Christopher Siters

ENGL 212
Final Revisions
Drinking in the Rain
It was humid, and loud, and dark: just enough light to outline the glistening, gyrating

bodies, sweaty and pumping to the beat. He hadn’t moved for some time, though, and thankfully,

no one seemed to notice. Or care. Or, if they did, just assumed he was a few steps ahead of the

rest of them…blacked out, slung over something, hoping to die. He was, unfortunately, very

conscious; between the shockwaves of the booming bass and the electric buzz of treble in the air,

he could distinctly hear the shrill sound of the printer spitting out people’s tabs. The harsh

fluorescent lights flicked on abruptly, and, in the sudden, ear-deafening silence, there was a

collective groan from the crowd that was suddenly made visible. The bartender was making

rounds, trying to placate the more belligerent ones while the rest shuffled towards the darkness of

the exit. Like roaches, he thought, his head still resting in the crook of his arm, draped over the

bar, still holding his glass in the other hand. He’d heard the rest leave and waited a moment for

the bartender to approach.

“That means you, too, dude,” the bartender said impatiently.

The man sat up, reaching into his coat for his wallet, “How about another $50 for a quick

double for the road?”

The bartender paused for a moment, lifting the bottle the man had been ordering from,

“Not much left…how about $100 and I’ll sit this here…and if it disappears while I’m cleanin’

up…”

The man pulled another bill from his wallet, slid them across the bar, and took his leave;

the sound of heavy glasses falling into plastic bus tubs was quickly replaced by the sound of

heavy rain falling onto glassy pavement. He looked at his watch; only 2:15. Fuck, he breathed, as
Christopher Siters
ENGL 212
Final Revisions
he withdrew the bottle from his jacket. He’d only made it a block and he was already soaked. He

paused, looking skyward with his mouth wide open, filling with rainwater. If all the raindrops…

he thought as he added a swig of whiskey before swallowing, and raising the bottle into the air,

Cheers, to…I dunno, God I guess, taking another swig of rainwater and whiskey.

He figured he could probably waste about another hour or so drinking in the rain; he also

knew that he was soaked to the bone and his liquid heat wouldn’t last long. He thought about just

falling asleep in the gutter like he’d seen so many others do before…but he didn’t want to think

he’d sunk that low…not yet anyway. He sloshed down the sidewalk, or the road, everything was

covered in water and glistening, the street flooding into the sidewalk, flooding into his shoes; the

bright downtown lights reflected brightly beneath him. He realized he wasn’t sure where he was

now, he seemed to have turned down a side street at some point, because it was darker. That’s

how he preferred it; that’s why he’d taken his job…until recently. Unfortunately, dark, dingy bars

don’t see much foot traffic, and, as a result, not much money. He’d been waiting tables for a

while, but bartenders made less contact and made more money; the last bar he found was perfect,

except for the money part. He’d been paying for things with the money he’d put back for school,

but he was already short on rent and stuff with a couple of outstanding IOUs. It’d been a few

more blocks now, the bright lights growing fainter behind him, replaced with the dim glow of

more residential areas; the rain, however, had not let up and had flooded well above his shoes.

Each step was harder, If I tripped and fell, I could probably drown.

He’d been drunk plenty of times, and he’d walked through rivers and such, but he

couldn’t place the last time he tried to walk down a river at night while drunk; the water settled

around him as he stopped to gain some sense of bearing, disturbed only by the falling rain. As he

turned, he was startled to see that caddy corner to him, behind the dim orange streetlight, was a
Christopher Siters
ENGL 212
Final Revisions
neon pink and purple eye winking at him. Am I tripping…? He wondered briefly, but the turn and

the sudden burst of color left bright neon trails and he quickly found his head spinning, bending

over slightly to throw up, which quickly disappeared down the street in the flooding rain. He

paused again, before slowly reaching down and cupping some water to his mouth, sloshing it

around and spitting it out, before downing the last shot of whiskey in the bottle and letting it

gently drift away after his vomit. He blinked hard a few times and erected himself to find the

neon eye still there, still winking at him…is it winking or blinking if there’s only one eye?

