Man in the Clouds

Who is responsible for fate? Zeus? God? El Nino? Much like that Tootsie Pop mystery, the world may never know. But as I stare out the window as the rain pours down, mercilessly, I know at least one thing is sure: he’s a sick, twisted fuck. 

This is what dawns on me as I watch each droplet cling to the exterior glass. Each individual drop races down, leaving a watery trail only to escape from view, reminding me of a dashed opportunity named Chandler Graves.

How can one describe her? Well, to describe her is to put her in a box as if beauty is some tactile thing to be harnessed and reproduced. But the truth is she’s just Chandler. She would never be the love interest you’d see in a blockbuster movie. She didn’t have that glossy overproduced look about her. She just was.

There wasn’t anything grand or significant about her. She didn’t graduate with honors or even have a thousand Instagram followers. But I would just observe the way she walked to class. Bodies moving busily by her and I used to enjoy the way she could just look up at the sky and admire it in the midst of all that chaos. Sometimes, I imagined she looked at me that way, but that’s just the person she was. Finding beauty in the mundane.

Still, that look drove me to try to learn more about her, even though we spent a microscopic time together. We were in a study group together and occasionally got a word or two in with each other, but if Ryan or Morris were in the room I usually felt invisible. Ryan would say some words with a bunch of syllables or Morris make some obscure reference to some B movie from 1962 and I’d just sit there with nothing to say. There was always someone around more charismatic and Chandler would turn her attention right toward them. If I was going to get my shot, it would be a very narrow window.

I should preface this by explaining my history with women. And that history could be best explained as non-existent. There were splatterings of romance along the way, but I think it’s safe to round down to non-existent. So, I was very cautious about how I approached her. 

The stars finally aligned for me when I got word that the Houston Ballet was going to be performing her favorite ballet (Tutu) for free. Flyers were posted everywhere in anticipation of the grand event. 

I knew how much she loved ballet because every time she talked about what she liked, I wrote it down -- whether it was the back of my hand or a napkin. 

Usually, by the time I got home, it turned into some indecipherable hieroglyph and being a college student, I didn’t have enough money to hire a cryptographer. Therefore, many of my notes would get lost in the ocean of the illegible. 

And yes, I know. There is this novel concept called “remembering shit.” We used to do it back in the day before cell phones, GPS, and Facebook reminders that your 3rd-grade gym teacher has a birthday today. But this phenomenon known as “misremembering crap” also exists -- especially when it comes to me. For instance, I vaguely remember her saying she likes peanut butter ice cream or something. But how do I know the guy from Inception didn’t place that memory in my head? One day I’m offering her a scoop of peanut butter ice cream, next thing I know she’s allergic and accusing me of attempted homicide. I just didn’t want to take that chance.

Therefore, unless I had something in clear and concise writing, I wasn’t going to make a move. But the one thing I had written down over and over and over was that she liked ballet, and her favorite ballet was called Tutu. 

So, one day, as we happened to be walking together -- with no bros in the vicinity to do a cartwheel or some shit to try to distract her -- I noticed we were approaching one of those flyers: “The Houston Ballet - Tutu - Free Performance”. It was our senior year and the performance was going to be toward the end of the semester. I’d never get another chance.

With this wonderful woman staring me in the eye and the flyer mere feet away, it was practically a layup. Still, it took the strength that moves mountains to even get me to open my mouth. Then I extended my finger toward the poster and some inextricable force expelled from my throat two simple words, “Wanna go?”

I had never been in this zone with a woman before. The moment after the proposition. If time travel is possible, the key exists in that tiny moment. The silence between the ask and the answer. I have no idea how long that moment lasted but I sure got a lot done in that time.

My sweat glands had enough time to drench me in a thick layer of that salty moisture even though it was a reasonably cool day. My mind replayed the intonation of the offer over and over, wondering if it came off more Denzel Washington or obsessed stalker. In the remaining time, I probably could have composed Bach’s entire Fifth Symphony. 

