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Tornado Alley 
serious serialized fiction by Joe Souza

** Day One **

     The vast oasis of the flatlands stands before me as I snap picture after picture. The rest of the crew awaits in the conversion van. Purplish-looking clouds race overhead. A strong wind blows down from the north and carries up debris. Two dust devils ten feet away play a game of cat and mouse with each other. They are the first authentic funnel clouds I have seen in Tornado Alley. The atmospheric pressure is dropping fast. It is eerily quiet except for a howling wind blowing across the low-level plains. The emptiness of the landscape appears to me like a canvas awaiting the painter's brush. I look to my right. Then to my left. The road meets the horizon at nearly a ninety-degree angle, a zippered partition into the earth's crust. 
     Eat your Wintburger, I think. Hold your pen in hand and prepare to interview. I dare not discard the hamburger in Frank's presence. In fairness to him he had apologized for lunch. He had contractual obligations with Wintburger, he explained, that just couldn't be broken. 
     Frank lays on the horn. I raise up my finger to him, indicating one last picture. He spits a buckshot of pistachio nutshells out of the window. I snap a picture of the dueling dust devils before taking in the vast desolateness of the surrounding breadbasket. 
     The van we ride in is not a typical van. It is a conversion van. But converted from what, I want to know. A regular van? A minivan?
     I am here to write a story about Frank and his tornado-chasing expeditions. Vortex is the name of the men's magazine where I work. It has nothing to do with wind storms. It just sounds really cool. Mostly it has pictures of half-naked girls as well as articles on beer, guns and how-to-pick-up-chicks. On his first day on the job the newly hired editor immediately doubled the photos of half-naked girls and then added more articles on beer, guns and how-to-pick-up-chicks. In less than a year the magazine's circulation doubled. But the new editor explained to everyone that he wanted the magazine to cling to whatever shred of journalistic credibility it had left. So one day he called me into his office and gave me an ultimatum. Go chase a tornado and write about it. Either that or start writing about how-to-pick-up chicks. Or how to look for new employment. 
     Frank owns a website called The Tornado Transcripts. It is where I discovered him. He told me that he originally wanted to name his site The Wind Vortex Review but couldn't because it was the name of an erotic literary journal. His website is one of the most popular sites on the internet. It typically receives over a million hits per day. When I initially came across it I thought it was a gay porn sight and after a few hours of viewing funnel clouds I came down with a debilitating case of tornado envy, not to mention Carpal Tunnel. 
     The only products he advertises on his site are Tradre Inn and Wintburger. He works out of his conversion van. He writes about his various experiences chasing wind vortices across Tornado Alley. He plugs Wintburgers and the hospitality of the staff at Tradre Inn. There are charts and figures: nutritional analysis of Wintburger's menu, pictures of the famously stocked mini-bars at Tradre Inn. There is color-coded Doppler. There are streaming videos of grinning tornado survivors with sharp objects imbedded in their skulls and torsos. One is of Frank sitting at a Wintburger in Madison County and fisting a double bacon with cheese while off in the distance a tornado is sweeping across the landscape. It is the kind of stuff men who buy Vortex will love to read. 
     Frank's mission statement is this: Wind vortices have a spiritual component to them. What is religion, he says, if not a chase for eternal life. The men who subscribe to my magazine will definitely not want to read this. They want to gawk at half-naked girls. They want articles on beer, guns and how-to-pick-up-chicks. But Frank's idea of a spiritual component to tornados intrigues me.
     Frank revs the engine. It is the signal for me to not get left behind in Tornado Alley. I run back in, climb over Phineas, and settle into my chair. Off in the distance I watch as two cumulonimbus circle each other in the dance of death. Frank guns the engine and the force of the van's acceleration causes me to sit back in my seat. 
     "Anybody up for chasing wind vortices?" Franks asks cheerfully. He had just delivered a speech in Lincoln, Nebraska before picking me up. 
     We all nod except for Phineas, who is sound asleep. His eyes flicker and then close. His nose wrinkles up as he mutters incoherently in his sleep. 
     The van is outfitted with four swiveling leather chairs. The upper half of this van is nearly all tinted glass. Frank sits in the captain's chair chewing on pistachio nuts and gripping the lambskin-covered steering wheel, and then spitting the shells out his window. More often than not these shells fly back and hit me in the face. I don't complain. 
