Local Weather IV

Andrew Squitiro
Aug 31, 2018 · 4 min read

Back to the heat, back to the swamp. Back to the long days of mopping sweat from my brow, waiting out storms in crowded cafes, the dullness and deluge of summer.

If you follow the balconies, you can get from point to point in the quarter unscathed from the downpour. You just need patience and cunning to chart your way through dry. The garbage bag panchos work well to identify the tourists, if it weren’t easy enough already.

I went to sleep in rain and woke up in rain, the water delaying my only plans for the day— laundry in the quarter. By the time I would make it to her shop, Miss Dinah will have claimed every machine for herself, say she didn’t think anyone would be coming to her today.

Sometimes, shortcuts can be scenic instead of short. In Columbia, I’d take Rock Creek Road, a woodland rollercoaster that I’d fly through whenever I could, downshifting on the turns in my ‘99 Civic.

Years later, we drove through there again. Slowly, this time. My ‘95 ranger creeping through the turns because we were drunk and you were nauseous, and I didn’t mind prolonging your company.

You asked me to pull over and we got out and laid on the shoulder, and the sky was so thick with stars it looked like a torn off bandage. You puked on the asphalt and we didn’t kiss anymore, but I still held you, and your breathing got easier.

We talked about how weird it was to be back in Missouri, and you punched me for cheating on you when we first met, back when our relationship was still fresh, had the most potential. The only time we shared the same city, a time I desperately regret wasting.

It wasn’t cheating, but I didn’t care enough to argue. I let you keep hitting me and was surprised you still thought of me in New York. For better or worse, I’m not one to turn away affection — especially when it’s strong enough to raise voices or put a fist into drywall. It’s not a trait I’m proud of.

I was raised thinking that when you loved someone enough, that’s how you showed it — in violent outbursts of dishes and chairs, screaming until your throat turned raw. Once, I told my mom to go fuck herself, then threw a glass from the porch into the street. Even at fifteen, I knew this to be more preferable to her than a calm tone and neutral expression, a pillow in a thunderstorm. To speak softly was to display indifference.

Now that I know this part of myself, it’s easier to control. I still have a soft spot for the violent and dramatic — what some would call passion. It’s an issue I’m working on, but I’ll have the scars from the shattered mirrors, walls, and car windows forever. The things I’ve broken.

I hate the notion that we’re all broken, because it’s so defeatist, so absolving. If every parent is a bad one, then I how can I hold mine accountable, why should I change? I hate working on my issues, would rather half-believe that the knowledge of my issues is enough, that to know the devil is to disarm him, but that’s not how it works. You need to confront him.

You need the humility to pick up the pieces and do something productive with them to keep the devil away, even if you know he’ll always be at the door. I think often of how easy it’d be to destroy my life forever. A credit card, a handle, a carton of smokes. You can get it all at one store. It’s amazing anyone is sane at all.

In this long morning of storms and no power, I have nothing to do but stay in bed and be hungover. The air is thick and the rain on the air-conditioner sounds like the pitter patter of rifle fire.

I’m drawn to rain for the same reason I’m drawn to prayer and fasting — it forces humility. There’s something humble in the ridiculousness of kneeling at your bedside, in showing up to the party soaking wet.

If I were a better man today, I’d put on clothes and clean the house, do the dishes, call my folks. I’d do something with the day and these four-hundred square feet that I get to call mine. Make use of this time in my life without a spouse, child, career — any sort of actual anchor or chain.

But my head hurts, I’m hungry, and I may throw up as soon as my feet touch the tile.So I don’t.

Instead, I’ll waste the day looking through my phone, listening to the rain. I’ve engineered everything in my life up to this point to allow me the freedom necessary to stay inside, if I choose.

If I were a better man, I wouldn’t have the choice.

    Andrew Squitiro

    Written by

    Poet and writer in New Orleans, LA.

    Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
    Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
    Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade