one rainy night, soon

I would like to begin this blog post by blaming my friend, Dr. Bryski (who is a very clever writer --check out her novel, Book of Birds, if you haven't already!). I was talking to her, and --as happens often when I talk to her --she made me have an idea. All her fault. So if you hate this, blame her. But if you like it, I may have had a little something to do with it ...

Using the present tense is a thing now in writing. I'm used to good old traditional past tense with lots of -ed markers at the ends of verbs. Present tense? That's for poetry! Forget that. Harrumph. Who wants immediacy in their prose? 

Apparently lots of people, because it's being done a lot and quite successfully. As someone who writes both prose and poetry, I actually have no problem with it --I've just never thought to try it. I am going to try using it this weekend, however, in a story I've been wrestling with. 

I was discussing this with Dr. Bryski, and somehow, in the course of conversation, she dared me to write something in second person in the future tense. Or, I took it as a dare, as she is a very threatening kind of person with fangs who likes to challenge her friends to all sorts of wackiness.

If you're a writer, play with verb tense. Play with point of view.  Play with your narrator(s). Play with words. Play. Way too much serious stuff going on right now in the world. You're not hurting anything by trying something new. It is a nice diversion, to be honest --that's what I've found.

Here it is. Fewer than 500 words, so it should be pretty painless.

One Rainy Night, Soon.

 

You will meet me on a rainy night, when the streets shine in the lamplight. You’ll be walking the route you always walk: a right onto Emerson, down two blocks, a left onto Yale. Your umbrella will keep you dry, but not warm --that’s too much to ask for in October. You will huddle into your raincoat and curse yourself lightly for thinking it’s too early in the season for a hat or gloves.

You won’t notice me at first because I’m not at eye level. You’ll see the outline of a form on a stoop and think nothing of it. Who sees huddled forms in the low shadows on a rainy night? You will hear me before you see me.

Sobs will reach your ears, in between the scratchy passing of cars. You will look around to localize the sound, and you’ll be blinded as you scan between the bright lamplight and the night. Your pupils will adjust to the dark --only when they’ve grown large and eager will you perceive me shuddering on the steps.

Sadness, you will think, forgetting the cold momentarily.

But the cold will creep back in when you realize that you don’t know the cause of my misery, you don’t know me. You will feel powerless to help.

You will hesitate. Your instinct will be to comfort me, but endless horror stories (some true, most not) have taught you to ignore your instincts. You will stand there, shifting your weight, wondering which way to move. Continue walking? Approach me? You will sway forward, then turn towards me, then forward again.

I’m gonna get grabbed. Forward.

I’d want someone to help me. Back.

This dance will continue for a few seconds while droplets tap out a steady rhythm on your umbrella. Finally, you’ll arrive at a compromise.

“Hello,” you will call from your safe distance on the sidewalk. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you’ll hear in response, my words torn from me like wailing babies during a complicated birth.

You’ll hesitate again. You will waver on uncertain legs.

“You don’t sound fine,” you’ll say eventually. “Is there anything I can do?”

Inside, you'll hope I will say no because you are afraid of what I will ask for. You'll hope I will say no because it’s cold and you’re tired and you want to go home.

I won’t say no.

…

Several hours later, rain will slide down the windows of the coffee shop as we continue talking. You will make a joke about investment bankers and chuckle. I’ll smile for the first time since you’ve known me. You will take a sip of coffee, the mug sitting warm in your hands, and you’ll smile at me.

 
“How you doing?” you’ll ask.

“I’m fine,” you’ll hear me answer without the thick voice that chokes back tears. I will sound like I mean the words this time.

 
And on that rainy night in October, you will save my life.