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Tornado Alley
serious serialized fiction by Joe Souza

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** Day Two **

     We get up early. Frank drives to Wintburger for breakfast. Wintburgers, I learn, are ubiquitous up and down Tornado Alley. Frank is of the opinion that the Nebraska chain serves the tastiest fries, although I can't tell the difference from one crappy restaurant to the next. Hung throughout this joint are various pictures of tornados racing across the Kansas landscape. A plaque near the men's room explains that this particular location was leveled by a F3 funnel cloud in 1978. Another tells me it was rebuilt the following year. Outside it is dark. Frank mutters something about a warm front moving in.
    I sit with Destiny. She eats quietly and with economy of motion. In her hands is a meat and egg concoction wedged between flaps of biscuit. Between each nibble she pours imitation Vermont maple syrup on her next bite. Her nails are green, long and razor sharp. On each one a yellow tornado has been painted.
     Biskitnado is what the concoction between her fingers is called.
     My head hurts. I struck it against the mini-bar last night after too many shots of Porcelain Schnapps. I couldn't sleep. I lay in bed all night and watched as my room spun around. Along with the vertigo I suffer it wasn't a pretty sight. By the time the room ceased spinning it was morning and Frank was pounding on my door and asking me in a hostile manner whether or not I wanted to go chase wind vortices with them.
     Destiny takes mini-bites. She gets lovelier by the second. Her mini-bites are more like micro-nibbles. Her mouth is closed and she chews her food in tight, circular motions. Her chewing is more like mini-chews. She looks down at the table when she chews. It's as if she is staring at a cute little bug. Between the plexiglass and oak table are photos of tornados that have ravished the area. Next to them are news clippings. I read with interest about body counts, damage assessments, missing cattle and crop losses. Destiny looks up when she swallows. The ceiling has been painted as the Sistine Chapel. The only difference is that in this one the old man is reaching out to touch a tornado. Destiny doesn't look at me, which means that I can stare at her at will. I wolf down my hash-burnt and funnel cakes. My Wintachino isn't half-bad. It tastes like scorched sugar water.
     Frank sits with Phineas three tables away as Phineas pops pill after pill in rapid succession. He looks especially dapper today in his red bow tie and white leisure suit. His hair is silver with purple hues and it makes him look very distinguished. Frank sees me staring and waves me over, but I don't want to go. I'm mesmerized watching Destiny. I would be all too happy to sit here and watch her pour imitation Vermont maple syrup on her next bite of Biskitnado. But for the good of my story - my career in journalism - I gather up my hash-burnt and cup of Wintachino and saunter over to them, pen in hand, ready to interview.
     "Sleep well?" Frank asks.
     "Never better," I lie. "You?"
     "Like a log."
     "A log?" Phineas says. "Did you know that the deforestation of our lands is the silent holocaust of our generation. Now the Scotties have it right. They hold them up as idols. They have this tradition in their country whereby they hold them down by their McWeasels and heave them long distances."
     "Roger that," Frank says.
     "Wasn't that wonderful yesterday," Phineas says to me, grabbing my hands in his wrinkled own. "I can honestly say that I've never felt so alive in my life as I did chasing wind vortices with you fellows. Did you know that it was Frank who broke me of the terrible habit of saying tornados."
I smile and pry my hands loose; I don't like to be touched. I look over at Destiny, who is now looking up at the ceiling and beaming radiantly.
     "Before we get going here there's one thing I need to ask you?" Frank asks me. "Have you any insurance?"
     "Insurance?"
     "Roger that. Life? Auto? Term? Home or health? Any old kind should do. I'm required to ask you. You must sign a form. Any old form should do. Releasing me from all liability should you get injured chasing wind vortices. Because one must recognize the inherent risks of chasing storms across Wind Vortex Alley."
     "I might have renters," I say.
     "Renters should do."
I don't want to admit to Frank that we are more liable to die in a fiery van crash than in a tornado.
     "Here," he says, passing me a napkin. "Sign this release form releasing me from all responsibility should you get swept away by a wind vortex or impaled against a sharp object. Or get sick and die from eating a tainted Wintburger. Or get drunk in your room and hit your head against the mini-bar at a Tradre Inn. Possibly get beaten to death by a fellow chaser for not strictly adhering to the RULES. I myself am covered under a broad umbrella ranging from health to legal coverage. This plan I subscribe to allows me to die anywhere in the contiguous U.S. for pennies on the dollar. So you'll have to forgive me if I abruptly stop at the border while chasing a monster funnel storm. Work with me here, people."
     "Oh, we'll work with you, Frank," Phineas says. "But do tell more about this wonderful plan you have."
     "Roger. Covers casket or cremation, whichever option I so desire. All costs associated with my croaking have been taken care of. My wife calls me a cheap bastard but I call it planning for the future."
     "Precisely," Phineas says, clapping his hands together. I sign the release form, which doubles as Frank's napkin. "One can never do enough planning for one's future. Is this plan available to the general public?"
