Alan Myerson vs. The Wind

© 1999 Larry Letemplier
All rights reserved.

What a bum day, Alan thought as he gazed out the living-room window at the drifting snow. He could barely make out the Johnsons' house, only thirty feet on the other side of his yard.

The storm had erupted just before noon and had forced Alan to close his hardware store and return home. He'd spent a couple of hours gulping beer and sitting in front of his computer chatting on the Internet with a lonely widow named Cora. A childless widower himself, Alan knew loneliness only too well. Before they ended their chat, Alan and Cora added each other to their contact lists.

Alan watched TV until he had consumed the last of his beer. There were no programs of interest on and he had only sat in front of the TV for the past hour because he'd had the beer to soothe his nerves. Finally he shut off the TV and paced the floor until he was nearly to the brink of kicking out at the furniture.

"Goddamn weather," he mumbled to himself. He strode to the hall closet, took down his parka and thermal snow pants, and put them on, along with his Sorel boots. He was in the middle of inventory at the store. He would get himself back there and get some work done and kill boring time in the process.

The second Alan opened the door, the raging wind nearly ripped it out of his hand. He had to lean his six-foot, one hundred ninety-pounds frame against the door to close it behind him.

Alan turned his head away from the wind and plodded down his driveway, past his car, which would be of no use today, for he could barely see ten feet in front of himself. He passed the Martins, who lived in the house across the road from his, and continued up the hill at the back of town; a shortcut to his store. He came down the slope where it met with the now icy cove.

Alan decided he hated the wind. He supposed he always had, moreso in winter when it kicked up a storm and deprived him of business.

"Mr. Wind," Alan shouted, "you sure screwed up my day!"

Suddenly, he thought he heard a shrieking scream, and Alan envisioned a lost soul crying out from the depths of hell. He whirled. Something slammed into his back and almost knocked him forward into the snow. He spun back around again and saw nothing. It was as if he were the only living soul surrounded by a vast white wall.

Only the wind, he cautioned himself. It's showing off its strength and invincibility. He imagined that the wind knew he despised it, and it was now doing all it could to prevent him from reaching his destination.

His ankles sank in the snow as he plodded on, his head lowered away from the stinging snow. From the last house he'd passed on the back of town, Alan knew that his store was northwest of there, which was about five minutes' walk ahead of him. Any diversion to the west at all would lead him to where the cove gave way to the open, menacing waters of the bay.

He should almost be there now, he thought. He shielded his eyes with his hands and looked for the blue vinyl-covered structure that was his store. All he could see was a wall of white.

He plodded a few feet farther and made out something. A structure. His store? No, too small to be the store. He trudged forward. When he drew up beside it, he realized it was the fish shed on Fisherman's Point. He was near the rock cliff overlooking the ocean. He had been diverted a little west. Luckily, not enough to have passed the shed and meet the edge of the rock cliff. If not for the howling wind, he would have heard the sea crashing against the rocks.

You have your bearings, he told himself. He knew as certain as he was there that his store was about five minutes directly to his right. He would catch his breath before going on.

He leaned against the fish shed and giggled proudly.

That night Alan sat on the living-room sofa, a beer in his hand, watching Unsolved Mysteries on TV. The wind hurled snow at the living-room window from the snowbank a few feet away, where Alan's yard divided his property from the Johnsons'.

Alan had just started on his fourth beer when he heard a knock on his door. Who could be calling on him in this kind of weather? he wondered. He rarely got any callers when the weather was fit for visitors. Maybe it was Carl Johnson, he thought, though the man had never visited Alan's house before. Their only communication was a hello or a few comments from their own sides of the yard. Then a smile crept around Alan's lips. Maybe it was Mrs. Johnson. For a mother of three whom Alan estimated to be in her mid-forties, she was quite a dish.

A knock on the door again. Alan got to his feet and checked his watch. 11:45 p.m. Maybe something was wrong at the Johnsons' house. He strode down the hall and opened the front door. A swirl of snow dampened his eyes and face. There was no living soul on his doorstep. He slammed the door shut.

