The Shelter

by Peter Foley

  Uncomfortable in her chair, Hazel rests her blue eyes on Flynn and gives him her best diplomatic repose and a reflexive sigh.

  “Look, I’ve gone back over the last thirty-two years of California’s atmospheric infrared data, that’s nearly three million weather-related data points every single day, and from what I've seen, yes - Hurricane Jason will be an unusual weather event for California. But the media are telling people it will last three weeks - that's crazy. It’ll be bad, but it won’t wash the world away. Two to three days tops and the hurricane will have run its course.”

  Hazel can see Flynn is weary of the same old arguments. He perches on her desk like a pile of work, rubbing his gray crescent eyebrows and adjusting his eyeglasses.

  “So, you’re saying we should just ignore all the media discussions?” he says. “And we have nothing to worry about? Great! Great advice from my top researcher, thanks. I’ll take that to the press immediately… dammit. They’re going to eat me alive. They have a bug up their ass about this hurricane – a big bug! Maybe it’s been a slow news week… but–”

  “Flynn, I’m not saying it isn’t anything to worry about, we have plenty to worry about. Even in a median case scenario, under these conditions the streets will be heavily flooded, power outages will occur, people will be cut off and stranded, lives will be lost. That’s why I’m recommending military support standing by with emergency aid, and I suggest we ask for extra funding from the federal government to co-ordinate the state’s preparedness and response. What I’m not saying is that we need to build Noah’s ark! Three days tops and this thing will blow over.”

  “Don’t talk about the federal government like it’s so easy.” Flynn’s eyes widen. “The President doesn’t like California very much, since we pushed back on the emissions and water guidelines. We have to talk this hurricane up just to get basic assistance from the administration. Besides, sources, mostly online redneck media outlets, are telling the White House that the hurricane is going to be a big one, way bigger than anything we have seen before – it’s Judgment Day according to these people. Even the President is saying it’s going to be ‘huge’ and ‘phenomenal’ and ‘the biggest hurricane you have ever seen’, and ‘biblical’ and ‘incredible’ and ‘beautiful’. Those were his actual words.”

  “He would say that, wouldn’t he?” Hazel sighs. “But based on what evidence?” She shakes her head at the floor. At only twenty-nine, she too is tired of these pre-coffee battles.

  “It beats me, but look,” Flynn takes off his glasses, “I’ve been asked if you can play their tune on this one; big hurricane, blah, blah, just–”

  “Just what? I’ll do no such thing. You know me better than that. I can’t go on TV and lie to the country!”

  “If you’re right then the hurricane is gone in two or three days, it’s a win, but if you’re wrong and it goes on beyond that, the White House is right. In that case, we played along, so we got it correct either way; everyone was prepared, and everybody got along. Just do a TV and maybe a radio appearance and sing along with the federal line. It might not be ideal, it might not be scientific, but at least this way we keep our funding. Think about it. We know one thing for sure – a big hurricane is coming and we’re in its way.”

  The mechanical wall clock ticks. Hazel, with all her aversion to arguments, finds herself with nothing more to say.

  “Good,” Flynn says, swallowing oatmeal and swatting a fly. “Now, I have the interviews lined up for you, the usual: TV, possibly radio. Remember, big hurricane, blah, blah. It’s all lined up, and don’t worry, when the interviews are over you can wait out the hurricane in the government safe house at the Staples Center. Play along. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  3

  What would John think?

  Drew wakes abruptly with a surprisingly difficult snore.

  Where the hell am I?

  He looks around through lazy eyes. “Ahh, home sweet home. Finally, back in my own bed. Malibu, I’ve missed you.”

  With a sideways roll, then a vertical fall, he finds himself relieved of his bed. He sweeps past a litter of empty cider cans and heads to the bathroom to assess the damage. In the mirror he notices he has more gray hairs than he thinks he ought to, and his stubble is silver fuzz. He looks at the person in front of him and stretches out the muscles in his face. These exercises are a counter against a nervous tic he’d developed on tour, post-Berlin. The spasms manifest as an involuntary tensing of his right cheek, resulting in the appearance of him narrowing one eye, as if he were bracing for an imminent slap.

