Lightning Crashes

"The clouds prepare for battle
In the dark and brooding silence
Bruised and sullen stormclouds
Have the light of day obscured
Looming low and ominous
In twilight premature
Thunderheads are rumbling
In a distant overture"

-- Neil Peart, "Jacob's Ladder"

In reading some of the recent posts of bloggers whose writings I deeply envy, it called to mind an event of my own past. We have Annoyed's hilariously funny traumatic past events and the Sage's musing on nature's battle for atmospheric superiority: the thunderstorm.

It got me thinking and what I came up with was a sort of dysfuctional and traumatic emotional Reese's Peanut Butter Cup of my youth. Instead of putting chocolate in my peanut butter, which is like manna, I put thunderstorms in my traumatic past events. Not as tasty, not as good with milk, but easier to blog about.

I used to be petrified of thunderstorms as a kid. I'm sure this was a direct result of my mother being petrified of them, or more specifically, tornadoes. Despite the fact we did not live in America's heartland and have to run to a hole in the ground to shield ourselves from a ferocious wind that seemingly has serious unresolved issues with trailer parks and livestock, my mom and I were petrified of twisters. My area did have a bad one a long time ago, but certainly nothing that would cause our hysteria.

I literally would monitor the weather forecasts for days on end. I would race home from playing on my Huffy bike just to catch the local weather dude drawing on whiteboard maps with magic markers. There was a phone number that you could call and get the latest weather info. If there was such a thing as speed dial back then, it would have held the esteemed #1 entry.

At the first sight of dark clouds, or a rumble of distant thunder, I would feel a tremendous amount of anxiety that I have only felt under extreme circumstances as an adult.

I would actually force myself to fall asleep ahead of an approaching storm in the hopes that I would dream my way past it and wouldn't have to worry about a pitch black whirlwind carrying my house away to a Technicolor land inhabited by little people, witches, and flying monkeys. O, we owe indeed.

Then, there was one night that my parents went out and left me with a babysitter. Right around my bedtime, the outside lit up with glorious and menacing light. Thunder rumbled all around. I was scared. I remember pacing around the living room as I am wont to do when I am nervous.

And then...

SHACLACKY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The house lit up and shook with furious anger. I nearly lost control of multiple bodily functions. Embarrassing when you're 14-years-old and you have a hot female babysitter.

I kid! I kid! I wasn't 14.

I was 13.

Anyway, we immediately deduced that the house was struck by lightning. We carefully inspected the place, expecting to find embers and smoke in every room. Nothing.

Then we went into the bathroom.

The rug in front of the toilet was damp. The water level in the bowl was low and it was then that I noticed the crack in the tank that was slowly, but methodically leaking water that I was told never to go near.

Then it dawned on me. Lightning hit the friggin can!!!

And then, my imagination got the best of me. What if I was on the throne when it got struck? That would be my final moment. The everlasting image of Dim's death throe would be me, floppy haired, keeled over and face-planted on the tile floor. Plaid pants and Aquaman underoos around my ankles. A fresh issue of Crack'd magazine rigor mortised in my kung-fu grip. My pre-pubescent ass pointing heavenward, defiantly mooning the heavens for levying such an unflattering demise upon me. All while my left ass cheek was branded, emblazoned with the calling card of Death From Above. Upon my butt, a Zorro-like TS, which would look suspiciously like the logo for Twisted Sister, but would represent something infinitely more menacing than Dee Snider: Thunder Storm. "I Wanna Rock".

Since that day, I have grown out of my paralyzing fear of thunderstorms. In fact, I have come to dig them. I love walking in the rain, slowly. I don't even own an umbrella nor do I want one. I love the smell of the rain, how it feels.

Even when there is a distant rumble of thunder, I enjoy the stroll nestled safely in Mother Nature's bosom while madness begins to swirl around.

The other day, I was walking back to the apartment from the laundry room of my complex and it was raining. You know those raindrops the size of frying pans. The ones that hurt when they land on your head. I knew it was coming. I was happily excited to get back to the apartment, throw open the blinds to the sliding door and angle the chair away from the television and toward the courtyard outside.

But it pre-empted my enjoyment just a tad. A few steps out of the laundry room (which locks behind me) and a tremendous and immediate crack of spontaneous thunder and lightning struck nearby.

My casual stroll turned into a frantic run of questionable masculinity. My arms flailed as I hauled ass back to the sanctity of my door stoop. I stood there, breathless, until the next crack of thunder and then fumbled with the metal keys til I found the one to put into the metal doorknob while my metal pocket watch chain hung invitingly from my belt loop. I ran into the apartment and tried to force myself to go to sleep until the storm passed. Hey, fuck off, there are a lot of trees nearby and it tried to get me once already. For all I know, it's trying to finish the job!

So, here I sit today. The windows all around the office look tinted grey. Well, actually they really ARE tinted grey, but they are greyer than usual. Storm's coming. You walk outside and you are met with this earthy scent. The sky is churning, angry and conflicted. It's preparing for battle.

I'm safe inside and can enjoy watching its Shakespearean duel. I can observe this wonder and appreciate it for the beauty it truly is. But there is one thing I can assure you that I will not do.

Use the crapper.

Holding it,

- Dim.