Rain Dance

Boiling water steams and rushes up the kettle’s spout. The steam wails on its way out. It sounds like a witch burning at the stake, thinks Foley Gaspers as he sits at the kitchen table on a cloudy summer Sunday morning, looking out the window. He imagines the kettle’s whistle resembles the cry that his girlfriend Amanda makes when she climaxes. But he can’t know for sure, because he’s never actually heard her make such a sound whenever they’ve had sex. 

Gaspers muses, The ancient Greeks thought of the uterus as an animal inhabiting a woman’s body, wandering in search of semen. According to this medical belief, women that did not conform to behavioral norms were often considered to be under the sway of the womb’s meanderings.  

The utterances he has heard Amanda make have sounded more like sighs, which he interprets as signs of either boredom, or mild irritation. Gaspers' musing continues,

Sigmund Freud and his early partner in psychological research Joseph Breuer, suggested women became hysterical when they were not satisfied by sexual activity. At the turn of the 20^th century, it is historically rumored that some physicians utilized early forms of vibrators to induce curative “paroxysms” in women who suffered from nervous disorders.

Awakened from his reverie by the kettle's ongoing shrill cry, Gaspers remembers he has heated water to prepare the morning’s tea. Decaffeinated English breakfast, with a squirt of milk and a teaspoon of sugar. He pours the scalding H₂O into one of the mugs in Amanda’s vast collection, a sunflower yellow cup emblazoned with the words, “Please Don’t Teas Me,” written in lime green.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” says Amanda as she settles in a chair and fixes her head on her hand with elbow on the table. "It took you awhile to take the kettle off the stove, are you okay?"

Gaspers is a former resident of the California Recovery Collective, the residential treatment center where he and Amanda met while she was working as a recreation therapist. Gaspers deposits a teabag of his girlfriend’s favorite herbal variety into a cup that reads, “Refill When Emp-tea.” There’s a double entendre to each of the sayings on the cups. There are sexual double meanings to much of what Foley hears come out of Amanda’s mouth. Speaking to this woman, who chose to maintain her and Gaspers’ relationship over keeping her job, is like being constantly tossed about in an incessant and turbulent stream of verbal erogeneity, of spoken libidinal suggestiveness.

“Yes. You know me, I was just being held hostage by my thoughts...again. Did you get a good night’s rest?” asks Gaspers as he pours from the kettle into Amanda’s mug, thinking, before she replies, How could she have gotten a decent night's rest? I could never fill her cup to satisfaction.

Amanda begins to respond to her boyfriend’s morning inquiry, but Gasper’s mind is adrift again. He hears her, but isn’t actively listening. Instead, he daydreams.

There might be a drop of water in in my tea that has spent time in a sewer conveying effluvia on its way to the ocean. There might even be a few molecules of water in Amanda’s mug that laid dormant as ice in the Sierra Nevada for years, melted and found their way down the L.A. aqueduct and out of the faucet in this suburban kitchen.

Water goes from solid to fluid to gas and back again, it incessantly moves, its molecules vibrate even when it is frozen. A single molecule consists of two parts hydrogen, the smallest atom, and one part oxygen, the main constituent of the air we breathe. It’s inorganic, though it’s home to organisms as microscopic as cyanobacteria and as gargantuan as sperm whales. Ideally, it is odorless and transparent, though water in plumbing and the ocean always smells of something and frequently isn’t entirely clear of particulate matter. Water is the aqueous medium that suffuses all living organisms, and although it provides no nutritional sustenance or energy, if it weren’t for this most abundant of earthly fluids, nutrients wouldn’t find their way into plants, and waste wouldn’t find its way out of every known animal species. Water is the precious lubricant of all forms of terrestrial life.  

“Foley? Are you off in la-la land again? This early in the morning? I was telling you about the dream I had.”

“I’m sorry, Mandy, maybe my absent-mindedness is a side effect of my new medication.”

“Well, you have to talk to your doctor about that today. If it is, you might suggest she lower the dose.” Amanda adds that she is stepping out to go to the supermarket and a neighborhood garage sale she saw a sign for last night.

Everywhere the stream of life is dammed up. By laws, by conformity, by the countless forms repression and oppression take. When at its’ purest, human action flows like water, unrestricted. Just as water flows, without consciousness, human behavior should stream along free of inhibitions. Stream of action is much more consequential for human freedom than stream of consciousness.

