| Title: Irish Rain Author: Carley Chapter 1 Amongst all the universal questions plaguing humankind today (the meaning of life, why telemarketers always phone at dinnertime, etc.,) one of the most perplexing is just why people feel the need to drive seventy-eight miles per hour directly after the first rain of the season when the roads are especially slick from months worth of oil buildup. We all see them, relentlessly tailing us, perhaps wailing on their horns, swerving in between big rigs and semis and the pensive driver (yours truly). It's an action that inevitably results in a terrible disaster, not just for the unfortunate driver himself, but all three hundred and forty-six of us who are then stranded on the 101 freeway at eight fifteen on a Wednesday morning. Yes, unless I did something about it and quick, I was going to be late again. Not a good thing when your boss just so happens to be Satan. Okay, that's a bit harsh. Make that the spawn of Satan. Funny, one wouldn't think the spawn of Satan would be a hefty man named 'Greg' in his early forties with balding strawberry blonde hair and an impressive array of unfathomably tacky ties, but he is. And if I walked in late again this morning and blamed it on 'traffic,' oh God, my stomach churned with the mere idea of it. He'd peer at me from overtop his foggy glasses, lick his lips, and let the silence eat away at my sanity for a good five minutes before delving into his beloved 'Sandy, I think we need to take a look at our priorities' sermon. I would nod, shift uneasily from one foot to the other, catch a glimpse at the numerous plaques of achievement on his wall and wish I were thousands of miles away-- Madrid, perhaps. Beep! The car behind me was laying furiously on its horn and I snapped out of my daydream, realizing the traffic had moved whopping four feet. I drummed my nails on the steering wheel and nervously fiddled with the rearview mirror-- tell tale signs that I hadn't had any coffee that morning-- and if I knew that if I didn't want to internally combust, I had to get out of that parking lot of a freeway. I turned on my indicator and cut off about three cars in an effort to get to the Santa Monica off ramp. Santa Monica Boulevard wasn't anywhere near to where I needed to be, but I knew that I could catch Vermont Avenue from there and then it'd be a straight shot up to Los Feliz. Anything was better than sitting in traffic. Starbucks was whispering to me as I sped along. . . make that screaming at me. I never before realized just how many Starbucks populated a city street, not to mention about two with a drive-thru, but I ignored the urge and tightened my grip on the wheel. I squinted through the windshield, the wipers in constant rhythm trying to keep the path visible in the downpour. To my relief, the traffic wasn't too bad-- everyone must have been stuck on the freeway. My knuckles were loosening their hold and I even found the will to flip on the radio. Morning chatter, as usual. I'm sure if I'd been in a better frame of mind I would even have been laughing at what they were saying, but whenever I even felt like relaxing, Greg's face would jump out from nowhere and I'd be catapulted back into a panic. Boom. My car made a giant shudder and a great heaving sound. The speedometer fell to zero, and the horrific reality came flooding to me that my car had stalled. I turned the ignition; the engine wheezed but obliged me. . . until I shifted into gear. Same violent shudder. Ohhhh. . . this isn't good. I turned the key again, chug-a-chug-a-chug went the engine. It started, I slipped it into drive and. . . "Dammit!" I shouted at the top of my lungs, pounding on the steering wheel. Of course, the light picked that exact moment to turn green and the stream of cars behind me, like clockwork, pressed on their horns. "I know the light is green, you morons!" I muttered under my breath. I could feel myself starting to perspire and I swear everything was closing in on me. I found myself turning into my dad for a scary moment, chanting the same thing my dad always chanted to his cars growing up: "C'mon baby, c'mon. Don't do this baby, c'mon!" It had never worked for my dad and it certainly wasn't working for me now. The horns behind me were still very prevalent, although a few very perceptive drivers got the hint and swerved out around me. Defeated, I flipped on my hazards and reached for my phone book, ready to call the auto club for help, the mechanical drone of the windshield wipers still audible. I was vaguely aware that the car behind me had opened its door and a figure hurried towards me through the rain. To my surprise, there was a rap-i-tap on my window. A man was bending over, peering in, pulling his collar up in the pounding rain. I quickly rolled down the window. He shouted over the din of the rain hitting the pavement. "You need help?" I was surprised that he was even offering in such treacherous weather. I managed a smile and stammered a 'yes, thank you.' He motioned to someone in his car. His friend got out as well and they took their positions at the back of my car. "Ready?" I nodded and put the car into neutral. Thankfully there was a nice looking shopping center just past the light and I steered the car into the nearest available parking spot. One of the two made a dash back to their car that still sat at the intersection whilst the other one remained behind with me. I remembered the umbrella in my back seat and grabbed it, jumping out of the car. I held it over the man who was already drenched. "Don't guess this'll do much good now," I said. "Thanks so much. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it." "Ah, it's alright. Don't give it a second thought." Without the rain corrupting the visibility I could clearly see this savior of mine, close to me underneath the umbrella. He was the owner of immense, deepest brown eyes and a 150-watt smile. He wore a trendy black leather jacket, dark jeans and black and white addidas that were thoroughly soaked. But even in his disheveled state, I suddenly wasn't a woman of twenty-four, but like a girl in eighth grade who has a crush on the boy sitting next to her. My toes curled and my stomach plunged realizing that this man was positively stunning. "What's the problem, do you know?" He's talking to you, Sandy! Wake up! "Er. . . I. . . th-think it's the t-transmition." Oh God, Sandy, come on! Calm down! He whistled. "Too bad you just aren't out of petrol or somethin'. I could've at least helped with that." 'Petrol.' How cute! "Are you kidding? You've helped enough already." His friend drove up, parking his sumptuous black bmw and approached us, tossing his keys in his hand. "You gonna be okay?" "Yes, I'm just going to call the auto club. I'll be late for work again, but I think this time my boss will understand. Besides, I'm not too far. I work just off Los Feliz, so I think it's gonna be okay." "You work in Los Feliz?" the second man repeated. "Yes. . ." He chuckled, "Well if you actually wanted to get to work this morning, you're definitely going the wrong way. You're in West Hollywood." "West Hollywood," I shrieked and spun around. The intersection read 'La Brea' and 'Santa Monica.' My heart sank. "Oh God. . . I turned the wrong way off the freeway." "You were stuck in that mess as well," said the accented one. I ran my fingers through my hair, absolutely ashamed with myself. "Yeah. . . I guess I was just so disoriented that I didn't even realize. . . Oh God, what an idiot I am!" "Look," he said forcefully, "How about we not discuss this out here in the freezing rain. There's a nice cafe right here. We'll have a cuppa and go from there." Without another word we followed his lead into the comfortable, artsy coffee house right in front of us. He held the door open for me directed me to the menu. "Their coffee is fantastic here." "I didn't have mine this morning. I think that's why today is turning out so wonderfully." "Great," said the friend. "You're addicted to caffeine and he's addicted to cigarettes. Am I the only one around here that doesn't need a stimulant?" "Stimulants," the other repeated huffily. "You should see the list of medications he's on." "They're vitamins, and Stu's just trying to avoid the subject. He's tired of me always after him to quit smoking." "Damn right I am. You Americans excel at making huge issues out of small things while brushing the big ones under the carpet. Yes, hi, can I have a regular coffee and, ehm. . . what did you want, Jack? Oh that's right, he doesn't need any stimulants. What about you, then?" I was smiling at their gentle argument. "Regular cappucino, please." I pulled out my purse. The gorgeous foreigner named 'Stu' took an immediate stand. "Oh no, I don't think so. Put that away right this second." "No it's okay, I want to--" "I'm not gonna discuss it any further," he said matter of factly and paid the cashier. He turned to me and folded his arms, daring me to contest it. I blinked stupidly in disbelief and then, without a word, put my purse away. He smiled. "That's better. . . ehm, sorry, what did you say your name was?" "I didn't. It's Sandy. And whose acquaintance do I have the honor of making?" "I'm Stuart, this is John. But call me Stu and you can just call him. . ." "Be nice," John warned. ". . . Jack." he finished. Stu lead us towards a table in the back of the cafe and we took a seat. The coffee was warm and seemed to ease everything inside of me. I looked at my watch: five till nine. I had to phone Greg to let him know what was going on. I pulled out my bag again and flipped through my planner which was colorfully decorated with numerous post it notes that served as 'to do lists' and found the number I should have memorized ages ago: "North American Financial". I dialed the number to the office. . . no dice. One of those many post it notes also read: 'switch phone service provider.' Jack smiled knowingly, "I just had to switch mine last week. Pain in the neck." "Mine works," said Stu, handing me a trendy, top of the line phone. I couldn't help but notice his greeting on the face, which read "Leprechaun." "You're Irish then?" I asked while the phone rang. Stu took a sip from his coffee and nodded. "Aye, lassy." Greg answered and I explained the situation in detail. He wasn't as understanding as I thought he'd be. I wish his voice wasn't so loud. I'm sure they can hear every word he's saying. And the words weren't too appealing: "I'll have to write this up" and "I wonder if you should even bother coming in