     Rule Number Five: Don't Complain. Frank's storm chasing rules are posted on the inside of his van. 
     I chew on my Wintburger. Truthfully, it is the worst burger I have ever eaten. Frank steps on the gas while pointing out clouds-of-interest on the horizon. 
     Frank wears a blue leather football jacket with the letters WVC (Wind Vortex Chaser) on the breast. On the arm it says Frank in gold, windswept lettering. In addition to this he wears an old leather football helmet from the thirties. Across the crown it says Respect The Tornado. He claims to wear this helmet in order to protect himself from UFP's (unidentified flying projectiles) caused by rogue wind vortices. Painted on either side of his blue leather helmet are matching yellow tornados. 
     In the back of his van is a customized desk on which two laptop computers sit. The first screen flashes color-coded images of bar graphs and pie charts, climate modeling and wind vectors, air mass temperatures and barometric readings. And lots of Doppler. This Doppler covers every sector of Tornado Alley. On the second computer there are still shots of cornfields, grain silos, water towers and flatlands. Frank explains that these are representative sectors of Tornado Alley and an important part of his constituency. He keeps an eye on them in case something big happens. Like a tornado. And Tornado Alley covers a lot of ground. Interestingly enough it has no concrete boundaries. The worst burger joint I've ever eaten in resides squarely within its purview. I've come to view this area more a swathe than an alley. An amorphous slice of middle America. 
     Next to laptop number two clacked a German-made copier, fax, printer, scanner. Frank calls it his Foreign One because it combines all four functions in one machine. It clicks and clacks. It spits and violently sputters. Then it hesitates for a brief moment before endlessly repeating the cycle. Frank says it prints out meteorological data vital to his mission. He also boasts that he can order a Wintburger ahead of time anywhere in Tornado Alley. Wintburgers, he has previously explained, are pre-frozen meat patties warmed-up under ultra-violet light. 
     Atop the van are various weather instruments that whir and spin. There is also a large satellite dish with a phallic-looking thingy in the center. Across the van in bright white lettering it says ALLEY KATZS. Experts in wind velocity studies send data into the van at all hours. Frank's policy is to stop the van every fifteen minutes in order to clear the clutter from the Foreign One. The only exception to this policy is if a killer tornado is bearing down on the van. Then he says to hell with the Foreign One and its tray-filled clutter. I know this because it says so on the RULES posted on the side of the van.
     My leather chair is luxurious. There are armrests and cupholders. Heated seats with infrared massaging components. I can't fault Phineas for snoozing. He is eighty-one years old and on the last leg of his trip that is life. The chairs swivel. I find I can spin a full three-sixty degrees and take in all the bleakness the heartland has to offer. 
     I look over at Phineas. He has the WASPish good looks of an over-the-hill politician. Frank told me he had paid ten thousand dollars to accompany him on this chase. The fee included food and lodging. And although Frank couldn't promise him an authentic wind vector he did guarantee Phineas an autographed black-and-white photo of the two of them squatting in Tornado Alley. 
     Sitting shotgun next to Frank is Destiny. I've been infatuated with her ever since I've come on board. She is gorgeous. Her hair is the color of wheat stalks and it is tied off in pigtails. Her powder blue eyes seem to always sparkle and she reeks of youth and vitality. Oddly, she hasn't spoken a word to anyone since I arrived. She looks no older than sixteen. There's a childlike sweetness about her, the way she beams radiantly at the long road ahead. It seems that chasing violent windstorms throughout god's country has had a beneficial effect on her. Fortunately from where I sit I can stare at her without her knowing. 
      And then there is Frank. Years ago he had quit his day job wholesaling Katz kosher weiners in order to chase tornados. He brags that he's forgotten more about hot dogs than Oscar Meyer ever knew. But tornados are his true calling. Driving endlessly throughout Tornado Alley chasing killer storms in a conversion van. 
      I hold pen in hand and prepare to interview him for the upcoming article I'm writing called Chasing The Big One. The conversion van is now pushing a hundred miles per hour.
     "In the event you want to discuss wind storms with me, please refer to Rule Number Two," Frank says. I look over at the RULES posted on the side of his van. Rule Number Two: Do Not Refer To Violent Funnel Storms As Tornados! 
     "If we are to have a discussion on this matter I'd prefer that you refer to them as wind vortices. Unless, of course, one is on our ass on the horizon. Then you can call them any goddamn thing you want." 
