the endless rain - 9. the wind and snow

by nick nelson

part nine of twenty-eight

for previous episode, click here

to begin at the beginning, click here

the snow continued to fall. “you have to help me,” johnny repeated. reilly did not answer. he started to stagger away, and johnny grabbed his arm. “come now, young man, don’t be tiresome. i don’t know kind of help you need, but whatever it is. i don’t have it. good night.” and reilly tried to wrench his arm free, but johnny held it fast. “you have to help me.” reilly sighed. “help you do what?” “i don’t know. just help me.” reilly started to laugh. “that’s the funniest thing i ever heard! ha, ha, ha!” “you think it’s funny?” johnny asked. “yes. i think it’s funny.” reilly looked around. there were no other people visible on the street. “and if anybody was watching us, they would think it was funny too. a couple of damn fools standing arguing in a snowstorm instead of having enough sense to try to get out of it.” “you can call yourself a damn fool, i am not a fool,” said johnny. “it’s says in the bible - “ “the bible!” reilly laughed. and johnny’s invocation of the bible must have caused him to lose his grip, because suddenly reilly broke free of his grasp. “the bible!” reilly laughed again, rubbing his freed arm, but he made no move to run away and johnny did not grab his arm back. “i don’t want to hear about the bible at two o’clock in the morning.” “all right, don’t then. see if i care.” “in that case, i bid you good night. good morning.” reilly turned away, but was hit in the face bu a gust of wind blown snow. “where are you going?” johnny asked. “where am i going? wherever the wind takes me. actually, i was headed to carl’s coffee shop, to see if i could a mooch a cup of java from some kindly soul. if there are any out tonight.” reilly started to back away from johnny. “i’ll buy you a cup of coffee,” johnny said. “you will? well, hallelujah, as it says in the bible. ha, ha! you want me to help you out by letting you buy me a cup of coffee? i have no objection to that, young fellow.” “let’s go, then.” they headed into the wind and snow. behind them the lights and signs in ruby’s went dark. 10. black depths

rainy day poem

by anonymous

i wrote this poem yesterday because i couldn't go out to play and because my governess knew too well that i was born to burn in hell every time a flower i found she picked me up and slapped me around every time i gazed at the sky she told me i was born to die some day when i am fully grown and have ascended to my throne i will track the governess down if i have to look all over town i was fated to write this verse because from birth i have been cursed by my fellow humans’ incomprehension which i may have forgotten to mention but my day will come how about yours? maybe we will meet some day on a distant shore i will have a martini and you might have a gin fizz and we will tell our stories because revenge is all there is

the endless rain - 8. sylvia

by nick nelson

part eight of twenty-eight

for previous episode, click here

to begin at the beginning, click here

sylvia was lurking in the shadows - something she was used to doing and was good at - when she saw the two men on the subway platform arguing. they were alone on the platform. they were too far away for her to hear their words. they both looked more or less like bums.. the bigger, older man had a big bag slung over his shoulder. from the way he was carrying it it did not seem too heavy. sylvia wondered what was in it. maybe clothes. maybe just rags. the smaller man was doing most of the talking . suddenly he seemed to get really mad at something the big man with the bag said, and starting poking him in the chest. the big man shoved the little man and knocked him down. the big man moved closer to the little man. the little man pulled something out of his pocket. which must have been a gun because he shot the big man with it. the shot started echoing in the subway and was almost immediately drowned out by the sound of an oncoming train. sylvia stepped back tight against the wall and the train roared past her. the train was a local making all stops . it stopped. sylvia waited. she could not hear any signs of a commotion - like anybody noticed the man shot on the platform. the train left. the smaller man was gone. he had either got on the train or gone up the stairs to the street. the bigger man, whether he was dead or alive, was lying on the platform with his face to the wall. and the bag was still there! it had probably partially concealed the man from anyone who might have been looking out the windows of the train. sylvia made her move. she crossed the tracks and scrambled up on to the platform. she grabbed the guy’s shoulder and pulled him back just far enough to get a look at his face. he was beyond help, except from st peter. she gave his pockets a quick check, as best she could without moving the dead weight of the body around. no wallet. nothing else she could feel. sylvia hefted the bag. it was not real light, but not that heavy either. she grabbed it and headed for the stairs. the station was down five flights of stairs from the street. when sylvia got to the next level she stopped and opened the bag, just for a quick check. the bag seemed filled with clothes. mostly with one item of clothing - a red coat. she fished under the coat. there seemed to be more underneath, she could not be positive. she decided the bag was worth lugging up the flights of stairs and checking out more thoroughly. there might even be some money in it! probably not, but she could dream, couldn’t she? it was christmas time. 9. the wind and snow

lines

by horace p sternwall

all you lonely hermits dreaming of endless highways the road is empty listen to the rain and roll over and go back to sleep at the end of the road there is only another lonely room another empty shack