  So lopsided these days…

  After his face has been exercised, he puts on his bathrobe and presides over the morning traffic from the comfortable vantage of his bedroom window. Looking through the glass, and through the cherry blossom tree that grows on the other side of the pane, he can see past the apartment courtyard to slow-moving traffic on the road.

  Appreciating that today he is a spectator of the rat race and not a participant, he watches the tightly packed line of vehicles below a bright blue sky as shadow blossoms move across his face. He loves this tree. Its blossoms hover like a delicate pink cloud above its slender textured trunk. Its forked branches reach up like arms and stretch up towards his windowpane to playfully touch, tap and tease the air to and fro, all the while sheltering him in a delicate moving shade. The birds seem quiet today, and soon the charm of morning fades.

  One homemade veggie burrito later, Drew’s coffee has cooled, much like the spirit inside his apartment. His unfortunate metal mascot, the two-foot microphone, sits on a heap of unpacked suitcases by the door. Unpacking seems like hell, so he doesn’t bother.

  After three months of carting these cases around Eastern Europe, it would be easier to just burn them at this point.

  He knows that one – the heavy yellow hard-shell case with the broken wheel – is packed full of dirty laundry. The small red case – the one with the ribbon on the handle – is full of keepsakes found on his travels: AAA backstage passes; a gold-colored six-page emergency passport; various inflight magazines; a soccer shirt from FC Dynamo Kyiv, a drumstick given to him by a band he saw but can’t remember, and a hospital tag acquired in Berlin.

  Slowly, the twist of morning exuberance gives way to boredom. After three months of being away, Drew’s finally home. Unfortunately, he has little clue of how to enjoy the sympathetic surroundings beyond playing a few Beatles records, drinking decaf and making impulsive online purchases, the last of which is about to arrive by mail, delivered by Grahame, his fat, flat-footed, friendly neighborhood mailman. Swinging the door open, Drew greets Grahame like a man who hasn’t seen company in an age.

  “Hey! Grahame! How’s it been?”

  “Hi, Drew. Long time no see. You’re back from your vacation? Did you get all the packages I left on your porch for you?” Grahame lifts the strap of his mailbag off his pooch belly.

  “Yeah, I did, thanks for that. You got another for me?”

  “It’s more than one,” Grahame says. With friendly dismay he hands over several. “You really need to lay off the drink when you’re online.”

  “You’re right,” Drew concedes. “But hey, for the record, going on tour as a DJ is no vacation, not these days.”

  “I know, it must be soooo hard pressing play on your Spotify playlist for a living.” Grahame hands over yet more packages. “Judging by the amount of packages lately, you’ll need to go back on tour just to pay for the last few weeks of eBaying alone. Anyway, I hope you’re ready for the terrible weather.”

  Drew looks skyward at the rich California blue.

  “I know it looks nice now,” Grahame says, “but they say it’s due to change today.”

  “Who says?”

  “Haven’t you seen it in all the papers?”

  “No, I’ve been touring in Europe for months…”

  Grahame rolls his eyes and hands Drew today’s press. “Jason, it’s called. A big hurricane, like Katrina but worse
, at least that’s what some are saying. You never know who to believe with this stuff, today even hurricanes are political. Republicans say it’s going to be watery hell, meanwhile the Democrats disagree but still want to blame the President because of a reduction in hurricane-protection spending last year – blah, blah, blah.”

  “Yeah, OK, thanks, G.”

  Grahame turns to leave, waving as he goes. “Cheerio. This is my last day on the job for now. All public services are suspended from noon today until the hurricane passes. But let me guess,” he says, turning back around to face Drew, “… another John Lennon cassette tape, am I right?”

  Drew has no idea what’s in the latest package. He panics a little as he considers what trouble he may have gotten himself into.

  What did I buy? How much did I spend this time?

