Northern Downpour Sends Its Love

It was freezing and getting to the point of numbing. It was more than any human-being should be subjected to and yet there I was, my ass still sitting in that god damn press-box. The other men and I sat there like pale undead, our knuckles snapping like wishbones and our breath came like silver wisps as if our souls had decided to abandon us in this bitter weather. I wouldn’t blame them if they had. The rain was coming down in icy curtains now and I was utterly dumbfounded that the officials hadn’t called the game. As you may have guessed, I would have.

Rocking to and fro in my stiff wooden seat, I came to see that black clouds had swallowed the sun and I couldn’t help but wonder what they would eat next. Thick, gray cigar smog hung on the ceiling of the box, waiting for someone to stand up and choke on their cancerous fumes. Below, the game continued and I figured I had better get more notes than “It was fuckin’ cold” for my column in the paper tomorrow. Cupping my hands, I pressed them to the cool window and leaned forward in an effort to actually identify the players on the field. No luck. Scooting forward until my nose was smashed up against the glass, I still was unable to see past the pounding rain. At that moment I figured there was no point in even trying to follow the game and it would make more sense if I just scratched down some “B.S.” and handed that in for my Sunday morning report. Yet something in the back of my head reminded me that in order to keep my job, and ultimately my rubbish lifestyle, that I needed this report to be a smashing success with the editor.

Leaning back in my chair, I collected the few things I had with me and started to head for the exit of the box, but clearly some people found that just bloody rude.

“Where do you think you’re going, rookie?” a husky voiced man called after me from across the room.

His words made my blood boil as I paused at the exit, glancing over at the past games scores in an effort to make it seem like I allowed his words to pass right over me and into the curling smoke above our heads. Ringing my hat between my hands as I gave the board one more look-over, I put my cap on and turned around only to come face to face with that rubbish mouthed man who had called me a “rookie”.

“Those are last year’s scores, you know boy,” the man told me, his voice filled with the ridiculous pride of being a veteran reporter.

I peered up into his pudgy, pig-snouted face from behind my drooping, greasy rust locks, giving him a subtle murmur of “Didn’t you know being a fat-ass was out of style this season?” before shoving past him to the exit of the box. A hog-like snort sounded from behind me, and like I had guessed, it was from my friend, the Pigman.

“Now you listen here, rookie scum,” the Pigman grunted angrily. “You should give your veteran reporters respect and praise because without us--” I cut him off.

“Because without you there wouldn’t be a job for me, yea, yea, I’ve heard it all before,” I muttered, scuffing my worn shoes on the corner of the exit door. “Anything else you would like to remind me of, veteran?”

The Pigman’s face grew red and a blood vessel in his forehead swelled so much that I was about ready to grab an umbrella from the nearby holder in case it burst. “Get out,” he growled coldly, pointing a stubby finger towards the door.

I threw him a crocked grin as I trotted out the door and into the pour, calling back “Already there, Piggy.”

As I should have guessed, it was even worse outside in the stands. I had staggered down the worn steps until I was squashed up against the wooden barrier between the fans and the teams. My cap was soaked and stuck to my hair by the time I reached the barrier; my coat hadn’t faired much better. Like the fans, I pressed and leaned on the barrier, trying to catch a glimpse of one of the players that may have been smashed against the waterlogged wood. I pulled out my notepad from my inside coat pocket to find that it too had been destroyed, not leaving any dry space for me to even write down my substitute “B.S.” statements. The rain thundered down on the cheering fans and the out of breath players as they tried a final, desperate play in the hope to gain a few yards down the field before the end of the third quarter.

I was never much of a fan of American football, not to mention any sport besides real football, or what was called soccer here in the States. Water slid down my cap and dribbled off the end as I tried to keep track of the scores and game highlights in my memory, but soon I came to realize that my efforts were not going to help me write my column for tomorrow. My blue-gray eyes squinted through the sheets of water to see that the clock had struck the end of the third quarter and the teams were hurried off the fields and into their locker rooms to avoid catching a cold. The fans began to filter away from the barrier and under the covered areas to try and dry off before the final quarter, but I refused join them.

