Curse of the Alligator: ACT 1

Mallard in a Cage

There is nothing but empty pasture for miles; I think I see one cow. We've just been sitting here. It's almost like Pearl is searching for answers in the sky. He saw a cloud and drove us 15 minutes out of town. The signal is fuzzy; I've never listened to the radio before, but I'm waiting to hear anything but static. Pearl turns the knob and readjusts the antenna on the truck's hood.

"Are the aliens attacking?" I tease.

"The signal is bad outside of town. That cloud on the horizon might be nimbostratus." Pearl says this without blinking. It's like he hasn't slept in a week—a Red Bull stop after this.

"I could just look up the weather on my phone." I suggest.

"Be my guest, Harris." Pearl reminds me that my phone is dead. "It's not like I can't check it on my phone too. The weather apps are highly inaccurate. I only trust chief meteorologist Jeff Puckett; that dude doesn't miss. I met him once when they were tornado-chasing down here. He was high on mushrooms."

The Puckett weather report phases through the white noise. "That was Breaking Benjamin closing out the Nooner. We will be back with nonstop rock, but first, the weather with Jeff Puckett. Thursday's forecast for the week will be clear, with a high of 98 degrees. Friday brings in a little more heat, with a 102-degree high temperature, but this weekend, there is a snowball chance to cool everything down. I'm talking Saturday and Sunday with a 30% chance of rain."

Pearl punches the screen on the center console. The plastic pieces of the radio bust off and bounce all over the cab. I hold my breath in shock. His hand bleeds, but he covers the gash with his left. He squeezes until his fist goes white. It's scary and almost hilarious, mainly because his left hand is already injured. Like, is he a fry short of a Happy Meal? The toddler fit over the rain didn't solve anything.

"Your hand needs ice."

"And my head needs a cold beer. Jeff is always right. Damn, add it to the list of my problems."

"It's only a 30% chance; what is the big deal?"

"The lower the chance, the higher the anticipation. It's anxiety-inducing." Pearl points out to the cloud. "The wind pattern would take rain right over Candle. This cloud looked odd, but it should stay dry for the rest of the day. As for Saturday and Sunday, I guess I'm doomed."

"Again, what's the big deal? It's rain. Doesn't this dried-up town need rain?"

"Let me put it like this: I have a leaky roof. When it rains, little droplets start tapping the linoleum. That ticktock tapping eventually gets on my nerves; the wood gets wet, the foundation sinks, and the house cracks down the middle. If that ever happens, please, get far away from me."

"Are you okay?"

"I will be if you heed my warnings."

Pearl shifts gears and continues outside of Candle. The air conditioner barely works in the truck. I roll the window down to catch any breeze, but Texas feels like one hot breath. All the fear of St. Louis was pushed to the back of my mind. I'm lost. The Candle skyline silhouettes a grain silo and a barely visible McDonald's arch behind an empty field—a field guarded by barbed wire. I am inspired. I open my sketchbook for an entry.

"Do you have a pencil I can borrow?"

"Check the glove box."

In between the seats is nothing but crumbs and pennies. I search the truck's cab for anything that isn't a pen. I wield the flimsy plastic pen and start the linework. The whole thing looks blotty. Every speedline for the trees should be thinner. These bank pens suck. The page is scratchy now. I rip the paper out and throw it out the window.