  Tearing into one brown padded envelope, he shouts to the increasingly distant mailman, “No, it’s…” he says, scanning the contents, “…oh, for crying out loud.”

  Grahame chuckles in the distance as Drew looks over his latest copy of “Imagine featuring the Flux Fiddlers”.

  “I bet John would be livid with me, I now own nine copies of the same cassette with no way of playing them. Imagine no possessions. Sorry, John…” Drew says, to nobody in particular.

  Drew glances at the newspaper in his hand, its headline reads: “California unprepared as Hurricane Jason looms in the Pacific – an unprecedented series of hurricanes?”

  Glancing over the top of the newspaper, Drew watches Grahame turn a corner and walk into the street. A neighbor jogs past the pooched mailman with a wave before turning into the courtyard. Drew’s heart accelerates as he waves over nervously.

  “Come on, Drew,” he says under his breath. “After years of waving across the courtyard, it’s finally time to have an actual conversation, you can do this. Yes, she’s hot, and I’m not sure how we get from ‘Hey, some hurricane, huh?’ to ‘So dinner tonight?’ but man up, this is going to go well.”

  He walks over to the jogger as she stops and begins her cool-down stretches, which combined with her flowing auburn hair, stops Drew’s words in his mouth. She’s a tall, slim, toned woman with disciplined posture and clear diction. She looks like an athlete in her well-fitting jungle patterned running attire, especially next to Drew, who, stood in his bathrobe, hasn’t run for anything, aside for an occasional airport gate, in ten years.

  “Um. Hi, Megan.” He waves his paper. “So, some hurricane, huh?” Drew says, instantly remembering how rough he looks in his bathrobe. He glances down and grimaces.

  “Ugh! I’m so sick of hearing about the hurricane. It’s all I’ve heard from the radio, TV, and social media for the last two weeks.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, where have you been? The moon?”

  “No, I’ve been on tour… I’m a DJ, so…” Drew says hazily. He watches Megan stretch and manages to keep the conversation alive with a mumble. “…So, where do you jog?”

  “Just around Baker, Simmons Street, then a few laps of Julian Park. It’s about 5k,” she says, touching her toes.

  “Nice, I think I’d like to spend some time at a park, is it far from here?”

  “It’s literally one block away from your apartment.” Megan moves into a calf stretch, pushing against her apartment wall.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. How long have you lived here?” asks Megan, mid-stretch.

  “I left Liverpool and moved here about two and a half years ago.”

  Megan nods. “You have a very strong accent.”

  Drew smiles. “Thanks. When I first came over I lived in the Sunset Tower hotel for a few months - you know that place? It’s where John Wayne brought a cow up to his penthouse and Truman Capote called it ‘Posh’ and said that ‘It’s where every scandal that ever happened, happened’. These days the most scandalous thing at that place is the price of coffee at the Starbucks across the street…” His words trail off as Megan turns into a side stretch, but he finds fresh momentum.

  “So, the hurricane. What are your plans?” Drew says, in an effort to refocus.

  “I’m going to a place upstate, it’s like a big bunker up in the hills, has a huge inventory of supplies. I’m going to settle down there.” Megan faces Drew and moves into a quad stretch.

  “Can’t you just stay indoors here? Batten down the hatches or something…”

  “You’re kidding, right? If it’s going to be Katrina times ten, I’m not sitting here. A few feet from the sea is not a good place to be during a hurricane, unless you want to be a sitting duck for Judgment Day. The hurricane’s coming right at us from over there,” she points at the beach, “so, I’m heading to higher ground. I have a plan.”

  “Sure…”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay…” After a pause, Drew moves to practical matters. “So, where’s this place you’re going?”

  Megan looks at Drew with a slight nod of disapproval and takes something out of her jogging belt. “Take this, it’s the address, and a map. I have loads of copies, in every bag, every room, in every coat, my car. I don’t want to be caught out if the hurricane arrives early. You should come if you don’t have any other plans. So, I’ll see you there, okay?” Leaving with a smile she turns and walks into her apartment.

  Drew looks at the map. It takes him a few moments to decipher it.

