Fantastic Story

Dominik Lenarčič

Acid Raindrops

Through the windshield I look into the pocket of the grey sky trapped between the skyscrapers. Yesterday’s forecast predicted heavy showers for today. I look across the endless street. I must go or else I’ll be late at the postal service again. A coworker once asked me in jest if I run late to work on purpose. I don’t know, maybe I do. Maybe I am trying to sabotage myself.

I mustn’t. I need this job. I need to pay off that infernal loan. On the street I already see people going about their morning errands. I think I’ll join them. I turn the key. The sleepy Toyota starts to grumble mechanically. A blunt sound. A big raindrop fell on the windshield. The car is still resisting. Suddenly I hear sizzling. It’s as if someone is cooking eggs. I look closely at the wet trail on the windshield. The glass has started to melt.

“What in the?”

Now a second drop falls. And a third. And a fourth. Who’s pouring acid onto my car?! It occurs to me that this might not be a real acid. The showers have begun. Kicking, I try to get out of the car. Drops start falling faster. Now the entire windshield has started melting. Finally, I open the door. I put my foot on the sidewalk. I take a leap and run back into the apartment. Now that I’m inside, I feel a sharp pain in my shoulder. A drop has made a hole in my coat and made a light-red stain. It stings. Outside, I hear screams.

The window in my apartment overlooks the road below. Chaos has erupted in the street. Panicking, people run back and forth, looking for shelter. They scream. One man collapses in agony on the asphalt. The look on his face makes my stomach churn. I take a look at my car. The windshield is one big sizzling mess. The color has started to melt off the roof. I feel an ache in my shoulder.

Then my phone rings. On the screen appears the name of my boss.

“Hello?”

“Warren, where the hell are you?”

“Sir, I’m sorry, but I can’t make it to work today.”

“What do you mean you can’t? What has gotten into you?”

“Sir, can’t you see what’s happening outside?!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Warren.”

The pain becomes unbearable.

“What do you mean you don’t know?! Are you blind?! Look out the window! It’s a literal acid rai-”

“Don’t you talk to me like that, young man! Come here at once!”

“I can’t.”

“Do you want to lose your job?”

I stiffen at the question. My boss knows where to aim. I stutter something in response.

“Of course you don’t. Where else are you going to go?”

He falls silent for a moment. A lump in my throat won’t let me speak.

“Warren, I’m giving you one hour to get your ass here. If you’re not here by then, you’re done. Understand?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“I don’t care if there’s rain, snow, hail or acid, I demand that you arrive to work on time.”

He falls silent again.

“See you, Warren.”

End of conversation. I feel sick.

I knock on my neighbor’s door and try to keep the pain in check. I hope old Johnston still has that army helmet.

“John, are you there?”

I get no response. I come in anyway. I find the old man at the wide window. He is welded in his place.

“John?”

He is still staring through the window. I step towards him.

“Hey, John!”

I gently shake my elderly neighbor. He finally wakes from his trance and looks at me.

“John, do you maybe still have that helmet?”

The old man asks me: “What are you going to do with it?”

“I’m going to work.”

“Are you crazy? The apocalypse is looming outside and you’re springing into action?”

“I mustn’t lose my income. I mustn’t.”

My words silence him. I know he understands my predicament. I also know he won’t argue with me for long.

“Top drawer. You don’t need to return it.”

He says this, then turns back towards the window. I thank my neighbor quietly. He continues to gaze through the window.

On top of the stairs, I realize I no longer feel the pain in my shoulder. Whether that’s good or bad, I don’t know. Slowly I begin to descend. Every individual step squeak to try to tell me this is a bad idea. I am not moved by their warnings. I have to go to work.

Now I stand before the apartment door. I put my neighbor’s helmet on my head. I cover my body with the thickest coat I have. I put skiing gloves on my hands. I breathe in, step through the door… and breathe out. I’m on the doorstep. The balcony over my head protects me from the rain. Opposite of me lies the fallen man. I better not look into his face. From my shelter I can study the state of my Toyota. The acid has completely washed off the black paint off the roof. The windshield is still sizzling. No matter, I’ll look through the window while I drive. I see the rain has also melted the tires. I’ll drive on the rims, then. Whatever, I need to get to work urgently. I try to gather courage. A few steps and I’ll be at the car. I’ll have to open the door quickly and carefully; the handle is completely covered in acid. My arms and legs are ready. I take up the starting position. It’s time for the shortest sprint of my life.

A whistling sound disrupts my concentration. A man passes me. He has no protective clothing on him, just a hat and a light coat. Not much is left of them, the rain has ripped apart the fabric and touched the skin. His wounds are smoldering. The smell is intolerable. The sight itself is intolerable. And yet the man walks upright and whistles to himself. Suddenly, he starts to sing a B. J. Thomas song:

"Raindrops keep falling on my head

but that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turning red

crying's not for me

'cause

i'm never gonna stop the rain by complaining."

I look back at him. The man and his melody disappear into the endless street.