at all" and "when you get here see me immediately." They didn't exactly inspire confidence. He folded his arms and leaned across the table. "Nice guy, eh?" "Oh yeah. A real piece of work," I said as I dialed the number to the auto club. "But I don't care. It wouldn't bother me if I never saw him or that place again." "Where do you work?" "At a brokerage. North American Financial." "Oohh," Jack breathed. "That must be loads of fun." "Yeah. It's the kind of job that drains you in every way imaginable." "You like it that much, do you?" "Oh yeah, I'm just crazy about it in case you can't tell." "Well," said Stu, "why don't you do something you like?" "I ask myself that question every morning." "And the answer?" The question had caught me off guard and I found I couldn't even look at him-- those amazing brown eyes reading right through me. Thank God the rep answered the phone right then. I explained my situation and they said they would be there within thirty minutes. I hung up the phone and handed it back to Stu and quickly focused my attention on my coffee, stirring it absently. "Well?" Stu prodded, still waiting for his answer. "I don't know." "I'm sure you do." "Er. . .well, I guess I just feel stuck, that's all. I'm not one to lick a gift horse in the mouth: Dad got the job for me when I really needed it, but now I guess I'm cornered into a job that I need monetarily, but, well anyway," I looked up at him, determined to change the subject. "So! What do you do for a living? Besides rescuing damsels in distress and treating them to coffee?" Stuart smiled strangely and shot a look at his friend. I wished to God I knew what was going on behind those eyes, what that smile meant. Was he laughing at me? Embarrassed? What was that look? "Jack here says I don't have a real job, but I beg to differ on that one. Actually, I'm an actor." Figures. He's got the looks, to be sure. Probably in some artsy stage production at USC or something. I attempted to look surprised. "Oh really? What, the theater?" "No, although I used to back home in Ireland. I'm in film now." Now this is impressive. He certainly does look familiar. . . no, Sandy. Just be normal. "Ah, Mr. Big Shot Movie Star, eh?" That strange smile of his came back again and this time Jack broke out into laughter. "That's what he thinks, anyway." "Are you any good?" "Depends on who you ask," he said, drawing on his cigarette coolly. "My friends will tell you I'm pretty good. . ." "But the critics will say he's shit." Stu laughed and then promptly socked his friend in the arm forcefully. "Arsehole." He looked at me. "You a moviegoer?" "I go to the movies just like the next guy." "I bet Stu's just crushed that haven't asked him for his autograph yet," his friend chided. "Shut up, you cad." I smiled, "Well, if it'll make you feel better, I promise I'll ask you for one before I leave." We all started laughing. "What about you, Jack? What's your elevated profession?" He grinned and leaned back in his chair. "I am what you might call a frustrated writer." "It means he's unemployed." "For this week, yes. But I still say that I am in possession of an academy award winning script." "Oh, you're a screenwriter then. So if your script has Oscar written all over it, why haven't any producers snatched it up?" Stu was delighted and happily stared at his friend, awaiting his bullshit response. He cleared his throat. "A minor technicality. Do you know that Gone With the Wind was turned down by three production companies?" "No it wasn't," I said smiling. "All of Hollywood was after it." "Oh. Well. . . it could have been." He smiled and gave up. "I guess people just aren't in the mood these days for musicals." "It's a musical?" "Yeh," said Stu, "Tell 'er where it's set, my boy." As if he had to be asked. "See, it's 1918 and it's the Russian revolution and there are these two lovers and the war tears them apart, c-cause he's a revolutionist and her family is conservative, a-and she gets pregnant but he can't marry her cause he gets captured in--" "Sounds like Doctor Zhivago meets Romeo and Juliet," I said. "Sounds like a bloody waste of film." Jack was sincerely offended. "It is a searing piece of artwork that celebrates love and exposes the atrocities of war," he turned to me for support, "you see it really is a current film when you think about it--" "Oh yeah," Stu laughed. "Very current. You know it reminds me of when the troops in the Middle East randomly break out into song as they fire their weapons." Jack turned up his nose. "Oh go on, but listen, one day you'll hate yourself for not taking this role. I know film, dammit. I am a graduate of the USC Film School, okay? I took a sip from my coffee. "So am I." A hush fell. Stu blinked. "What?" I nodded. "Yeah, it's true. I graduated in '97." "But I don't get it. W-what are you doing at a brokerage?" "Guess it does sound strange. I was ready to get into producing-- my dream was to perhaps even set up my own company. Still is, actually. But, well, then this little thing called life happened." "What, you got married?" "No, but I did have a kid." I smiled, and reached for my purse to take out my photographs. "I love this little tyke more than anything in the world. Yes, even more than filmmaking. I needed something with