What he had mistaken for a knock must have been the wind blowing loose snow at the door, Alan surmised. He started back toward the living room and stopped abruptly. There was a pounding at his door.

"Goddamn," Alan muttered. Loose snow couldn't create that kind of commotion.

He hurried back and plucked open the door. This time a huge swirl of snow struck him as if it had been thrown by a human hand. Still, there was no living soul on his doorstep. He was about to fling the door shut when he heard his name called out from the invisible world below his doorstep. He listened intently, but the howling wind drowned out any other possible sound that might be uttered.

The wind is taunting you, Alan warned himself. You beat it today and it doesn't like that.

He thought he heard a laughter bearing in on him, getting closer to his open door. He flung the door shut and turned the bolt in the doorknob, locking it. He hurried back to the living room, turned up the TV volume, and gulped his beer while the pounding at his door continued, at intervals, until the wee hours in the morning.

Alan drank himself to sleep and awoke on the sofa at 6:45 a.m., still dressed. There was a strange quiet, marred slightly by the dripping faucet in the kitchen sink, and he realized that the wind had finally calmed down. He got to his feet, rubbed his sleepy eyes, and went over to the window. The bank of snow had formed a pyramid and blotted out most of the Johnsons' house, except the roof.

Alan showered, shaved, and got into fresh clothes. After a breakfast of two cups of coffee and two slices of toast smothered in marmalade jam, he started out the door.

His car was a blanket of white and there was a four-foot bank of snow behind it. Alan went to the tool shed, got the shovel, and dug the snow away. When he returned home that evening, he would get out the snowblower and clear the whole driveway and yard.

He arrived at the hardware store and had to get the shovel out of the trunk and dig a passable path up to the door.

Business that day was slow. He counted only nine customers from opening until closing. Alan guessed that people were likely busy at home digging themselves out after the storm. Four of his sales that day had been shovels.

At home that evening, Alan put a frozen chicken dinner in the oven and drank a beer while he chatted on the Internet with Cora. After the supper meal, as planned, he concluded the night chatting on the telephone with her.

Alan awoke with a start. His eyes scanned the darkened room and stopped on the glowing red digits that read 6:54 on the clock radio.

His head snapped around, startled by the rapping at his window. A chill ran through him. He put his bare feet down on the carpeted floor and trudged across the room toward the window. When he reached it, he took a deep breath and slowly pulled up the vinyl curtain. He saw only a white flutter of snow outside his window. What did you expect to see? he asked himself. Mrs. Johnson in her birthday suit, begging to get in?

Alan ate a hearty breakfast of two eggs, three slices of toast smothered in marmalade jam, and washed it all down with three cups of coffee. Then he headed out the door and started for work.

The storm was moderate, compared with the one two days before. He would open the store, though he still didn't expect to see many customers. He got in his car and drove across town, pausing at times for the occasional snow drifts that momentarily blurred his vision.

When he got out of the car and started toward the store, he heard his name called out. Alan turned, but there wasn't anyone there.

"Goddamn wind," he muttered to himself again. He turned back, pulled a keychain out of his pocket, and inserted the key in the lock.

"Allll-nnnn!"

Alan whirled and gazed into the empty street. Then he heard it again: "Allll-nnnn." A two-syllable moan that was unmistakably his name.

Alan turned the key in the lock, opened the door, and stepped inside. Again he heard the wind moan his name. It was repeated over and over, much louder, and constantly getting closer, as if it were hurled toward him. He closed the door, blotting it out.

Alan saw only four customers that whole day. Despite the poor business day, he completed his inventory. Outside, the wind still kicked ass with the snow.

At 5 p.m., Alan locked the door and flipped over the CLOSED side of the sign. He went to the back room and got his parka. His thermal snow pants were in the car where he carried them at all times during the winter season.

From the front of the store, he heard the jingle of the chimes that hung from the entrance inside the door. Strange; he remembered locking the door.

