The Soupster helps rename Autumn.
“Wet enough for ya’?” the Soupster asked his friend, Rex Havick, who was shaking off rainwater like a dog in the mudroom, before hanging his slicker on a peg.
“It’s water torture,” Rex countered, as he stepped into the house. “One drip is fine, but a billion’ll drive you crazy.”
“I like the sound of the rain,” said the Soupster. “Remember our culture’s brief flirtation with negative ion generators?”
“Negative ions,” said Rex, “that are produced by things like waterfalls, rainbows and whiskers on kittens.”
“You remember the song!” said a delighted Soupster. “Hey, Rex, come over here by the window and sit down.”
The large window faced the ocean, wild that day, churning and absorbing the billions of gallons of rainwater. The two humans stood transfixed at the flurry of whitecaps whipped by the wind, but the ocean was unimpressed. “Meh,” it said.
The Soupster cranked open the window and bid Rex sit down in the wicker chair by the table with the potted calendula. “Shhhh,” he said, as Rex took his seat. The Soupster sat beneath the philodendron.
Outside the window was a porch covered with stiff, thin fiberglass panels. The rain hitting the porch roof sounded like a high-medium tom-tom drum, which varied in speed and pitch with the size of the raindrops and the velocity they were falling at.
“Cool, huh?” said the Soupster.
“Very negative ion,” said Rex and the two men lapsed into silence.
A passing squall kicked up the volume and speed of the downpour and Rex grunted with appreciation. The amount of rain overwhelmed the gutters of the Soupster’s house and water fell like a curtain from the edge of the porch roof. The men had to raise their voices a little to be heard.
“So much water,” said the Soupster. “Meanwhile, my friends tell me the drought is so bad where they live, people are painting their burned lawns green.”
“Like everything else, those that got enough already, get more,” Rex said, “and those without don’t,”
“Why is that?” asked the Soupster, but Rex’s answer was drowned out as the rain fell even harder and even faster and much, much, louder.
“Rain like this can’t just be falling,” said Rex, “it’s got some kind of propulsion behind it. They call the season Fall, but they really ought to be calling it “Throwing it at us.”
“What?” asked the Soupster over the din.
“I said they should call the season “Throwing it at us!” yelled Rex.
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