He started jaywalking towards the eye, curious as to what it was since the rest of the

neighborhood was, again, the dim glow of residents…dim, but bright enough to get by, I

suppose. He looked at his watch again, 4:32; he’d been walking longer than he thought. He did

trip slightly trying to find the opposite curb, but quickly found himself pressing in on the eye,

which was hung in the window of a slim house on the corner. Closing in on the house, he could

see another dimly lit resident was inside somewhere. As he was looking up and down at the side

of the building the eye was on, he saw back towards the front of the building a sign lit by the

streetlight, previously obscured by the trees, Psychic; as he was reading the sign, he was also

suddenly aware, out of the corner of his eye, of the person who now stood at the window

opposite him, looking down at him through the bright neon eye. And he gasped, stumbling

backwards, and falling into the floodwater; the sound of submerging water muffled the sound of

the woman shrieking in surprise. He floundered around gasping in the water, trying to right

himself, and soon found a pair of hands grabbing his shoulders, pulling him up. Coughing and

sputtering and gasping for air, he was ushered into the house by the woman, the psychic.

She pushed him down into a big fluffy chair that was quickly soaking beneath him, and

he could hear her dripping herself as she disappeared deeper into the darkness of the house,
Christopher Siters
ENGL 212
Final Revisions
emerging with an armful of towels; she tossed a bunch at him, keeping a few herself. They began

drying off in silence, the only sound coming from the fabrics, the quiet TV in the next room

where the eye hung in the window, and the rain.

“I’m sorry,” he started, but she quickly shushed him and continued drying her long, grey

braid.

He saw her clothes were dry, she must’ve thrown on a new nightgown before she came

back. He continued drying himself, throwing a towel down on the chair that was already soaked

but figured it polite. She’d disappeared again into the darkness, but he could hear water running

and tinny metal clanging. Still flooded inside and out, he looked around the room; it was a dim, a

small lamp on a table with a purple scarf hung over it, muting the light; he saw various shelves

with books and all manner of bizarre-looking trinkets and paraphernalia pertaining to her craft,

he assumed, it was difficult to see what these things were; he could feel how bloodshot and

glazed his eyes were, how tired they were now.

The psychic emerged a few minutes later carrying a tray of clinking porcelain, sitting it

down on the large round table in the middle of the room, which he seemed to have failed to

notice until she drew attention to it, maybe she conjured it, he chuckled to himself as she poured

some tea. It did smell good, he realized as he perked up in the chair; the strong smell of mint

filling the air. He soon found her sitting next to him, handing him a little cup of tea on a saucer,

and he couldn’t help but think of the times he’d had to play tea party with his cousins; they were

annoying, and he always hated them, but this was nice, despite having no idea what was going

on. It seemed she didn’t either, but her natural instinct seemed to have been to make tea and he

respected that; her first inclination seemingly a human one rather than a business one. He’d seen
Christopher Siters
ENGL 212
Final Revisions
places like this before, tucked in here and there, wherever they could find a flow of customers,

often wondering who the Hell would go somewhere like a “psychic.” Now, here he was, sitting

in the very seat he’d mocked, not by choice, he reasoned.

They sat there for a few minutes, quietly sipping the piping hot tea, quietly collecting

themselves; he realized it must’ve been just as much an ordeal for her, looking properly at her

now. He’d seen her grey braid, but now he could see her face, weathered and creased, crow’s feet

dug deeply into her eyes, which now stared distantly out the dark window on the other side of the

table. He figured she wasn’t blind, since she’d seen him through the window, but she didn’t seem

to take much notice of him; presumably she’d gotten a good enough look at him while he sat

there soaking her chair and carpet. He sat his cup down and felt around inside his jacket for his

wallet, withdrawing both a very soggy wallet and a very soggy pack of cigarettes.

He chuckled, “Don’t suppose you’ve got a smoke?”

He wasn’t sure, but he thought she eyed him from the corner as she sat her cup down and

stood up. She was fairly tall for an old woman, he thought, though she still somewhat shuffled

with age. Fit enough to rescue a drunk drowning man. She had gone over to a shelf, reaching

into a box, he could see she pulled out a couple things, motioning him to follow. So, he stood,

walking around the table towards the front door.

