Tuesday night. It’s 1:17 in the morning. You fall asleep to the pitter-patter of rain tickling the glass of your first-floor apartment. It’s a gentle sound, one that you haven’t heard in a while. The California laurels outside make a sort-of slapping noise as thewater droplets plunk on their thick green leaves. It’s peaceful, calm. You almost forget that you are surrounded by hundreds of miles of urban sprawl. This is only your second night in Los Angeles, after all. You are almost asleep when suddenly everything goes quiet. The rain. It… it has stopped. Silence. You peer to your left. The bedside clock glows red. 1:31 in the morning. The only sound heard is the light breathing of your roommate and the last remaining water droplets tapering off of the bushes outside.
Oh?
The pull out your blue iPhone5C from beneath your pillow. Your irises rebel, shrinking and squinting, blinded. It takes a second to adjust to the sudden change in light. A quick swipe to the right and a couple taps opens up your trusty weather app. Burbank. Partly cloudy. 59 degrees. Humidity 61%. Wind 4mph W/NW. Precipitation 0%.
Wait, what?
You check again and see a little picture of a moon. No rain drops in sight. In fact, it looks like there’s no rain due until next Wednesday, and that’s only a 20% possibility. As you swing your feet out of your tiny twin-sized bed, you try not to wake your slumbering roommate. On go the trusty black flip-flops. No need to get out of your boxers, you’re only going pop your head out into the hallway. Besides, it’s the dead of night in a gated community in a nicer part of Los Angeles. Not that this means much, but oh well.
Creaking the heavy white door open you step out into the open aired hallway of B-building. More quiet. You don’t know why you continue down the hallway and out into the yard, but you do. In your brain, everything seems to make sense at this time. You’re on a mission. No, not a mission from God. Or is it? Perhaps it’s a mission to find your inner meteorologist. Or maybe you’re seeking vindication, validation that you’re not insane and you in fact did just hear the pitter patter of rain just a few minutes ago. You are sane, after all, as far as you know.
You make it to the exit and you breathe in the chilled, smoggy, SoCal air. Unfortunately it doesn’t have that fresh rain smell. You yearn for it, that warm “summery” smell, the one that tingles the back of your nose and into your entire being. But alas, no. The sky is dark, the moon is bright, and the stars are as visible as they’ll ever get out here. The grass is wet, however. You turn on your heel and start back towards your building, but something stops you. Being out in the mid-night chill has woken you up. Senses return. Your ears perk at a sound in the distance. A ticking noise.
Huh. Interesting.
Spot lit by orange-red beams of walkway light, you cross the lawn to the opposite side of the building. The open toed flip-flops you’re wearing gather wetness on the journey. Dew? Rain? The answer is revealed after just twenty more steps and a turn around the corner. You think about swearing. But you can’t. You realize the situation you’re in and start giggling. Laughter takes you over. You’ve left your room in an XL t-shirt, blue plaid boxers, and flip-flops. You seek a rogue rain cloud. You find not redemption, not validation, not vindication, You find a different -tion. Irrigation.
The tingle is back: that sensation in your nose and in your heart as a summer storm blows nearer. I love the tingle. It's calming, soothing, familiar. The smell brings me back to days on the dusty diamond at Kelley Field, and to the late-afternoons exploring the muddy woods behind Doherty Park. Scampering home trying to outrun incoming black clouds, my little heart would beat with nearly every step I take. Funny how a smell can flood your mind with memories like that.
Spotify is deejaying a jazz playlist for me from the kitchen. Something about the occasion calls for the smooth sound of trumpets and saxes. The light pitter-patter of drizzle has since turned into a plunky downpour. A forked bolt of purply lightning bursts from a high-altitude cloud, finding connection with a neighboring cloud. Then a low, bassy rumble roars across the city of Lowell a mere half second later. Less than a mile away. The thunder complements the music nicely.
Another flash reveals the silhouette of a smokestack just across the river. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thou... My counting is interrupted as a wave of noise sweeps through the city again. Almost every thunderstorm since the days of sleeping in my mom's bed—the safest place in the world to a five-year old—I've taken a fancy to counting up thunderstorms. What was once a safety mechanism to pass time until serenity has since turned into a fun absurd thing I do just because. Three miles away.
Fifteen minutes later the skies are calm again. Above the city, a glowy shade of burnt orange. To the east, a shadowy midnight purple—fitting, given the time of night. Manu Dibango is tooting away on what seems to be a bari sax as I hop down from the peeling windowsill. Satisfied.
If magically there were thunderstorms every night, there would be an awful lot of little tykes scared witless. But then there'd be me, grinning like a fool sitting in his window every night enjoying the show, enjoying life one one-thousand at time.
yaa tsi tsup ari dik ari dull an dik ari dill an dits tan dool
la dippyduppy dull la roop uttyroopy la goorigan gook aya gittygangool
arup cha cha adippydappydill la baritztandill lan den lan doe
a barik kata barip pari baribadeebadeebadee standen lan doe
ya baril las ten lan day a doe la babadeadevadevadevaduv ya vou
bidis dat littl las day lan doe badakadagadaga doo doo day a doe
So with Christmas coming up and everything, I think that you're the guy I should be writing to. As I sit here and type this, kids across the world are making their lists and sending them up to you, wishing and hoping for the hottest Lego set, What is the 'hottest' toy this year anyways? Do kids still play with Legos? God I feel so old. The way things are going for me nowadays, I thought I may as well send mine too. Can't hurt, right?
Pretty sure the last time I wrote to you I was a wide-eyed eight-year-old wanting a Playstation, some Pokémon cards, and Rugrats in Paris on VHS. While I would still very much appreciate getting those things, my list is a little shorter this year. Y'see, what I want for Christmas is happiness. Not world peace (that would be neat though), but a different kind of peace.
I want to be happy.
I won't waste your time with the details, but it's been a long time since I have been able to say that I've been truly and sincerely happy. From fighting depression to being overworked at school to doing both at once, I could really use something positive in my life. The holidays are supposed to be cheery, aren't they?
So, Santa, I don't know how you would do it, but if there was any way you could make it happen, I will personally bake you three dozen of my mom's anisette cookies. Or do you like peanut butter cookies? Because those are good too. I can make pancakes too. Damn fine pancakes.
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