Ericka Russell
What do you do when there’s a Tornado Warning at the Taco Bell Drive-Thru?
And you already ordered
and you’re scrunched between the other zealous consumers
of Crunchwraps, Nacho Fries, and Five-Layer Burritos (no meat, substitute black beans)
who ask for hot and mild sauces in a saucy attempt to get more packets,
who also get in line for lunch around 10:55am,
too impatient to wait until 11 by driving a loop around Scottsville Road to pass time and risk the four-way lights that seem to have a personal vendetta, turning red right as you—a decent driver who doesn’t (usually) run red lights—breach the front of the line.
Regulars.
When the radio does the “err-a-urnt, err-a-urnt, err-a-urnt,”
you think about The Tornado
that yanked roofs, cars, and buildings like a toddler amongst tulips,
as if it’s nothing, as if the blooms will be right back,
not after seasons below ground.
When you watch the sky, you also notice
the concrete curbs on either side of your $164/month car,
like guardrails at a bowling alley, only really remarkable when they actually work.
You think about how no one is moving, not even the earth, just the clouds.
You wonder if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. This stasis.
You tell yourself it’s not December,
it’s not the middle of the night,
it’s not fifty-degrees,
it’s not raining,
it’s the radio, not the hollow sirens drowning out sudden I love you’s and I’m right here,
it’s just high winds, dark clouds, unpredictable, unforgiving, circular propulsion.
You think about how atomically small you are in comparison to this state, this continent, this planet, this galaxy, this alleged universe.
So maybe you’re too small to be thrown up and down, like an ant falling from high up
and trapezing blades of grass on the way down.
You tell yourself, look at all these people
certainly…
that would be unfair
unjust
nature.
