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Armchair Meteorology and Desire Eric Conley
"I asked whether you’d like paper or plastic. Uhm, sir, paper or plastic?" The rest of the co-op functions—whether debit or credit—minor decisions made without hesitations—At the head of a check out line, before several patiently impatient devotees of free-range chicken and reusable clothe shopping bags stands an anachronism—an everyman of tomorrow—that is a quasi-indigent whose read that the best things are free, who finds his thread-bare, second hand clothes, graying hair and speckled beard worthy of little interest—though Steve, the Weatherman, is the only aging person in the co-op who actually appears to have aged. "Either one. It's all the same to me. Cold front coming in tonight, could be the last warm day we'll have in while. You know, last week there were a record number of tornados throughout the Midwest. And this late in the year—strange, it makes ya think," says Steve—his voice, friendly but vacant—a compromised method actor playing a down and out Jimmy Stewart who has solely mastered muting his gregariousness. The Weather Man watched as the young man bagged his groceries. The boy man reeked of last night's idle debauchery—smoke, spilt drinks, and chemical sweat. Tribal stripes wrapped around his whole arm swirled meaninglessly as the cashier causally dropped items into a plastic bag—canned roasted beef hash, croutons, soups (chicken noodle and cream of celery), that Steve chose with no reason save that he could one day eat it—his copy of USA Today from which Steve, later that night, will meditate over its weather page, ponder the world's projected air currents, and devotionally compare Miami's three-day highs, lows, and its prospects for precipitation with the data of Katmandu, Denver, Tokyo—wherever, until the Weather Channel's incredible climactic conditions return from commercial break and whether rain, sleet, or snow— heat, humidity, or drought—He speaks of whether permutations— that nearly enthrall him, later that night—any night—nearly riveted as weather works its magic but not completely tuned in—an ennui for which Steve hasn’t vocabulary, nor recollection—like those Platonic slaves who forcibly (re)discover geometries of sorrow. "Anything else I can do for you?" "You know, a typhoon hit Pohnephi," "You don't say." The young man sneered and held the plastic bag in front of Steve's chest, hoping that he will leave, get out of his face—for he hated losers—stop ruining his day—quit clouding his vision of the sexy woman (albeit an older woman who’s clearly made the appropriate cosmetic efforts) who approached the store from the parking lot. "Six people died." "People have a habit of doing that. See ya, dude." "You too, have a nice day." Steve grabbed his sack of senseless groceries and turned to leave—all conversation (all attempts at pleasantries) drained from commercial transaction. He forgot about the weather, thought of nothing at all. He walked toward the door, opened it, and bumped into a woman entering the store. "Oh, excuse me," Steve said. "Not at all." She smiled warmly, looked him in his eyes—The Weather Man blinked. "Hey," she continued, "don’t I know you? Yes, in fact, this morning...small world." The Weather Man had no reply; his mind reeled, grabbing for conversational straws—finding nothing at all. She leaned against the door and held it open for him—smiled, batted her eyes—a clear coquetry that’s perfectly practiced, but doubtful—a desperate, To Whom it May(not) Concern flirtation. She smiled and said, "Enjoy the weather. It’s a beautiful day. Could be the last warm day we’ll have in a while." "Oh, you bet I will. Cold front coming in tonight..." The Weather Man paused, confused, a bit beside himself. "Hey, I’m Eileen. I just—" she said. A burly customer bumped into Steve and knocked him into the parking lot. He felt neither any indignation from the customer’s bump nor elation from Eileen’s attention. He gathered himself and his senseless groceries—whether it’s stoicism undeserved —state sponsored dixie cups— or indifference innate, —life its own limitation—the Weather Man dragged himself away from the store, across its parking lot, and down the block to the pedestrian mall, not happy or sad, frustrated or pleased. He entered the pedestrian mall and thought of nothing at all—scanning the crowd without moving his eyes, searching for conversational opportunities. The Weather Man found Gary, a crack head with which he had wiled away many an hour—the indigent wasn’t particularly belligerent; he thus tracked weather patterns and