Then my breath released as she finally opened her mouth and produced a sound, but it was not the sound I was looking for. 

“What?”

Then eternity recommenced as I tried to decipher whether it was a could-you-speak-up type of “what” or an are-you-shitting-me type of ”what”. I was reasonably sure it was the former and would treat it as such. But I didn’t want to repeat it in that annoying way where you over-enunciate your words and it just seems like you’re being a condescending jackass. 

With all the thoughts running through my mind, I realized I had taken on more than I could handle. I decided to abort the mission and come up with something that rhymes with “Wanna go?” and I would claim I said that phrase instead. But the most approximate match that popped into my formidable frontal lobe was “What a ho!” That wasn’t going to fly.

But in an instant, that responsibility was lifted off my shoulders.

Chandler, eyes wide with excitement, said, “You asked if I want to go with you to the ballet?”

A nervous wreck and rendered mute, the form of the question was the lone blessing in an otherwise disastrous situation. Taking this jump took the simplest of acts: nodding my head up and down.

She accepted.

So everything was set. We were going to see a special performance of “Tutu” by the Houston Ballet at Miller Outdoor Theater. But there is a keyword in that sentence, and that is “outdoor.” That means the venue, while being spectacular, had one small weakness: the lack of a building. This made it vulnerable to surrounding noises, ballistic missiles, and (most importantly) rain.

So, on the day of the ballet, I stood. Staring out the window covered in raindrops. Raindrops, that the weatherman said, were virtually impossible on this day. Ten percent. Ten percent chance of rain. Any rain that does come, they said, should clear up by five. 

It was five thirty-two.

There’s an old myth that claims that, when it rains, the thunder is Satan and his wife fighting. That the rain is his wife crying. Nevermind that it was my understanding that Satan resides in the basement and not the attic. None of that ever made sense. Especially not at that moment. It was nothing like crying or fighting. The rain, the thunder, the lightning: all conspired to sound distinctly like laughter.

There was no Zeus or Satan or global warming standing atop the clouds, but a circus clown with a big ass nose and big floppy feet. Dancing around with no particular purpose in mind, honking one of those stupid bicycle horns wildly into the sky, laughing like a jackass. 

I didn’t ask for world peace, the Parthenon, or Captain America’s abs. All I wanted was one measly date. One moment of feeling worthy of something beautiful. Like the sun just came down from the sky and just wanted to see me. But I guess somewhere down the line, I pissed off the wrong soup Nazi. His decision was clear. “No soup for you!”

In the wake of any disaster, the human mind sends out its spin doctors to put a positive twist on things. That’s when I realized. Did I really want to go on that date? Would I have been as suave as Ryan? As intellectual as Morris? Would I even be able to be me? Would I have been paralyzed in fear the entire date? Probably and I could have added one more thing to my list of monumental failures.

And that’s when a new feeling came in to replace the old bitter grind of regret: relief. A relief that started in a small dot on the back of my mind and flowed down through my chest and out to all my extremities until my entire body was filled with nothing but pure unbridled relief.

That’s when the rain came to a complete stop.

My eyes opened wide in realization: I was going to have to do it. I was going to have to go on that date and be everything I wasn’t. 

Before I could gather myself, the phone rang. I rushed to answer.

“Hello,” said Chandler’s voice on the other end, excited. “Did you see that? It stopped raining. The show won’t be canceled and there’s still time to go.”

“Did you still want to go?” I said, becoming a little hopeful. “It could rain again.”

“Well,” Chandler said, hesitating. 

Then from her mouth, came the most terrifying words, “It’s up to you.”  

It’s been three years since that day. The rain comes down hard and I’m looking out that same window thinking about Fate and his relationship to me. As the rain worsens, the answer becomes clear as much as I try to fight it off. 

You see, I know the man who makes the clouds come. I know the man who starts the rain. I know the man who curses my days. 

I’ll just never say it.