of German bureaucracy making our pace slower, and the white lights coming from the other direction flashed through like passing destinies right in front of us.
It was then when Penny asked me to put on some tape she'd handed me over. It just read “Grace” and as soon as the music started it became enlightening. I was just about to discover Jeff Buckley and it would turn out to be a soothing experience.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
Not knowing what to reply, I simply said: “sounds as if he had been cursed in life”
“Well he's already dead, my dear” Penny replied in a much lower tone, like the one used to politely express disapproval of someone's comment. I kept silent, and just listened on.
Then I heard that roaring again, the whole floor trembled at such furious sound. I looked around and was glad of not being in Redhill at all. I was back in Berlin, pack of lights already in my hands, lit one up and realized it'll all been a flashback. I took the shortcut home, which runs behind some apartment blocks, I could see the tail of smoke I left as I walked past them. Hadn't really noticed how hard it was raining , and the wind was a blowing madness. I was no longer walking, I felt like being carried by a river, the whole storm filled every street with water. There wasn't a part of me that hadn't gotten wet, Honest. My efforts went as far as protecting my cigarette from getting wet as well. Back on my street and as I approached my place, I felt a cold chill going down my spine and suddenly I recalled the music I was listening to that gloomy day on the M25. It must have been the fact that I had completely forgotten what date it was tomorrow. Jeff Buckley died on the 29th of May, 1997. He drowned in the Mississippi River. He was certainly alive the day before he died, I guess he stayed there in Mississippi a day too long. If it hadn't been for Jeff's restless pledge, I would have never found a way to keep a secret part of my history from becoming public: Emma had stayed in St George's Hill a day too short. She could have stayed and I would have been with her for God knows how long, but in return I would have lost, if not one, at least two friends. It was a gamble and one way or the other I had to win to lose and lose to win. Jeff kept it simple, He only mourned these two words: “Forget her”
I managed to get home with only my shaky hands and a few gallons of water soaking from my clothes. Back into my apartment, the cat was still giving me that look. Somehow reminded me of the occasional and not so-welcoming look from my ex-wife every time I got home after doing something stupid. I could read it from the cat's eyes: “You are out of your mind!” Only, the look was more reassuring this time. One thing I always thought was that the eyes of cats were like windows to other forgotten places, a backdoor to secret passages in time.
Speaking of the devil, I'm yet to mail you the story of how the Captain conquered a country and then lost it in a sushi bar. For now, it's time to switch off my black box recorder... and quote something out of the record:
“Good morning Vietnam - to you too”
There had only been a handful of times when I ventured out in a storm. Last time, I recall, must have been in 2000, we were heading back to Weybridge from Gatwick Airport to make a stop in Redhill, just off the M25. It couldn't have been a gloomier day in all the senses. Alejandro and I met this girl some months before, her name was Emma and we had just dropped her at the airport, she was flying back home. Penny was driving and I couldn't help looking at the black clouds coming from above. Then it started pouring rain. God had decided to zip down his pants to go and have a piss all over south eastern England and I was right underneath to watch the whole show.
”I hope that plain crashes down!”, Alejandro said.
I just mumbled out some sort of “hmm, emm” but paid little attention to what he had said. He was upset about the night before and I did not want to start an argument about it.
“Cheer up lads, it can't be that bad!, I'm sure she will write back” said Penny, then added: “Or you guys can give her a call after she's got there and see if she arrived alright”
I was not going to add anything further to the conversation, it only had one destination, and like our ride, it was just as unexciting as Redhill. I kept contemplating the beautiful British motorway system, complex and well-thought as it's known to be, only that it had completely surrendered at the pissing weather. A never ending red tail of lights that looked like the long red tape of German bureaucracy making our pace slower, and the white lights coming from the other direction flashed through like passing destinies right in front of us.
It was then when Penny asked me to put on some tape she'd handed me over. It just read “Grace” and as soon as the music started it became enlightening. I was just about to discover Jeff Buckley and it would turn out to be a soothing experience.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
Not knowing what to reply, I simply said: “sounds as if he had been cursed in life”
“Well he's already dead, my dear” Penny replied in a much lower tone, like the one used to politely express disapproval of someone's comment. I kept silent, and just listened on.
Then I heard that roaring again, the whole floor trembled at such furious sound. I looked around and was glad of not being in Redhill at all. I was back in Berlin, pack of lights already in my hands, lit one up and realized it'll all been a flashback. I took the shortcut home, which runs behind some apartment blocks, I could see the tail of smoke I left as I walked past them. Hadn't really noticed how hard it was raining , and the wind was a blowing madness. I was no longer walking, I felt like being carried by a river, the whole storm filled every street with water. There wasn't a part of me that hadn't gotten wet, Honest. My efforts went as far as protecting my cigarette from getting wet as well. Back on my street and as I approached my place, I felt a cold chill going down my spine and suddenly I recalled the music I was listening to that gloomy day on the M25. It must have been the fact that I had completely forgotten what date it was tomorrow. Jeff Buckley died on the 29th of May, 1997. He drowned in the Mississippi River. He was certainly alive the day before he died, I guess he stayed there in Mississippi a day too long. If it hadn't been for Jeff's restless pledge, I would have never found a way to keep a secret part of my history from becoming public: Emma had stayed in St George's Hill a day too short. She could have stayed and I would have been with her for God knows how long, but in return I would have lost, if not one, at least two friends. It was a gamble and one way or the other I had to win to lose and lose to win. Jeff kept it simple, He only mourned these two words: “Forget her”
I managed to get home with only my shaky hands and a few gallons of water soaking from my clothes. Back into my apartment, the cat was still giving me that look. Somehow reminded me of the occasional and not so-welcoming look from my ex-wife every time I got home after doing something stupid. I could read it from the cat's eyes: “You are out of your mind!” Only, the look was more reassuring this time. One thing I always thought was that the eyes of cats were like windows to other forgotten places, a backdoor to secret passages in time.
Speaking of the devil, I'm yet to mail you the story of how the Captain conquered a country and then lost it in a sushi bar. For now, it's time to switch off my black box recorder... and quote something out of the record:
“Good morning Vietnam - to you too”
Comments
My time has come
It reminds me of the pain
I might leave
Leave behind"