8
Raine
The ironyof rain is that I'm named after it, or so I assume. I know so little about the woman who gave me this name and not much more about the man who agreed to it. The only thing I do know is that they met during a cocaine exchange. Nine months later, I arrived, raining down on their carefree, doped-up lives.
I close my eyes, letting the marble-sized raindrops fall down the length of my face. Now that the murmuring of excited voices has muted, the only sound I hear is the water hitting everything in its path. The storm wasn’t supposed to hit us, but earlier when itwasheaded for us, it was predicted to be bad, so who knows how this will turn out. In any case, it doesn't help my current living situation.
Things with Crow didn't end as I hoped they might. He calmed down after the initial shock of my recent past with Kacee, but I knew he wasn't going to drop the issue that easily. That man is more territorial than a female lion with her cubs. He kicked me out a week later, and since then it's been park benches, the homeless walk-in, or the Sutter motel when I can afford it. I was hoping to have enough cash tonight to stay there, but the event coordinator for this fair probably fled with the other rain alarmists, so chances of me getting paid are slim.
With the grounds now saturated and overfilling with water, I peel my wet pants away from the mud and amble out of the woods, finding myself in the middle of a clear lot with closed vendor trucks and empty stages.
Sirens blare in the distance as I walk through the drenched grass lot. The water is cascading from the dark sky like a solid sheet, making it impossible to see where I'm walking, but I know better than to stand still. My truck is alone in the empty parking lot, and I retrieve a tarp from behind the driver's seat to secure my equipment in the bed. I hope this piece of plastic holds up against whatever mother nature has in store for this shitty town tonight.
I make my way across town to the small shelter on the corner of Main Street in Cascade. By the time I park and approach the building, the place has a small line wrapped around the front side. People who are probably without power or who had a tree fall on their house would have no other choice but to seek shelter here, underneath the small country store.
"We're at our capacity," a woman explains from the doorway. “The gymnasium at the high school is letting people in. If you need shelter, please head down there immediately.”Shit.
I slide back into my truck, heading straight for the motel. Unsure of what to expect, I know it isn't much as I pull in to see the lights flickering on and off in the main office, just as the lights in the lot fade to black.
Wading through the several inches of water from my truck to the office, I pry open the door against the wind. Inside, is an older woman who I've never seen in here before. Usually, it's an older guy with an overgrown, dirty beard and a matching thick gut. Maybe this lady is his wife or something. Like the man I usually find here, she looks like she has seen better days, yet she's cowering in the corner with her arms draped around her chest. "Please don't hurt me," she says.
"What? I'm not going to hurt you," I tell her, holding my hands up in surrender.
"Well, what do you want from me?" She tries to back away further, but it's not possible since she's already up against the wall.Am I that scary looking?I get that I look like a drowned rat right now, but Jesus, I would assume the thought of hurting someone would be the farthest thing from anyone's mind at this moment.
"I was just hoping you had a spare room is all," I tell her, still holding my hands up.
"We have one," she says. "Eighty dollars for the night, and you have to be out by ten in the morning."
I dip my hands into my pockets, pulling out the cash I have, which I know isn't eighty. "I only have thirty-eight." I'm not looking for a handout, just shelter from this damn storm.
"Where's all your money going? Drugs or something of the sort?" she asks, condescendingly.Drugs. If she only knew a thing about me, that wouldn't have been her first assumption about my poverty.
"No, Ma'am. I'm just dirt poor for other reasons, but I understand."
"What are you, eighteen? Nineteen? Where are your parents?" She fires question after question, interrogating me for a reason I don’t understand.
I shake my head dismissively and peer down to the yellow and green mosaic linoleum floor tiles. "I'm twenty-one and on my own. It's fine. I understand." Turning for the door, I know I'm pretty much heading into the eye of the storm at this point, but I'll stay safe in my truck for the time being.
"Stop," she says, just as I place my hand on the push bar of the glass door.
I turn around slowly, curious as to what she wants. "Yes, Ma'am?"
She unwraps her arms from her chest and steps in toward the reception desk where there's an open magazine, a glass tray filled with old butts, and a cash register from the eighties. Reaching under the counter, she retrieves a key with a green rubber piece hanging from the end. "I'm going to trust you ain't lying to me. Room two-twenty."
"I appreciate your kindness," I tell her.
"Don't make me regret it," she says, placing her hands down on the countertop. The tips of her fingers pull in toward her palms as her knuckles tense with paleness.
"I mean no trouble...honest," I say again.
"Okay then." She clears her throat and redirects her attention from my face to the door, hinting for me to go. I'd be doing the same if I was talking to someone who looked as dirty and washed up like me.
Without another word, I push against the door and step into the downpour. Using my arm as a shield from the rain, I run up the stairs and eagerly search for the room this key unlocks. Each step feels like a mile with the rain and wind pushing against me, but I reach my room and close myself inside.
As I peel off my wet clothes, I finally have a chance to think about my interaction with Haven tonight. The realization of what I may have started with her seeps in through my damp skin. If she's attracted to me, it's based on what she knows, and what she doesn't know would likely kill that sense of attraction. I've never been a dishonest person, but I have been a private one. I don't want Haven’s pity, and I feel like she might only see me in that light if she knew my whole story. Still, to feel any sort of realness in my life isn't something I can turn my back on, regardless of how wrong she is for me or how wrong I am for her.
As I slide my legs over the smooth cotton, the warmth of the sheets brings along an ache inside my veins. The simplicity of a bed has me feeling sorry for myself again and yet, I can't seem to do a damn thing about my life. I try. I work harder than I ever imagined I'd have the strength for, but the way the lady in the front office sees me seems to be the way most people see me around here. They know. They know what my mother did, and my father. They know my granddad died, and I lost a grip on stability. I wouldn't be surprised if they only saw me as the bad apple who fell from the rotting branches my parents sowed.