     "Sure thing." 
     "Rule Number One, of course. Respect the wind vortex!" 
     "I'll respect it, Frank," I say, nibbling on the end of my pen. 
     "Why in your brochure do you specifically call yourself a tornado chaser instead of a chaser of wind vortices?" I ask. 
      "Guilty as charged. See red hand? It's in proverbial cookie jar." He takes his hands off the wheel and slaps his left wrist. 
      "Admittedly, wind vortex chaser doesn't have the same bang for its buck as calling myself a tornado chaser. It's not Wind Vortex Alley, after all. Or Supercell Highway. Or even Designated Area of Cyclonic Activity. Please work with me here." 
      "I'll work with you." 
      He pauses to spit a pistachio nutshell out of the window. It flies back through my window and hits me in the eye. I adhere to Rule Number Five and don't complain. 
      "Do you believe tornados to be different from wind vortices?" I ask. 
      "Didn't you read the RULES?" he says angrily. "Rule Number Four: Defer To Frank On Any Subject Related To Wind Vortices." 
      "Sorry. I'll defer to you from now on." 
      "Roger that." 
      "The language of storms is quite important to you." 
      "Language is everything in my business. You don't call a hot dog a sausage. Or a bratwurst. Take this conversion van for example. The goal is to convert people to a new way of thinking. Phineas over there is a perfect example. Sure, he's paying big bucks for this trip. It still took me three hours over the phone before I persuaded the old goat to call them wind vortices instead of tornados. I have to know what I'm selling to my clients and they have to know the kind of nightmare they're buying into." 
       I hold pen in hand but haven't written a thing. 
       "The trick is to seduce them with tornados and have them stagger out of my van muttering 'goddamn wind vortices!'" 
      "Sure but -" 
      "I might say tomato and you may say tomahto. Or I say tornado and you say tornahdo. Let's just agree to disagree. Okay?" He sounds slightly agitated. 
      "Sure, Frank. My bad." 
      "Roger that bad." A gentleman's disagreement. Two men sitting calmly in a conversion van and agreeing to disagree. 
      "No harm done," he says. 
       "Did you know that in some religions you can't even say God's name unless you hit your thumb with a hammer. And then once you say it you've already defined him and then he's not God anymore, he's just some schmuck walking around with a God-like complex." 
       I doodle a heart with an arrow through it and then scribble Destiny's name inside. Frank spits a shell out the window. It flies back and hits me in the Adam's apple. I don't complain. The conversion van is now traveling at a speed of a hundred and seventeen miles per hour. Frank is looking at me in the rearview mirror to see if I'll complain, but I assiduously adhere to Rule Number Five. It appears as if he is daring me to defy his RULES by spitting pistachio nutshells out his window. I brace myself for the next question. I have no notes in front of me, no list of questions to be asked. And I don't know why.
      "Why did you quit your day job, Frank?" 
      "My philosophy is this; a bad day chasing wind vortices is far better than a good day at the office."
       He laughs and steps on the gas. 
       "There's nothing in life that compares to the feeling of chasing a vigorous surface circulation down some dirt paved road in a weighed-down conversion van." He cracks open another shell with his teeth.
       "My whole life has been a continual chase for something or another. When I was in the Navy I was renowned for chasing skirt all over port. See skirt, chase skirt until hand reaching up skirt gets slapped away. What a hound I was, especially after mother ran off with Arty the plumber - the whore! Now look at me. I can't even get it up. Last year I had my prostate removed after they found a growth. Do you know what life is like without a prostrate gland?" 
       I shake my head and color in the border of my heart. I do not care to know about Frank's growth or his missing prostate gland. 
       "I have to stick a needle in my pecker if I want to get hard. Oh, it's not so bad. It only hurts for a few seconds as the needle penetrates the shaft. They say love hurts and now I know what they're talking about. One time I put too much juice in the syringe and wound up with a hard-on for three days. I couldn't sleep for shit and my pecker hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. I counted wind vortices all night. The ole ball-and-chain next to me bitched like hell. Said if she wanted to sleep in a tent she'd go camping in the Ozarks. Mother never would have bitched - the cunt! That mistaken hard-on cost me the chance to see a rare anti-cyclone in Kansas. Not that I didn't try, mind you. I couldn't fit behind the damn steering wheel of my mini-van, which is why I upgraded to a conversion model."
