During the week that I arrived, Saint Louis was suffering from record temperatures and a thick, foamy air that begs you to wonder if you’re suffocating. Within days though, rain and wind came from the west, from Kansas. It arrived without warning. Here the skies are hazy, and the buildings and trees are tall. One cannot see a high plains squall gathering itself counties away as is customary back home. It emerges from the white, sticky deep beyond the suburbs.
When the great wall cloud finally came, I was walking beneath the tall building that dwarfs my new neighborhood, the Chase Park Plaza. The structure was high enough to be surrounded and enveloped by the racing storm, which looked surprisingly fast and dangerous against the hotel’s idle stature. Combined with the appropriately erie accompaniment that was coincidentally supplied by my reality-altering iPod, I was certain that either God or Satan was angry, and in charge.
On and off for days, it has rained gorgeous and cool. Orange, pink, and blue to my thirsty delight. At times it has come down in pool-loads, and at others, it has been nothing more than a tangible humidity falling. In the meantime, I discovered secrets of my air-conditioning unit that had been previously untapped. On several occasions I visited a karaoke bar in South City that is frequented by just the sort of people that one would associate with the state of Missouri, complete with a bartender that has given me more free drinks than the citizens of Lawrence combined. I hung the horns, the guns, the Stetson, and rediscovered the quiet fact that home is a state of heart and mind.
Last night, a quarter-hour before last call, a quarter-ton woman attempted to sing This Used to Be My Playground while I stared toward the corner, across and above a table of new friends, where a rodeo that had kept my attention all night beamed silently above the dart board. I became temporarily overwhelmed by that unique feeling that arises when dangerous doses of excitement and sadness are allowed to coexist in the same fragile vial. I smiled without smiling and thought of my small but growing life in Missouri the way I do storms. I was thankful and in awe, but had I been forced to speak I’d of choked forth the words my mind often breathes when I’m getting something unexpectedly good. It’s not enough, I thought, ready to encounter and endure the white hot fizz that would engulf the endless city soon enough.