“Foley? Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes, Mandy. I heard you. Pick me up a good book if they have one at the sale. I’m going to take a morning walk before I go to my appointment.”

During his walk he remembers the conversation they had last night. Him accusing her, yet again, of having a sordid menage-a-trois with her cousin, and her cousin’s husband.  

“What you’re accusing me of is preposterous. My name starts with an A, Foley, but how many times do I need to tell you I don’t do anything to deserve wearing a scarlet letter.”

Maybe not one A, but two, for Adulterous Amanda, or Aphrodisiacs Anonymous, he wanted to say.

As Foley is caught in the reminiscence, he encounters a woman walking two miniscule dogs. One of the petite pooches begins barking at Foley. He tries to sweettalk the creature, but it continues to rage against him.

“That’s enough. Stop being a psychopath,” says the woman to the diminutive beast. As frequently happens with Foley, he is perturbed by the words of this complete stranger. 

After Gaspers’ walk, he rides his bike to the doctor’s office. On the way to the appointment, he witnesses a black SUV rear end a white compact car. Gaspers feels his stomach sink, not in response to the accident itself, but as a result of how his mind processes the accident. Amanda, he thinks, is going to get “rear-ended” while I’m getting therapy. 

Ten minutes later he is sitting with his psychiatrist, Dr. Caroline Zembrovsky, whose academic training in mind-body holism and non-reductive psychoanalytic methods suits Gaspers’ cerebral inclinations. After the healer prepares tea for herself and her client, Gaspers starts the session by telling Zembrovsky about his encounter with the woman walking the dogs. 

The doctor, who sits with her legs crossed and a clipboard for notetaking on her lap, summarizes Gaspers’ words, “So, you thought the woman was actually calling you, not her dog, a psychopath?”

“Yes, an instant before this woman called me out, I was thinking Amanda should wear emblems of infidelity as does Hester Prynne, the main character in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s classic book about the plight of free-spirited women in early America,” says Gaspers as he rubs his quadriceps.

“Well let’s first address the belief that the woman was specifically targeting you when she was talking to her dog. The French psychoanalyst Jean Leclerq called what you’re experiencing a ‘false hailing.’ It’s best described as believing you’re being greeted or talked to when, in fact, someone else is. The woman walking her dog wasn’t speaking to you. But what she said resonated personally.”  

“So, it’s not a sign? An indication that I should act on being spoken to whether the person was hailing me or not?”

“Leclerq argued that the phenomenon speaks to what a person’s unconscious may be wanting to tell them. So, he’d say that part of you thinks you are a psychopath for indulging in beliefs, in this case about Amanda, that you have no evidence for. Let me ask you a question, what did you want to do when you thought the woman was calling you a psychopath?”

“I wanted to tell her that she was the psychopath, using the opportunity to walk her dogs as a pretext for her uterus urging her to wander the street looking for a casual sex hook-up.”

“First, you have no evidence she was out seeking sexual gratification. Second, if you had said something to her, where would that have gotten you?”

“It probably would have resulted in her saying something that would have caused me to act, sending me down what you call a psychotic rabbit hole, but I call a stream of action.”

The doctor uncrosses, then recrosses her legs. “What you have to recognize is that on several occasions it’s been exactly this sort of obsessiveness, these monomanias—with streams of action, with Amanda’s alleged infidelities—that have gotten you into trouble. A human life is more than a stream, Foley, it is more than allowing yourself to get caught up in a liberating current.”

“But don’t you agree that the flow of water is a quintessential metaphor for the expression of one’s freedom as a human being?”

“Rainfall in hurricanes, though part of the natural cycles of terrestrial water flow, is enormously disruptive for many life forms. You’ve got to realize that sometimes this current you ride can unleash devastation. On yourself, on your loved ones. Amanda is no exception. Your stream can easily lead, and has, on various occasions, led, to a debilitating storm.”

Dr. Zembrovsky’s logic makes sense to Gaspers, who goes on to describe the thought he had when he saw the accident on his way to the doctor’s office. 

The doctor patiently explains, “You’re reading into things. You’re attributing meaning to events that aren’t inherently meaningful,” says the doctor. “Not only that, but you’re having thoughts of reference, you’re taking a message and attributing a personal meaning to it. Making it self-referential, or in this, case, making the accident refer to the sex act you believe Amanda is having as we speak.”