discussed them with some decorum and not a little interest. "Beautiful day we’re having," said the Weather Man, as he approached the bench on which the crack head was sprawled, "may be one of our last nice days. Cold front coming in." The Weather Man recoiled as Gary leaped to his feet and snarled, "Fuck you and fuck your fucking weather." Gary gnashed his teeth and seethed—veins in his neck and forehead throbbed. —fingering tatters, sores, scratching base creatures, shivering, shaking, sweating— cursing desire’s geometry & its terrible proofs "Stay warm, old buddy," replied Steve without malice—in all sincerity he wanted his conversational buddy to stay warm, to pay attention to climatic weather conditions. Gary pounded his bench with his fists and groaned—servile subject to sorrows and angers that enunciation rendered superfluous—until the acrid moment of chemical relief—the high that warms him, keeps him human—its diminishing returns, like a debased pigeon in a behaviorist’s sadistic enterprise. The Weatherman walked to the public library. His afternoon—each afternoon— devoted to armchair tourism. Today’s stack—Lonely Planet’s China, Poland, and England. For six hours he reads—actually engrossed, not riveted as before the Weather Channel, but actively engrossed such that he loses all sense of himself—exalts in places that he will never see and in people whom he will never met—people with whom he will never discuss the weather... If invited into a Chinese person’s home, it’s a good idea to bring a small gift, such as American cigarettes.... It’s best to take taxis in Beijing; its traffic is negotiable by experienced locals only ...Expect to be the object of much attention if you’re not in a major metropolitan area....The idea that the Chinese are inscrutable is foolishness...Krakow is an excellent place to visit; it remains provincial yet still accessible for the tourist...Warsaw’s beauty lies off the beaten path, blocks away from the putrid Soviet architecture...Many of Poland’s poets and writers are considered national heroes who are much admired for their brave defiance of Moscow....Notwithstanding the stereotypes, good food can be found in England, especially in its many excellent Indian restaurants....No trip to England is complete without taking in the chaos of a football match... The Weather Man leaves the page and stares out the window, past the climatic weather conditions of which he is oblivious—a parking lot contains the terra cotta Warriors, a church spire turns into Big Ben—fantastical fruit of his desires. He sighs and returns to Lonely Planet, England. The English love to talk about the weather. The Weather Man closes the book and cries—soundlessly but copiously— surrounded by crack heads, bath tub crank enthusiasts, and drunks whose dreamless sleeping leaves them oblivious to his sorrows. He cries, stares out the window—not aware of the weather. He dried his eyes, wiped tears from his face—goes home. He remembered that it’s Friday and that at nine o’clock the Weather Channel will show another installment of "Typhoons and the South Pacific." He studies the USA Today’s weather page as he waits for the program to begin. At a quarter past nine, while he blandly watches "Typhoons and the South Pacific" he hears someone knocking on his door. He ignores it—for he was unaccustomed to any such thing—couldn’t imagine what it means. He hears another knock on his door, this time faint and diminutive. He again ignores it, but thirty seconds later he goes to his door—stands there for another half a minute. He opens the door, smells an intoxicating perfume—the door next to his slams shut. He stands still, silent, and nearly numb as his neighbor whom he had bumped into earlier that day at the co-op locks her door, —doubled bolted chained shut— as she removes her dress, her nylons, her heels and bra that pinch and bind and whose greatest good is her relief when removing them—replaces them with sweat pants, an over-sized t-shirt which prefigures each lonely night—full bottles of wine on ice, two glasses, one empty. She walks to her medicine cabinet. On a flat screen wall TV "Typhoons and the South Pacific" plays—volume on low. every night worsened by its antecedent though slightly easier— a matter of practice & &#relational to the booze, the benzodiazepines Her make-up, as she drinks, swallows the pinks and blues—runs, the erosion of a great river’s middling desires of geological change—that is nothing at all—past the paltriness of imagination—as near as crack pipe, drained bottle, or muted Weather Channel.
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