“Bring the teacups, would you?” the psychic asked as she opened the door, the room now

flooded with the sound of heavy rain.

He topped them off before picking them up and following her out the door. There was a

little covered porch he hadn’t noticed when they’d rushed into the house, and standing near the

screen he could see her silhouette striking a match before engulfing her face in light as she lit
Christopher Siters
ENGL 212
Final Revisions
what appeared to be a joint. And indeed, the smell of weed soon mixed with the mint tea and the

rain, as they quietly stood sipping tea and getting stoned, no idea what’s going on but ok!

As they finished the joint and the tea, they shuffled back inside. The psychic quickly went

and grabbed a couple of blankets, draping one around herself and handing the other to him

before sitting back down in her chair, and followed suit.

“What were you doing out there in the rain like this?” the psychic asked.

He stared up in disbelief, trying to suppress the urge to burst into laughter.

She saw his reaction as she was refilling the teacups and threw a sugar cube at him, “Are

you always whatever you do for work??”

To which, he again stared in disbelief, “Ok, yeah, I guess you got me there.”

“Judging by the smell of you, you’d been drinking. Not sure where, there’s no bars

around here for quite a ways,” she added, sinking back into her chair.

“Yeah, I was at bar earlier,” he said, “not sure what I was doing around here either, just

kinda left the bar when they closed and kept walking. Honestly not even sure where I am.”

“Well, where were you going? Home?”

“No, wasn’t headed anywhere…definitely wasn’t headed home…,” he trailed off, staring

down at the tea leaves drifting at the bottom of his cup.

“I see,” she said curtly, “well do you often go peeping in old ladies’ windows?”
Christopher Siters
ENGL 212
Final Revisions
She cast a sharp eye at him, and he choked on the sip of tea he’d just taken. As he

sputtered, he could feel his face flush and her eyes disappeared as she broke into a smile from ear

to drooping ear. He’d briefly forgotten they were both stoned, and they both burst into laughter.

After a minute of good laughter, she said, as her chuckle trailed off, “Surely whatever’s at

home can’t be worse than drowning in a flood.”

He chuckled too, more absent-mindedly, looking down again at the tea leaves settled in

the bottom of the cup. He didn’t want to think about going home, not yet anyway; he’d been

avoiding going home all evening, and now he found himself sitting in a stranger’s house, sipping

tea…nothing good happens after 2am, he reminded himself, it’s probably poisoned.

She’d disappeared again while he was lost in thought, but he heard the familiar sound of

running water and tinny metal and relaxed in his seat, glancing at his watch again, 5:59, 6:00.

The rain had eased into a dreary morning drizzle, and he could hear the first birds beginning to

chirp. Well, if it is poisoned, at least I made it to another morning.

As the kettle whistled, like a rooster heralding the morning, he heard her shuffling about,

the clinking of porcelain, as she made her way back; there was a different smell this time, the

crisp mint replaced by a heavier, darker tea…and he smelled toast. Am I having a stroke? His

eyes grew wide for a moment before seeing that she had, in fact, made toast to go with their

breakfast tea; hearty slices of sourdough slathered with butter…no jams or jellies…just tea and

toast. He wasn’t sure if this had all been for him, because it seemed to be a natural routine for

her; he hadn’t even been aware of the time, but she had breakfast ready nearly on the dot. He

admitted to himself that the psychic was certainly an interesting person, despite not having seen
Christopher Siters
ENGL 212
Final Revisions
any magic tricks…and he didn’t want to ask to see any because he didn’t really want to pay her,

though he did feel like he should somehow repay her for her hospitality at the least.

They sat there, munching their toast and sipping their tea; it was nice to have quiet

company they both thought, though neither openly said so. After a few minutes, he decided to

break the silence.

“So, you know what I was doing obviously, what were you doing up that late last night?”

She sat for a moment, staring out the window; everything was turning that pale morning

grey, the sunlight falling through the clouds like stained glass, the raindrops misting into a dim

glow.

“I can never sleep when it rains like that.”

