It was one of those Hard Rains; you know the kind that makes you wonder exactly when it started, and if it’ll ever stop. I could hear it pelting the roof of the trailer, and the sound pulled me into semi-consciousness, the whiskey fog clearing enough for me to hear her rummaging around in the bathroom. She was making “quiet racket” in my head, on purpose I was sure.  It was pissing me off again, and I knew she would swear that she was trying to be quiet. A drawer opening, a cabinet door snapping shut, the frigging toilet “flushing” - for god’s sake. 

It was all her fault anyway, if she would just not piss him off all the time, everything would be okay, but no, she was constantly fucking up. Like tonight when he’d come in from work, stressed out and with a headache.  She’d started in on him about the furnace being broke down, and why didn’t he get it fixed. It’ll be cold again tonight, please get it fixed, blah, blah….

The repairman had said it would cost $250 and he had to have the money upfront, no credit. He’d told the guy to come back tonight and fix it; it was payday, he’d have the cash.  And the dumb-ass did come, but at the wrong time.  She’d just mouthed off to him one too many times, and after a couple of body punches and a few to the head, she was a crying heap in the corner. When the doorbell rang it was like the bell at the end of a boxing match. 

Round over.

The question was “had he heard anything”?  Looking out the window, the drape pulled back to peeking range, he watched the guy, standing on the porch waiting for the door to open.  He looked over at her again and said in a low voice “that they would not be answering the door tonight.” He’d watched as she stood, blood leaking from her mouth, and moaned loudly, holding the right side of her head.  With a shaky gait, she’d stumbled down the hallway toward the bathroom, and he’d noticed again how fat she’d gotten after 20 years of marriage.

With a sudden grunt he’d gone to the window and watched as the repairman got back in his van; watched the van closely as it backed out and pulled away from the house. Striding to the front door he kicked it open with his foot and went out into the night air.  He could smell rain, and felt the urge to drink beer, drink a lot beer.  Al down at the bar would cash his check; there might even be a girl for him somewhere. 

Now as he lay in the bed, with her making enough racket in the bathroom to make his head begin to throb, he began to get even madder.  He’d tried to get one of the sluts down at Al’s to take him home with her, but she’d told him to get lost. Before the words were hardly out of her mouth he’d grabbed her by the neck and was watching the terror in her eyes when Al had blindsided him with the baseball bat he kept under the bar.

The blow struck him on the right shoulder, and was delivered with Al screaming at him, telling him to get the fuck out of the bar.  But before he could respond to the attack, he was lifted up by strong arms and carried to the back door and tossed in the alley.  Trying to get back in, he was met by Al, who threw his jacket at him and told him he was calling the cops.  As the door slammed shut again, he saw a police car cruise by the entrance of the alley. 

Running around to the side of the bar he managed to locate his keys, unlocked the door, and in swift sure motions started up the car and eased away from the bar. He always prided himself on being able to react to the situation and sober up enough to escape.  Later, safely across town and at the “Nightdive,” another bar he frequented, he’d told everybody a completely different account of the incident.  All the guys laughing at his descriptive narration of scaring the crap out of the slut, and how he’d made her go out in the parking lot and give him a blowjob. It was after 3 a.m. when he’d staggered out of the bar and drove home, now barely remembering the drive.

She was in the bedroom now, in the closet, still rummaging, but quieter now; but not so quite he couldn’t hear her. Raising his head from the mattress he tried to get up, but realized he was way too drunk to stand as he watched the room spin around, and tasted guile in his mouth.  “Shit” he thought, what would it take to get her to leave him the fuck alone.  I’ll just lay here for a minute he thought, but must of drifted back asleep because when he opened his eyes the light was on in the bedroom, and he felt something hard at the back of his head. 

“Randall.”

“Randall.”

He could hear her voice but didn’t know where she was, and as he thought about it a little, he really didn’t care; he just wanted her to shut up.

“Randall,” can you hear me?

“Yeah,” he answered.  “I hear you bitch.”

“Do you remember that night a few years ago, when that guy cut you, and you thought you were dying?  How scared you were, how you cried in my arms telling me you didn’t want to die.  How scared you were of death.”

Her words straightened out his thoughts a little, and he began to wonder about the hard object at the back of his head; he tried to raise an arm to feel it, but couldn’t get the message from his brain to either one of his arms, and instead, he just stared at something on the floor.  It was gray, a case of some sort. What is it he wondered, thinking he should know what it was. 

“Randall, I’ve got your gun at the back of your head and you are about to die.”

Her words burned into his brain, and he finally recognized the gray object on the floor for what it was.  It was his gun case, the one that held his .45, always loaded, always at the ready, now opened and empty.   

Outside he could hear the rain, it was a Hard Rain, and then he heard the thunder.