Le vent d'est

A story about the weather.

I step out of the building. There are people outside shouting the names of dead children. Some of them are holding cameras. Others are holding phones with the lights turned on. I cover my ears and keep walking. I turn the corner and go on my way. It’s almost midnight. The sky is clear and black and starless. The air is cool. It feels good on my skin. Crisp.

I’m walking down a long, straight boulevard. Tall hedges run along either side. I can see immaculate lawns beyond them, and distant, gray structures. Dark green bushes dotted with pale white flowers have been planted all down the road’s central divider. Streetlights are placed at regular intervals, bathing everything in cold, white light. It’s quiet here this time of night – I haven’t seen a single car. I pass a cloud of vapor leaking from a storm drain.

I sense a shape moving in my peripheral vision. The shape carries a foul smell around with it. In my pocket, I wrap my hand around my pepper spray. I sense the shape bending over, holding its stomach. I hear the sounds of the shape being sick. I hear their sick splatter on the concrete. I let myself relax a bit.

In my freshman year of college, I had a roommate who liked to look at himself in the mirror when he masturbated. I discovered this by walking in on him the day after orientation, kneeling on the floor, his pants around his ankles, the hem of his shirt held clenched between his teeth. A few minutes later, his face still flushed, he tried to tell me he wasn’t gay. I told him I didn’t care if he was gay. No, he said, you don’t get it.

The boulevard I am walking down is very wide and uniform. The sidewalks are a scrubbed, sandy white. I wouldn’t want to have to cross to the other side. It reminds me of roads I drove down when I was in Doha two years ago, ones with nothing but open desert on either side. In the distance, I can see a roundabout. There’s a black limousine circling it. There are no other cars.

Eventually, I reach the edge of the roundabout. I’ve been walking for a couple hours now. The black limousine is gone, but I’m sure it’s not far away. I’m sure it will be back. At the center of the roundabout is an enormous flagpole. The flagpole is as thick as a tree trunk and at least a hundred feet tall. At the top, the flag hangs limp. There’s no wind right now. I haven’t felt a breeze all night, I realize.

I take out my phone and open my weather app. A push notification tells me a tropical storm is approaching Puerto Rico. I’ve never visited the place, although I would like to someday. They have a beautiful culture, I’ve been told. The app tells me there’s a slight wind from the east, but I assume this must be instrument error. Doppler radar, at least, confirms for me what I already know: not a cloud in the sky.