the endless rain - 7. the man in the morgue

by nick nelson

part seven of twenty-eight

for previous episode, click here

to begin at the beginning, click here

yes, “that’s him.” said sergeant jenkins, looking down at the body of the man in the morgue. the man was about forty-five, white, with thin gray hair, flabby without being really fat. he was wearing the black boots and red pants of a santa suit. he had been shot once, in the heart. he had been found, face to the wall, by a subway patrolman on the platform of a subway stop that was only used by the local trains that made every little stop. he had probably been passed by by many citizens who assumed he was just drunk and sleeping of off. there was no i d or anything at all in his pockets. or any sign of the rest of a santa suit. “he probably had the rest of the santa suit in a bag and would put it on when he got to his stop,” said sergeant jenkins. “that makes sense,” duffy told her. a rookie detective at the precinct had started by making calls to department stores and other stores that might be missing a santa. he was just starting on calls to the salvation army stations and other charitable organizations that might use a santa, when officer cooley’s call about the gun in the kettle came in. the subway station at whose entrance gruski had rung his bell waiting for the dead man was six stops away from one where the body was found. gruski and sergeant jenkins had been brought to the station to look at the body. “you know his name?” duffy asked sergeant jenkins. she hesitated. “i think it was harris,” she said. “i have it written back at the station,” she added quickly when duff’s eyes rolled a little bit. “i think he said his name was fred. or maybe it was sam. or gus. some name like that. but i have it written down.” “you know anything else about him?” “just that he said he was very happy about being able to do some good at christmastime.” “that’s nice,” said duffy. “and very sad. was he staying at your shelter? probably not, if he was coming up on the subway that far away.” “no, i think he said he was staying with his sister, somewhere in the bronx.” “would you have that written down, the sister’s address, or maybe phone number?” “i don’t think so,” sergeant jenkins admitted apologetically. “i’ll check, but - with these guys who knows if what they tell you - and then even if you tried to get in touch with them - “ “that’s all right , i understand,” duffy assured her. “but i will check. and i will have his name written down. the name he gave me.” “thank you, you have been very helpful.” duffy turned to gruski, who had been standing quietly behind them. “how about you, brother? you sure you don’t recognize this guy?” “positive.” “positive?” duffy stared gruski down. “how positive is positive?” “i don’t remember him from anywhere. i ain’t saying i might never of sat beside him at a bar or a mission or someplace. i just don’t recognize him.” “where are you staying? you got an address?” “just the shelter.” “just the shelter. i think you better stay with us tonight. as a material witness. we’ll give you a nice clean cot. can’t promise you your own cell. and a nice christmas dinner.” “that’s sounds good,” said gruski, “if the dinner’s got all the fixings.” “we wouldn’t serve you a dinner without all the fixings.” 8. sylvia

april

by wiggly jones, "the little hippie boy"

a flower grew in a crack in the sidewalk in back of the colossal universal bank where a chauffeur named frank waited for mister magg whose shoulders were beginning to sag from the weight of his responsibilities to the ring of shining cities encircling the spinning globe he wished he was in his bathrobe instead of staring at another prospectus o lord, he thought, protect us frank chewed a piece of gum and a happy tune began to hum but the flower did not care and the blue sky continued to stare as a single raindrop fell on the flower it loved so well

the endless rain - 6. in the kettle

by nick nelson

part six of twenty-eight

for previous episode, click here

to begin at the beginning, click here

the relief santa did not show up on time, and gruski kept on ringing his bell and watching the shoppers toss pennies and sometimes nickels and dimes into the kettle. these things happened. the santas were not always the most reliable people, and gruski did not think it in any way remarkable when the new man did not show after an hour, after two hours. the snow continued to fall, and got a little heavier. gruski was tired, and cut down on his ho-ho-ho’s, but kept ringing his bell like a trouper. officer cooley came by, twirling his nightstick in the old-fashioned way, because he knew the tourists and hayseeds liked to see him do it. “officer,” gruski greeted him, “how would you like to do poor santa a favor?” “and how might i do that?” asked cooley. “if you pass by the army office on your rounds, can you drop in and ask for sergeant jenkins and tell her that my relief has never showed up and i am still here. just tell her that.” “i can do that. your name’s grumski, right?” “gruski.” “gruski. all right , gruski , i’ll give her that message. and if she isn’t there i will give someone else the message. do you know the name of the feller who didn’t show up?” “no, i don’t . he was a new guy.” “all right, i’ll tell her that. merry christmas, sir.” and with that officer cooley disappeared into the snow, twirling his stick. “mer-ry christmas!” gruski called after him. gruski stayed at his post. it started to get dark, and the number of shoppers and other passersby began to thin out, especially as the snow got heavier. officer cooley came back, accompanied by sergeant jenkins herself. the sergeant was bundled up in her long cloak with her heavy cap down over her eyes and only her little red nose visible. “you have done well, gruski, “ said the sergeant. “the army appreciates it.” she did not say whether gruski would get paid more for his longer shift, and gruski did not ask. “how did we do?” the segeant asked, looking down into the kettle. she took a heavy bag from under her cloak, to transfer the coins into. “what is that?” the sergeant asked. “what is what?” gruski asked. “looks like something on the bottom of the kettle - besides the coins.” sometimes kids or other jokers threw things into the kettle. “i didn’t see anybody throw anything in,” said gruski. the sergeant peered into the kettle more intently. “it looks like - a gun?” “here, let me look,” said officer cooley. he produced a flashlight and shone it into the kettle. “it does indeed look like a gun.” he poked a gloved finger into the kettle. “wait here,” he told gruski and the sergeant. “i’ll hail a patrol car, or call it in.” he turned and headed toward broadway. gruski and sergeant jenkins looks at each other. “a bad business,” said the sergeant. “not in the holiday spirit,” said gruski. 7. the man in the morgue