  Of course…

  The day moves on rapidly, a little too rapidly, so Drew finally takes himself off to the beach. It’s a short walk from his apartment, it takes him past a well-liked coffee place, the only one he knows.

  California in the springtime is airy and warm. Yellows and blues are dotted with high lilting palms that wave and shine glossy green. At the beach, Drew sits on the yellow sand with a hot latte in hand and watches the green feathers of the palms recline one hundred feet overhead. He gazes up at the green bursts in the blue sky and breathes in the ocean air. A full moon lingers in the bright sky like an X-ray on a perfect panorama.

  Peace at last.

  Drew watches a man and woman jog together along the beach.

  They look successful, Drew thinks. All the proper jogging clothes, as if they just ran off the cover of a jogging magazine. They look happy. Bet they jog together every day, have a routine. Wonder what that’s like. Bet it’s nice. Wow I’m alone. What the hell am I doing here?

  He looks at the horizon, and occasionally back at the pair of distant joggers.

  The first drops of rain fall lightly on the sand, each making its own small dent on the beach. Drew starts to think seriously about the hurricane. At that same moment, an elderly man walks past him and smiles. The man holds his hands at his back, while on his chest hangs a large hand-painted wooden sign that reads, Don’t worry, Salvation is Waiting.

  4

  The third member of our club

  “Stephen! How’s our blue-eyed boy?”

  Stood at his raw timber desk, Stephen smiles at his laptop and tries to simultaneously organize his papers and tuck in his shirt. A gentle breeze flows through his small woodshed-turned-office, lifting sawdust into the air and scattering pencils to the floor.

  “I’m doing great, Mr. Johnson, just great,” replies Stephen in a wavering voice as he discreetly retrieves a crumpled hand-drawn design from the waistline of his jeans.

  “Excellent. Do we have everyone on this video call? William, are you with us?”

  “Yes.” Mr. Johnson’s younger brother, William, a smaller, but very similar looking man, appears on the screen beside his brother’s image. Together, they form the complete visage of Stephen’s Two-Headed Boss.

  “Good, good,” says the older Mr. Johnson, whose large shiny head is even more incredible on screen than it is in person. “So, William and I wanted to have a little chat with you. We’ve been talking about the fall line-up. We’ve decided that we really need some new product ideas, or we need to extend old ones. Either way, we need to really juice things up again this year. Stephen, it’s no secr
et how successful your hedgehog house design was for us last year.”

  When talking to employees on video calls like this, the older Mr. Johnson’s eyes tend to shrivel and bunch under the pressure of a constant narrow thought.

  “Well, sir, it was a good deal for the company and a good deal for the ’hogs.” Stephen adjusts his hair, having noticed himself on screen.

  “Indeed. I think we’ve sold, William, was it nine thousand units last year?”

  “Not far off. The hedgehog house design has been very good for us, a great seller for the past three quarters. So, allow me to say that, Stephen, your work here is much appreciated, and obviously we’re keen for that to continue.”

  “Yes, good point. Okay, let’s get to that first,” one of the Mr. Johnsons says. “Stephen, Derek Crumbles and I had a conversation last week. Do you know Derek Crumbles?”

  “Er, yeah… He runs the yard division at C-brim.”

  “Yes, he does, and he’s our number one competition when it comes to yard products. Mr. Crumbles gave me some surprising news about a conversation that you had with him, apparently you had discreet talks about leaving us and joining him at C-Brim?”

  “It was just an email… I, er–”

  “Look, Stephen, I want you to know that your exemplary skills and ideas are valuable, and the only place to monetize them is right here at The Shed. You’ve already had a number of wonderful pay raises since you started as a grunt cutting timber for us a few years back. We feel that your loyalty is due, and since my discussions with Mr. Crumbles, he’s no longer in the hiring mood. Understand?”

  “Yes, Mr. Johnson.”

  “Okay, so the fall line-up. It’s just turning spring, we need some ideas locked and loaded. You’ve got a week to show me something good, okay? I need you to wow me.”