The storm hit hard and fast.
Unlike the usual tantrums spawned from the bitchiness of our Mother’s nature, it dropped down from straight up North. Not from the face of the big lake over to the West. The more affluent side of a mittened madness, holding all the bigger monies. And for all I know, opportunities.
The brunt of the rain was ignored with typical ramp attitude ambivalence. Because when work boots meet the tarmac, there isn’t any choice of shelter other than forced indifference.
Often all we can do is turn exposed backs to the wind during momentary pauses in the chaotic operation feeding the big tin monster. Zipping up everything that can possibly be zipped. Ignoring the water soaking through waterproof everythings—because nothing is ever truly waterproof. A noticable design flaw left unaddressed by all those warm office-dwelling, 9-5 kit designers who have no fucking clue about the brutality of 517 rain. Or wind. Or snow. Or sleeting sheets of biting ice.
That particular storm was “medium shitty” on the ramp scale. Brief, but annoying. And thankfully the worst of it held off until after the big cargo door was closed, and ACMX was plugged in. So we didn’t have to stand around in the wet for too long. Just long enough to feel the wet soak through the top two layers.
One of the few benefits of the weather that night was experiencing the childish delight found in watching the big Airbus engines spool up against the fury of the storm. Their powerful turbines sucking the water up off the ramp like little aquatic tornados that twist and dance. It’s almost magic seeing them swirl and pulse as they snake their way up from parking position 2, only to be swallowed by bladed Pratt & Whitney combustion insanity.
Some nights, it doesn’t even really feel real.
At least until boots begin to leak. Or the radio crackles out another warning. Or the time has ticked over into the “danger zone.” Because we gotta get the belly of that monster fed, and its winged body airborne, before the minutes hit the 54 mark. Otherwise, there is hell to pay.
But we made it fly on time that night. Despite the wind. And the rain. And the dropping temperatures, which fucked up the visibility.
Just another overnight Thursday dance with another brown-tailed tin devil. The one with N174UP painted both high on her ass and right under her nose. And we called her that, too, simply because we haven’t yet worked that particular airframe long enough to give her a proper nickname.
But that will come in time, I’m sure.
The rain lightened shortly after the wheels went up. And the last of the evening reports had been sent, leaving me with another overnight gap of time. And I knew where I needed to Hideaway.
The wind was still kicking mad when looping the back roads of Clinton County. Above me, a wet cinnamon rain of autumn colours cascaded down as the trees lining the road stripped themselves bare in the face of the 20 knot onslaught—the yearly transition over into the season of falling things.
And that means the season of dying things isn’t far behind.
So I had to hurry.
Three rounds and a sound as I settled back into a more normal barstool routine. Mostly because I had promised concerned coworkers that I wouldn’t pursue my newest hobby of chasing the River Trail serial killer while simultaneously indulging in my usual “drinking alone along the river like a dirtbag” pursuits. Which was admittedly a little bit of a let-down.
But that hunt would have to wait. Because other, more pressing addictions were howling for immediate attention. And the sooner I poured a higher-proof handle on them, I knew from experience the better off I would be. Even if it meant eventually waking up in the piss-stench confines of another unfamiliar parking garage.
Again.
Because, yeah, that’s happened, too. That real life incarnation of “Dude? Where the fuck is my car?”
Not my proudest moment. Of which, admittedly, there haven’t really been… many.
At least not in Michigan.
In my defense, I was left unsupervised after successfully kicking all the tin. Just a shaking reflection of a storm-soaked man-child. The one pretending his very best to be some semblance of an actual functioning adult.
Well, mostly.
But when that wet cinnamon rain begins to fall, that’s nature’s unfriendly reminder of heavy anniversaries soon approaching. And I don’t think I’m quite ready for all that emotional shit. At least not…this year.
But on that dark and stormy cliché night, I had enough tobacco to see me through until the school kids walked by in the morning. And somehow managed to maintain unfettered access to easy, serial killer free booze. And sometimes, that’s all you get. Even if I knew that consumption would ultimately make the bank account howl in protest.
But just like the intrusive bitchiness of all the Michigan weather, I ignored those compilations, too. And left them to just be… later’s problem.
Because I have to believe that sunnier days are somewhere ahead—I wonder if I’ll be around to actually see them.
Maybe it will be tomorrow; maybe it will be in the upcoming season of growing things.
Or maybe they are just on the other side of that next storm brewing. The one out somewhere as yet unseen on the horizon. Because in that respect, storms are a lot like airplanes—they just keep fucking coming.
And this feral, lonely little 🦊 will ride them all out. With his back to the wind. And his heart full of hope.
Forever seeking shelter from the storm…
