Apparently as I’m typing, a major SE city is or just got pounded by a storm. I know cuz’ Bro called, and I’m still laughing.
I hear Bro. It sounds like he’s in a minisub or something – like bursts of bubbles from an aquarium.
“Yo,” I say.
“Yo,” he says. More bubbles. Bubbles. “It’s dark out here.” He’s driving. “There’s a column up ahead.”
“An udder?” I ask. Udders are precursors of tornados; something our family has reason to fear.
“No, it’s a column. . . . . and it’s coming down. It’s straight ahead.” You can’t get off the road in this city: speeds are typically 75+ mph, 10 lanes wide.
“Well,” I say dryly, chuckling, “Say hello to Dorothy when you arrive.”
“It ain’t Dorothy I’m worried about,” he says worriedly. “It’s those damned flyin’ monkeys.”
“I thought the flying monkeys were cute.” (me)
“It’s getting darker . . . damn, black. Looking for hail . . .” (him)
“Well,” I say as his phone starts cutting in and out. “You don’t have to worry about the wicked witch. She’s at her house down the road about four miles from here.” (Meaning mom.)
static, hiss . . . dial tone.
Well, I think, hanging up the phone. I hope the flying monkeys didn’t get him. And laugh, but a tad worried, okay? My brother is a survivor, like me: tough, realistic, gritty. Like most survivors in a pinch.
Ten minutes later I get a call.
rustle rustle . . . tap . . . soft knock . . .
“Yo?” I say. Then louder. Then I whistle in the phone, wondering: is he laid up somewhere? Sucked up by a tornado and spit out? Car turned over? Not worried, mind you: I’m well aware of what I can and cannot do, and don’t worry about what I have no control over. (A handy skill, you might wanna learn it if you haven’t already.)
Then I hear the sound of someone urinating. Splish splash.
Pocket dial. Sign of the times; only with a cell phone.
And am relieved, because I know: he made it home.
And then hang up.