Fear of RainMr. Flood bangs his fork on the side of his plate, and thunder rumbles outside the restaurant. He winks one watery, sky blue eye at me and peels back his smooth, white lips in a dirty joke smile.
“Won’t be long now,” he says, his voice a gravelly tenor. “Not long till my retirement party.”
If you didn’t know better, to look at him, you’d think he was just another little old man hobbling around downtown Johnstown, Pennsylvania. Just another Central Park bench sitting, Social Security check cashing, prescription picking up, stumbling on the curbs, taking too long to cross Main Street old timer. You’d never know the kind of power that boils inside him.
Maybe you’d see him bang his fork on the plate a second time, and you’d hear the thunder, louder than before, but you would
