Rain Must Fall

Swirling toward the marsh, I see it coming.

I don't know if I have time to venture out of Randy's Country Store, make it to my car, and dash home before the deluge arrives.

But if I wait it out, who knows how long I'll be trapped here.  And one thing I knew about Randy's place....it has some really crappy magazines.  Guns 'n' Ammo, Fishing magazines, Redneck joke books, nothing of even the slightest appeal.

My Smart phone was in the car.  Not smart of me to leave it there, huh?

"Look, Mr. Boston, it's a-fixin' to come up a gully washer!" exclaims Randy, standing next to me, looking out the big plate glass window.  Randy is a tall, rail thin man in his thirties, with a full Duck Dynasty beard.

"Ah-yah," I affirm.  My name is Sam Ralston, but the locals called me Mt. Boston because of my thick Massachusetts accent.  I didn't care enough about it to try and stop them.  I look up at Randy (short, stocky fellow that I am) and muse, "I wonder if I-ah should make a dash for it."

"It's a-comin' fast.  I'd stay here.  I'll give yuh a free Coke and a Moon Pie," offers Randy.

Yes.  The exquisite height of Georgia cuisine. "Thanks, Randy,but I'll pass on the pop 'n' pie."

Dozzie Gipson pulls up in her aging Jeep Cherokee.  The rain starts to spit sprinkles. Dozzie cracks her door and hesitates getting out.  Her bare feet and legs stick out of the open door.  Her legs are finely shaped, taut and muscular, her toes painted a deep red.  I let out a sigh.  Randy smiles slyly at me.  My sweetness for her has been inadvertently revealed.

Dozzie leaves her car, treks across the parking lot to Randy's.  She is a true Southern gem, all short shorts and halter top, long platinum blonde hair and sassy blue eyes.  She smolders so much,  you think rain would evaporate when it hit her.

The wind howls and the rain picks up.  Lightning hits right behind Dozzie, and knocks her to the ground.

"Oh, Lord, Mr. Boston," Randy squeals.  "She done been hit!"

I do not hesitate.  I do not stop, I do not think about it.  I run our of the store, into the deluge, and I go right to her.  I help her up and say, "Ma'am, are you all right?"

She looks up at me, her hero, her rescuer.  She puzzles at me, as if the bolt has amnesiaed her. She speaks!  "Git yore hands offa me, you Yankee perv!"

She pushes me aside and puddle-paddles towards the store, her red toes flashing in the the water.  "Randy, I better have not gone through this for nothing!  I want a Blue moon on th' house, pronto!"

I stand in the rain, thunder still rattling nearby.  The deluge is biblical.

I am all wet.

I am as wet as I have ever been.