     "I'm sorry, Phineas, but it is a special group plan designed specifically with storm chasers in mind. If in the event you decide to take it up as a vocation someday I'll certainly refer you to my man. Because there's a bright future chasing wind vortices across Wind Vortex Alley. Experts in career counseling estimate that with global warming on the rise there'll be a dramatic rise in wind vortices accompanied by a drastic shortage of qualified chasers."
     "Oh no, but thank you. I'm quite happy rocking away in my rocking chair, passing the days. After selling vacuum cleaners for sixty-one years a man is deserving of his rocker." Phineas pops a little green pill in his mouth. "No, I'll leave the wind vortex chasing to you younger fellows."
     We head outside. The air is warm and muggy. We file into the conversion van one by one. When we're settled Frank burns rubber out of the parking lot. Behind us the restaurant is covered in swirling dust and debris, and I can see Wintburger employees holding their striped hats and running for cover, terror in their eyes, preparing wall space for commemorative plaques and making room under glass tops for related news clippings. Wintburger employees, Frank has mentioned, are highly trained in crisis management and are constantly on the lookout for killer storms.
     Above us the skies roil. I look over at the speedometer. In less than six seconds Frank has gone from zero to seventy. I feel like vomiting. I hold my pen shakily in hand and try to think of a question to ask him. But then a shrapnel of pistachio nutshells fly back through the window and hits me in the throat. I don't complain.
     The sun comes up in the heart of Kansas. The skies here seem bluer than anywhere else in Tornado Alley. They are ribbed with innocuous cirrus clouds. Out of nowhere Frank lectures us in a stern tone that wind vortices are highly volatile storms that can race across the landscape at up to forty miles an hour and wreak death and destruction throughout the heartland. There may be a pop quiz on it later, he explains.
     We drive in silence for the next three hours.
     Frank stops every fifteen minutes to clear the Foreign One of clutter. Upon pulling it out he promptly throws it into a plastic trash bag. Then he climbs back in his seat and accelerates.
We're now creeping along at eighty miles an hour. Phineas is asleep and Destiny is staring radiantly at the road ahead.
     "So, you have a wife or significant other back in New York?" Frank asks me. "A 'partner' in a Tribeca penthouse that makes your zipper burst?" He takes his hands off the wheel and makes quotation marks with his fingers, and then laughs.
     "I did have a girlfriend but we split up."
     "So sad," he says, making a mock sad face in the rearview mirror and swiveling his fists under his eyes.
     "She left me for another writer. A few weeks later I find out that he was a writer on our staff. He writes mostly about guns, but every so often he writes these brilliant pieces on how-to-pick-up-chicks."
     "Roger that chick stuff. Because it nearly killed me when mother eloped with Arty the plumber - the whore! When I was a child we used to go down to the amusement park every day in the summer and eat hot dogs and then ride the Cyclone, and then barf-up the hot dogs we had just eaten," says Frank, his face now turning nostalgic. "When my father died in that tragic tractor mishap, mother and I took to sleeping in the same bed until I left for the Navy."
     "This girl and I had been dating for only a few months, Frank, but it seemed as if we had known each other our entire lives," I say, noticing that Frank has a pen in hand and looks as if he's ready to conduct an interview. "It just crushed me when we broke-up."
     "Like father and his tractor mishap," he says wistfully. "Then mother had to go and marry this schmuck plumber from loserville while I was busy bombing Charlie off the Gulf of Tonkin. That's the thanks I get. Sent me one of those Dear John letters, only it was addressed to Frank. I couldn't look at another skirt for weeks after that letter. Of course I was stuck on a ship in the middle of the Tonkin Gulf bombing the shit outta Charlie."
     "This girl broke up with me in a bubble bar. Are you familiar with bubble bars, Frank?" He nods his head. "It's one of these trendy clubs where they fill the entire room with bubbles. You can buy drinks and even dance in the stuff."
     "My wife once taught me how to naughty dance," exclaims Phineas, suddenly waking. "Sometimes, after we made monkey love for hours on end, she'd take a soothing bubble bath and listen to Liberace."
     "Bitch burst your bubble so to speak," Frank says to me. "Just like mother did with Arty the plumber - the cunt! Crushed my spirit just like that John Deere crushed dad."
     "She said that it was her and not me, and that I was a really nice guy. She wanted to remain friends with me, which we are to this day. Then she admitted that she'd been seeing someone else behind my back and that he was well endowed."
     "Just like Arty - that cocksucker!"
     "Come to find out it was this other writer on our staff. I hardly knew him except to pass him in the hallway and ignore him. His specialty was guns, but every now and then he would write this brilliant piece on how-to-pick-up-chicks. His big thing was that size matters in a relationship."
     "Guy knows his stuff," Frank says, obviously impressed. "Boy, you must have felt like a complete jackass."
     "Sure, but what was I to do? I couldn't intimidate him, he being an expert on guns," I say. "Since then I've spoken to her once, and that was only to warn me to stay away from her."