     Rule Number Twelve. Listen To Frank's Stories With Rapt Interest. 
     This is not what I want to hear but I stare ahead with rapt interest anyway and take in the void that is Tornado Alley. The clattering of the Foreign One sputters in my ears. Like clockwork Frank pulls over to the side of the road and clears it of clutter. Up in front I see a striated cloud wall developing on the horizon. It looks particularly menacing. Frank points out the various characteristics in this cloud as the landscape starts to fly past once again. We are now cruising at a speed of a hundred and twenty miles per hour. Destiny doesn't appear to be worried. Her hands are clasped on her smooth-skinned lap and there is a grin on her face that stretches from studded ear to studded ear. 
      I am now more terrified of dying in a fiery conversion van crash than getting swept away in a tornado. 
      I refer back to journalism for support. To put my mind at ease. It is what I know best. Suffice to say, this story is vital to my career as a reporter. I hold pen nervously in hand and prepare to ask another question. 
     "Why chase storms?" 
     "Why chase anything in life? Broads. Stories for dirty magazines. Memories of your mother riding with you on the Cyclone on a hot summer day. Why chase the American dream?" he replies. 
     "Let's analyze what it is we're chasing. For me it is a dream. Every Katz dog I ever sold got me one step closer to chasing funnel clouds. Now some people might say that what I do is a nightmare. And for some people it is." 
     He glares at me in the rearview mirror as if I am a distraction. 
     "Do you know what a nightmare is? It is a subset of a cognitive category called dreams. Freud went into it in much greater detail. Now a dream is not necessarily a nightmare? But a nightmare is most certainly a dream. And one man's nightmare is another man's dream job." 
      I doodle mindlessly. Stick men with hard-ons. Gallows. Funnel clouds. Prescription pills. Bubbles. Frank takes his hands off the wheel to crack open another pistachio nutshell. 
     "Take the American dream. Have you ever known a house to be anything but a nightmare? The pipes burst when you're on vacation. A union hall of carpenter ants decides to raze your house. A doublewide is flattened by a capricious funnel cloud that leaves your neighbor's shithole intact. You want a nightmare, my friend, try getting chased around in a conversion van by a monster cyclone that could rip you a new asshole." 
     "But I thought you chased them?" 
     "I do. But sometimes you chase them and sometimes they chase you. The tables can turn on you in a heartbeat. And trust me, you haven't been truly scared until you've had a Fujita five on your ass and a conversion van filled with Japanese tourists shouting at you in their native tongue to go faster." 
     "Holy cow!" 
     "The point here is this!" he says, banging the steering wheel in anger. "I find wind vortices to be one of God's most beautiful creations. Got that? And I want to spread the gospel." 
      The shell of a pistachio nut unrepentantly hits me in the eye. I cuss angrily and Frank warns me about my language and refers me to Rule Number Nine. Rule Number Nine: You Are Only Allowed To Cuss In The Event Of An F3 Or Greater.
     We drive through most of Kansas. Over a thousand miles in the course of a day. We see one supercell develop but it dissolves quickly into the atmosphere. Frank calls the day a success. Chasing wind vortices, he explains, is monotonous and boring work. But the pay-off is worth it in the end. 
     Phineas awakens as we arrive at our lodging for the night, which just so happens to be a Tradre Inn. He complains how tired he is from chasing wind vortices throughout Wind Vortex Alley. Outside, Frank apologizes profusely for the accommodations. He has contractual obligations with Tradre Inn which can't be broken. No problem, I say. As long as I have a bed to sleep in. And the mini-bars are renowned for their selection. He mutters angrily to himself as I gather my bags and head towards the lobby. 
      Once in my room I write in my laptop. I read Vortex for the articles on how-to-pick-up-chicks. A little while later I raid the mini-bar. I long for a Tryst, one of those hip vodka drinks that are served in all the fancy Manhattan nightclubs. But all there is is Porcelain Schnaaps. I grab three nips and lay in bed. In less than twelve hours I know I will be back on the road, cruising at a hundred and twenty miles an hour in search of killer funnel clouds. I gulp them down in rapid succession. They taste horrible but I don't complain. I am terrified beyond belief. I can't bare the thought of Destiny rejecting me in that conversion van.

** Day Two ** Day Three