The Storm

at the gas station said that you’re the man that can show me around these parts.” “HE DID, DID HE?” he bellowed. “Yes, Sir, he did,” I replied. “You know these parts, Sir?” Henry laughed and went on and said “DO I KNOW THESE PARTS? SON, I'VE BEEN AROUND THESE PARTS AND FISHIN' THESE WATERS SINCE I BEEN A KID, 'CEPT A STINT OVERSEAS IN THE 60’S. AND I KNOW THIS RIVER LIKE THE BACK OF MY HAND. WHAT YOU FISHIN' FOR?” “Information,” was my stupid reply. I knew it was dumb when it came out of my big mouth. “YOU TRYIN TO BE CUTE, KID?” he responded with a scowl. “THAT KIND OF RESPONSE'LL GET YOU KILT AROUN' THESE PARTS, BOY!” Henry wasn’t amused, and I chided myself for my immature response. “I’m sorry, Sir. I wasn’t trying to be cute. I was just being plain stupid.” “YOU’D BETTER TELLME RIGHT QUICK THEN, WHAT YER FISHIN' FER, AND IF NOT FISHIN' WHAT YER DOIN' DOWN IN THESE HERE PARTS, AND YOU’D BETTER TELL ME IN A SHORT SENTENCE!” “My name is Zachary AB Taylor from Brooklyn and I need to have someone show me the damage done from the storm.” Henry then lowered his voice and called me up on to the porch steps. As I got closer, I saw the years of hard work and troubles furrowed into the old man’s face, a roadmap of sorts, with piercing blue-gray eyes that looked straight through me. I felt uneasy as those piercing eyes bore down on me like a laser. “Brooklyn, you say? You’re a long way from home just to see storm damage. You could have seen that on the East Coast if you wait long enough.”

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