     "At least mother kept in contact with me after she ran off with Arty the plumber - the slut! In her Dear Frank letter she told me how Arty had some major plumbing of his own downstairs and that it satisfied her current needs quite nicely." He let out a low whistle. "So I bet you went home and tied a noose onto your chandelier."
     "Chandelier? Oh no, Frank, I live in a two-hundred square foot apartment that cost an arm and a leg."
     "Okay. Held a razor to your wrists. Maybe stuck a twenty-two against your temple and debated cashing in."
     "I do not write about guns," I say, raising my voice and pointing a finger at him. I have this thing about firearms and being touched. Just then a pistachio nutshell flies back and hits me in the Adam's apple.
     "Better yet, you went to her apartment and waited all day for her to show up. Just like I did after coming home from carpet-bombing Charlie."
     "That's how I met my wife," Phineas says. "Hung out in front of her apartment for weeks at a time, refusing to take no for an answer. Then at night I went around threatening her beaus with a pistol. Today they call it stalking. Poppycock! I call it good old fashioned courting, especially when your girl is flashing her titties every night in front of a squadron of horny sailors. We've been together sixty-one years now thanks to that gun."
     "What a weenie," Frank says, shaking his head.
Another pistachio nut hits me in the mouth. I look over at Destiny and see her smiling at the road ahead. My lip hurts. It is bleeding and swelled. No one said interviewing Frank would be easy. Or writing for a men's magazine. Or the distinct possibility that soon I might be writing articles on how-to-pick-up-chicks.
     "So tell me, Weenie. Why did you try to kill yourself?"
     "It was an accidental overdose, Frank."
     "Nothing accidental about eighty-seven valiums."
     "How did you know about that?"
He screeches the van to a halt and then turns angrily to face me.
     "Do you think I'm going to let just any old jack-off ride with me through Wind Vortex Alley? This is my livelihood, man. My dream job! Are you going to work with me here or not?"
     "Of course I am, Frank."
     "Then please refer to Rule Number Five," he says, pointing to his RULES. "Goddamn you're a pathetic weenie of a man."
Destiny flips her hair back on her shoulder and stares blankly ahead.
     "Is it true, Weenie, that your job depends on this story?"
     "Yes."
     "Than I have a responsibility to you. To root out the Big One and turn you into a man. A Fujita Six level storm. Just because you're a goddamn weenie doesn't mean I shouldn't help you."
     "Much obliged, Frank."
     "Besides, I want to watch you cry like a little baby when that funnel cloud touches down."
     "But from what I read on your website there has never been a Fujita Six funnel cloud."
     "What does a weenie like you know about wind vortices, anyway," he says, spitting a pistachio shell out his window, which flies back and hits me in the face, causing a gash to appear under my eye. I dab at it with a napkin. Blood is everywhere. I don't complain, because at least Frank's trying to assist my career.
     We drive around all morning looking for supercells. At lunch we stop at a Wintburger. Frank apologizes profusely for the inconvenience; he is under strict contractual obligations. We stop there for dinner as well and he explains how happy he is at the progress we're making. Everything is going according to plan. Finding the right wind vortex for the right person is precision work, he says. He also says that a bad day chasing wind vortices is far better than the best day at the office.
Destiny sits with me at each meal. Or I sit with her. Between the glass covering and faux rustic wooden tabletop there are news clippings and photos of tornados that have decimated the area. Near the salad bar there is a plaque indicating that this Wintburger was destroyed in 1985 by an F4 event. Then rebuilt the following year.
     I don't think Destiny realizes yet how infatuated I am with her. It's as if we've known each other our entire lives. Her green nail polish is starting to fade, and the yellow tornados are dissipating into the cuticle. As usual Frank sits with Phineas three tables away. They look over from time to time, and laugh hysterically. At every meal Phineas empties his rainbow of pharmaceuticals onto the table. The pills, he has claimed, are his meal ticket to continued health and sexual longevity. They at least look more appetizing than the BLT packed in my hands (bacon, lettuce and tornadowurst).
After a day of futile chasing we crash at a Tradre Inn for the night. Frank looks me in the eye (and he looks as if he's about to cry) and apologizes profusely for the accommodations. I tell him not to worry, that I'm aware of his contractual agreement with Tradre Inn and that their rooms are fine by me. He then rips into me, lecturing in detail about the sorry state of their accommodations. When he's finished with this tirade he demands that I cease and desist from all my complaining or else he will leave me behind in Wind Vortex Alley. He has speeches to make and people to see. I sprint up to my room, open the mini-bar, and start consuming copious amounts of Porcelain Schnapps.
      I desperately need a Fujita Six level storm. So I don't have to write about how-to-pick-up-chicks. Or guns. Or beer.
      I try to cry myself to sleep. I'm alone and lonely. I pass out next to the mini-bar on account of all the Porcelain Schnapps I have consumed, unable to face the prospect of tomorrow's breakfast. Sometime later I lift my sorry self up off the floor. The room is spinning like some terrible saucer ride down at the amusement park. I hold onto the mini-bar with a death grip until I can't hold on any more.

** Day One **  Day Three