He hurried out, went around the counter, and strode down the aisle past shelves stocked with paint. He felt the chilled air and heard the howling wind before he reached the door.

The chimes jingled loudly as the wind played havoc with them. A path of snow stretched past the open doorway and down the tool aisle. There weren't any footsteps in the snow, so nobody had entered the store.

Alan pulled the door against the wind and closed it. How had the locked door come open? he asked himself. He scratched his head and shrugged. He got a shovel, scooped up the snow, and dumped it into the garbage can in the corner. He looked outside and could barely make out his car in the driveway. He decided he had better get started for home.

When Alan stepped outside, the wind was beyond fierce; it hurled snow like a devil on a rampage. No way would he be able to drive in this weather. Actually, he thought, it would be wiser to go back in the store and spend the night on the sofa in the office.

Then he heard booming laughter that sounded like it had been released from inside a closed barrel. The wind thinks it's beaten you, Alan told himself. Now it's taunting you. The wind might have kept his wimpy customers away from the store and screwed up his sales, but he'd be damned if it would keep him from doing what he wanted to do! And Alan wanted to be home tonight, sipping beer and sitting before his computer chatting with "his" Cora.

He made sure the store door was firmly closed, locked it, and trudged down the steps to his car. He went around to the passenger side where the wind had less impact on the door, got in the car and pulled on his thermal pants. Suddenly, the whole force of the wind seem to bear down on the car as it rocked back and forth like a boat on a windy sea. The rocking continued for a few seconds and then the car was lifted off its tires on the driver's side and blown over onto the passenger side, and then over onto the cab.

Hanging upside down, Alan cursed and fumbled for the door handle. He got the door slightly ajar. Then the wind flung it all the way open, ripping it off one of its hinges. Alan crawled out the entrance, looked at the drooping door and knew it was useless to try to close it.

He could barely see six feet ahead of him, but Alan decided he was going home, anyway. He took his bearings from the store and cautioned himself that as long as he didn't veer right toward the west or southwest, he should have no problem getting home. He pulled his parka hood up over his head and started in the direction of the cove.

He had taken about a dozen steps away from the store when he glanced back into a blank whiteness. It was as if someone had draped a white sheet over his head. He was in his own little world.

The wind hammered at his back, shoving him forward faster than he cared to go, but Alan wouldn't allow it to divert his attention. Then his right foot sank in the snow and he keeled over. He tumbled down what must be the slope leading down onto the cove. He rolled and rolled, unable to stop himself until he reached the base of the slope.

Alan got to his feet.

"Goddamn," he mumbled. How did he proceed? This rolling and tossing had screwed up his bearings.

He heard a laughter all around him; it was loud enough to overcome the screaming wind.

That's because it is the wind, he reminded himself.

He looked around and suddenly thought he saw something move about ten feet from his right. He had glimpsed a black thing marring the blank whiteness for only a second or two.

It's the wind fucking with your mind, he warned himself.

Movement again, coming toward him. He backed away. He hadn't been prepared for anything like this. For the first time since he had challenged the wind in his mind game, Alan was truly afraid. He'd never known the wind could be so lifelike, so personal.

He stepped backward, his eyes focused on the black thing closing in on him. His left foot sank in the snow and he fell on his butt.

The black thing leapt at him and he screamed, his cry muffled by the deafening wind. He kicked out at the thing and it fell aside and blew past him.

Alan giggled. It was a garbage bag! Only a bag of garbage that had looked so menacing in the blinding white surrounding. A boom of laughter surrounded him.

Alan struggled to his feet.

"Thought you had me there, eh?" he shouted. "But no freak of nature is going to control Alan Myerson!"

Alan grinned and started on his way. He took about four steps and suddenly the solid earth below his feet fell away from him. He fell, and a hideous black face screamed his name.

The dark, slob-covered waves of the sea licked out at him.

"Oh, fuck!" he cried.

Then he felt the instant chill in his bones as black water swallowed him.

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