“Oh,” he replied plainly, almost disheartened. He’d figured she might be doing some

ritual or casting spells or whatever they did in her line of work…come to think of it, I have no

idea what she does…

She looked at him again, straight on this time, “What do you expect psychics to do,

exactly?”

He swallowed awkwardly; he felt like making a joke, like she had earlier, but for some

reason he felt afraid of insulting her.

“I…I honestly don’t know,” he said again plainly, “like reading tarot cards, seeing the

future, casting spells…ya know, shit like that.”

She grinned, her eyes seeming to disappear into the wrinkles, and nodded, “Ok, that’s

fair. I’ve done my share of those things over the years…that and more.”
Christopher Siters
ENGL 212
Final Revisions
Something about the way she’d said ‘that and more’ was both kinda cool and a little

creepy, he thought, unsure of what to make of it.

“Like, I dunno, I’m not even sure who comes to these kinda places.”

“All kinds come here, whether they mean to or not.” Chills ran down his spine, is she

being creepy on purpose now? Should I leave? She continued, “The ones who come willingly are

looking for answers, but more than anything, they’re looking for comfort: the about-to-be-brides

with their throngs of maids; the recently widowed, usually alone; college kids unsure of what to

do with their lives; gamblers looking for winning numbers; religious fanatics telling me I’m

going to Hell…it takes all types.”

He chuckled again, slightly reassured of the psychic’s sanity.

“Ok, so you’re not like, a real psychic or whatever, you just kinda tell people what they

wanna hear,” he said bluntly; he figured most places like these were scams, hidden microphones

or cameras, special effects tucked away, waiting to be unleashed.

“Are they mutually exclusive?”

“Well, I mean like, tarot cards and shit are kinda vague, aren’t they? Like, you can

manipulate the meaning to fit any circumstance so it’s not like, I dunno, reliable. Or like,

specific, I guess, I dunno what word I’m looking for right now. But, like, if I ask you the winning

numbers for today’s lottery, and the numbers you give me don’t come up, then what’s that

mean?”

“It means I was wrong,” the psychic chuckled, “I’m a person same as you, you want

perfect answers, go find God.”

Christopher Siters
ENGL 212
Final Revisions
He paused for a moment, ruminating over this, if a psychic is wrong, are they still a

psychic? If a cook makes a dish wrong, it doesn’t mean they aren’t still a cook…

“So, like, if you don’t mind me asking, how do you make money?”

She was quiet, staring out the window again, “I do enough to get by. I charge the ones

who willingly come seeking. I do other things in my spare time.”

“Well, what about the ones who don’t come willingly?”

“They don’t seek, they find.”

“What do you mean?”

“Were you looking for me last night when you came to my window?”

He stopped there. She had a point, this was absolutely not what he was looking for last

night when he left the bar, and yet, it was…

The psychic continued, “They’re the ones who need me the most, for whatever reason. I

don’t charge them.”

He eased into the chair again, and thought about looking at his watch again, but looked

out the window instead; things were visible now, still grey and wet, but shape and form had

returned to the world outside and the sound was calmer.

“I like the ones who find me the most,” she continued again, “yes, the ones who pay me I

give them what they want, or do my best to, but the others, I give them what they need.”

“And what’s that exactly?”

Christopher Siters
ENGL 212
Final Revisions
“Everyone’s different. A dry roof for the night, a warm cup of tea, a person to be there…”

she trailed off as he realized that this had been exactly what he needed; he hadn’t wanted it, at

least didn’t know that he wanted it, and yet here they were, the sun beginning to reflect off the

windows of the houses across the street.

“Well, it looks like the rain’s let up,” he said awkwardly, unsure of how to respond, “been

here a while, I should probably get going.”

“Yes, you should, get some dry clothes and some good sleep.”

“Thanks again for everything,” he said, slowly standing up and nodding his head towards

her and starting towards the door.

“Come back again sometime, I’m sure you can find me again” she called after him as he

turned to leave. But then he paused.

“So, wait, did you know I was outside?”

“Yes and no. I knew someone was coming, just didn’t know who.”

“How?”

“I told you I can’t sleep when it rains like that.”

“Why not?”

“I hear voices in the rain…but it’s quiet now, so I can get some sleep too.”