I stumbled among the scurrying crowd until I was jostled and knocked into a woman. I tripped over my own feet, which then resulted in me providing a hilariously painful face-plant for the drenched football fans. As I rolled onto my knees, a white, gloved hand was extended towards me, which I took graciously as I staggered back to my feet. Looking up past my flopping, rust hair, I came face to face with a very attractive woman. She was tall, blonde and had those big, blue eyes that just made my heart thump loud and hard. I must have stared for a bit too long because the next thing I knew I received a slap to the face and an earful of harsh, profound words I would have never expected to leave her glossy lips. An equally tall man approached me, he who I guessed to be the woman’s husband, and I apologized quickly before I hurried into the crowd of snickering passer-byers. Stupid wax-faced women.

The fourth quarter brought dry skies and excruciatingly loud cheers from the stands. The game seemed to be going a bit smoother then the previous quarters, and with my luck, the sun would stay out just long enough to dry my notepad. I squatted down next to one of the bleachers and set my notepad out to dry which, in fact, looked bloody ridiculous when I hollered at someone for trying to sit where my notes were. Maybe I needed a better job than this.

To tell you the truth, there was no doubt in my mind that I did deserve a better job than following these ridiculous American football teams. But what was I to expect? It was the late nineteen hundreds and the public wanted entertainment, or something close to that. This game didn’t seem to provide very much enjoyment, unless of course, you’re into watching big, hairy men in tights smash heads for three hours. If you’re one of those people who find pleasure in that, then all the more power to you, but if not, how about you and I start a rehab for the fans of this game? Think about it, we would save people time, money, and a whole lot of dignity. Sounds brilliant to me.

By the end of the fourth quarter, my notepad had still yet to dry and the rain clouds had decided to return. I grabbed my things and made a run for it once I felt a raindrop splatter against my cheek. After about five minutes of a rain shower, the stands had cleared out completely and the home team was cooling down. I watched the players start to run a drill called “suicides” up and down the field and at that point I started to wonder whether or not I should jog down to the field and wrangle up a few interviews, after all, they had won. But soon there was a clap of thunder and that sent me scurrying towards my pathetic excuse of an automobile. My car resembled the ones clowns drove in the circus, yet even theirs were better than mine, due to the fact that my whipey-things didn’t work.

I climbed into my car and started her up, lucky for me because the next thing I knew it was raining sheets. Once again, the roads had become a muddy hell.

The drive home was long and tedious, not to mention full of time for me to, indeed, “B.S.” my whole game report. As far as I was concerned, the only important aspect of the game was who won, so why bother with the details? Once I parked my can-on-wheels, I headed up the iron steps to my apartment which I undoubtedly called home. Opening my door, I stepped inside and called out “Honey, I’m home”, and then recapped on my life, muttering “Oh that’s right, I’m not married”.

Dinner, as always, was something out of a box. If it wasn’t for boxed food I’d be no better than dead at this point in life. I sat down, alone as usual, at the table that seated four and began to scoop my potatoes directly from the heated cardboard container. As for a drink, I did my best to keep down the soured milk, reminding myself that I would receive a bloody awful stomach ache, which may result in my missing work tomorrow. On that note, I drank the whole carton.

As you may have guessed, my stomach kept me awake all night; and let’s not forget the nauseating noises the neighbors provided. Lying in my bed, I practically got surround-sound of the couple next door making love at holy fuckin’ one in the morning. Now I don’t know about you, but that was about the worst night of my life, especially since I wasn’t able to figure out what was making me throw-up more: the neighbors or that soured milk.

I can see inside your head now, you’re wondering how the hell I can stand living like this, and being the man I am, I am inclined to answer such a question with this simple note of: I don’t. Well, I do, but it helps that you’re here. I mean, I’m clearly not going through this alone, right? You’re with me so at least that makes one person. Do you enjoy following me every day and watching me get shoved into situations you would never wish yourself into? You do, huh? What a sick person you are, but if you enjoy my days that much, then I do ask you to leave a note on my apartment door letting me know why you appreciate my works and deeds. It would help me understand people like you, you know, the freaks that get joy from watching others get smashed. Sorry, that does sound a bit rude, but hell, you laughed at my day at least once, I guarantee it! And if you haven’t, you, my dear friend, have no sense of humor whatsoever and you should just go back to your gloomy ways. Yet for those who enjoy my rants and unfortunate circumstances, I remind you to leave a note on my door to express why I should let you back into my life for another day or maybe even longer. I can’t keep this journal going if Holland, my landlord, kicks me out, so throw in something on that note about why I should be able to stay here.

So to close this, I simply want to let you know that if I get enough notes from you, I’ll let you know what happened the next day after I drank that soured milk. I know, what a reward, but trust me, you won’t be disappointed. You have my word.Robert Pattinson.
Spunk Ransom.