Gaspers, staring into his lap, rubs his legs again.

The doctor says, “If it’ll bring you peace of mind, why don’t you call her right now?”

Gaspers hesitates for a few seconds, but then he removes his phone from his front pocket and dials Amanda’s number. After three rings she answers. “Foley, are you ok? Shouldn’t you be at Dr. Zembrovsky’s?”

“I am, Mandy. She thought it’d be a good idea if I called you.” Gapsers glances at the doctor, who takes a sip of tea.

“I appreciate you phoning. I found a book for you at the garage sale. It’s about the reaction of water to music. There’s evidence that water actually listens to music. Since you’re always going on about streams, flows and currents, and love music, I thought you might enjoy it. We can take a look at it when you get back. Have a safe ride home.” 

“Thanks, Mandy. See you in a few,” Foley hangs up, looking away from Zembrovsky.

“Satisfied?” asks the doctor.

“I guess so,” replies Gaspers. “See you next week?”

“No, next week I will be out of state at a retreat for mind-body healers.”

Gaspers imagines what it would be like to have this woman sensually heal his body. 

“If you experience any trains of thought you think might land you in trouble with the police again, don’t hesitate to call me. And remember, always look at the evidence for the reveries you have that lead you down psychotic rabbit holes. I’ve promised you and your mother I’m going to do everything possible to keep you out of jail and mental health crisis units.”

“Enjoy the retreat, doc,” says Gaspers.

When he gets back to the house, Amanda greets him with chocolate croissants and puts the kettle on the stove again for more tea. She hands him the book she picked up at the garage sale. It bears the title The Sentience of Water. 

Gaspers flips through the pages and looks at pictures of water that has been frozen after it has been exposed to different genres of music. The water that has “listened” to the compositions of certain classical composers has frozen into crystalline ice. The ice that has formed after clear containers of water have endured exposure to angsty heavy metal looks as if it has been adulterated with coffee, or has frozen irregularly, with nowhere near the crystallized consistency of the water that has “listened” to Mozart.  

“I’m going to try an experiment,” Gaspers says to Amanda.

“I figured you would,” replies Amanda. “What are we going to listen to?”

Gaspers puts on a CD entitled Windows of Perception by the late 60s psychedelic rock band  The Way Out. Although Gaspers was born a decade after the band’s lead singer, Morris James, died at the age of 27 in 1970, he strongly identifies with the bourbon-drinking free spirit idol. Gaspers believes James’ music is life-affirming and honest, an oasis in the desert of today’s culture.

“Morris James’ music might not make crystal-clear ice, but I bet if I turn this music up loud enough, it’ll make it rain,” Gaspers says. 

Outside, it is overcast. The CD begins to play, as it does, Gaspers hears the kettle wail again, not in reality, but in his mind’s ear. Gaspers then commences to sing along with the first song on the album, “That Fever,” one of The Way Out’s biggest hits.  

Oh, that fever.

Cunning liar, deceiver.

Oh, that fever.

No reason to believe her.

The volume level of the music makes the house vibrate. Gaspers opens the front door, steps onto the front porch and wildly calls out, “Rain! Relieve the great current of humanity! Drench this dry land!”

A neighbor across the street stands frozen, looking at the spectacle with mouth agape. Gaspers steps off the front porch onto the lawn, and gestures to Amanda, inviting her to join him. After she responds with delay and demur, he says “Come on, Mandy, for the sake of art.” 

Thunder sounds overhead. Amanda feels a drop of water land on her eyelid.

“It’s not art, Foley, it’s wet.”

“You’re not one to frown on getting wet, Mandy.”

He belts out the chorus to the song.

She’ll tear your heart out and pose as a loving friend.

Do it once, then she wants it all over again.

That fever.

A lightning flash, another thunderous rumbling and the rain begins to fall.

With genuine concern, Amanda says, “Foley, come back inside. You’ll catch a cold.”

Gaspers steps back onto the front porch and says, “I’m not God’s gift to women, but can you indulge this not so sane dreamer, just this once?”

He takes hold of her. She resists. He insists, guiding her to the front yard, where, holding her by either hand, he spins her in circles in the rain as it becomes a downpour. As The Way Out continues to play in the background, they continue to whirl, and laugh, like pagans in a dance celebrating the watery world’s answer to unrelenting heat and spiritual exhaustion.