decent pay and that gave me enough time to focus on him. A little hard to find when you're bringing him up yourself." I handed Pete's picture to the two guys and they broke out into a simultaneous 'awwwww.' "He's absolutely gorgeous. How old is he?" "He'll be four in July." "Gorgeous." Jack was romanticizing things again. "What a great picture that would make! Woman sacrifices budding Hollywood career to raise her little boy. A real heartwarming picture, I can see it already. Maybe not an Oscar, but the Emmys. . . " "I wouldn't say sacrificed. I could have kept after it, but I made a willing decision. You see, I grew up in a household of go-getters and there was always that feeling that if push came to shove, their career would be chosen over me. I'm sure it's not truly the case, but it sure as hell felt that way growing up. I don't want that for my little Pete." "Pete," Stu repeated happily. "That's my dad's name." "Mine too," I grinned. "Do. . . you ever think you'll get back to it?" I sighed. "I hope so. Every morning I wake up hating my lot in life. Who knows, maybe one day when Pete's older." I smiled, "Hey, maybe I'll take up the old idea of making a musical about the Russian Revolution!" I was getting uncomfortable talking about myself so openly with these three relative strangers. But they weren't really strangers, were they? Not these two. I felt I'd known them my whole life and we were just meeting up for coffee on an ordinary Wednesday morning, chewing the fat about old times. Nevertheless, it was time to change the spotlight. "What about you, Stu? Was your lifelong ambition to be an actor?" "No," he said seriously. "Actually it wasn't. My lifelong ambition was to travel. So I figure 'what can I do that will let me see fantastic places'? I could either go to University for twelve years becoming some bigwig mogul who travels the globe, or I could go into acting. I chose acting." "The parents must have been thrilled." "If my dad had his way, I'd have been a golfer like him back in Ireland." "Thank God you didn't! If you'd stayed in Ireland, who knows where I'd be this morning." "Speaking of which," said Stu, "what're you gonna do about this? You going into work today or not?" "If I get there, I get there. It'll take a while for the auto club to get here and tow it. . ." "You need a lift somewhere?" "Oh, no, you two have been more than kind. Really, above and beyond the call of duty. I should be asking you what I can do to repay you both." Stu shook his head. "No, none of that, you hear? Having coffee with us this morning was payment enough." I stared at him, his words swimming around inside my head. Oh, smooth Mister. What the hell am I supposed to say to that? He knew he'd scored points with that one. His smile was contagious and I broke out into one as well. "You're a rare breed, that's for sure." "That makes two of us," he said. Another perfect response. I had a feeling this guy was full of 'em. "I think that's you," Jack spoke up, pointing outside. Sure enough, the auto club had turned up. Inwardly I was deeply disappointed. That meant I had to leave and this amazing morning would be over. I didn't want to leave these two strangers. I wanted to sit with them, as we were then, for the rest of the day and every day afterward. I was very slowly going about the business of sorting out my insurance papers, etc., when I became aware of another presence at our table. I looked up to see a girl, probably around nineteen or so, dressed in all black, standing awkwardly in front of us. She looked mortally embarrassed and had in her hand a scrap piece of paper and a fountain pen. "H-hi," she stammered, "I-I didn't want to interrupt, but I h-had to say something before I left. Y-you're Stuart Townsend, aren't you?" The name was very familiar to me, indeed! I stared at Stu, trying desperately to place that face of his, but I couldn't for the life of me. Maybe this guys isn't a struggling actor after all. . . maybe I've even seen him in a movie. . . Stu was very gracious and nodded, took the girls paper and deftly scribbled his signature for her. Her hand slightly trembled as she took the paper back from him. There was a split second when I thought she was going to pounce on him and start making mad love to him right there on the coffee table, but instead she slowly backed away, repeating her thank you's a million times over. Stuart's expression was different now. He looked at me through those infinite brown eyes, wondering what my reaction was going to be. Was I going to turn into a stuttering mess like the girl had been? I playfully punched his shoulder. "Feel better now, Mr Big Shot Movie Star?" His smile returned. "Cheeky," he muttered happily. "Come on, you'd best get going." "You're right," I said, standing up. To my surprise they stood up with me and followed me out of the door as though it were completely expected of them. The rain had stopped and the sun was engaged in its usual fight with the clouds to peek through, mercifully shedding transient beams upon us. "It's stopped raining," said Jack as we walked up to the large white tow truck. Stu chuckled. "How observant you are, Jack. It was just a little morning rain, that's all." "A little?" I cried. "I bet that half of Malibu has slid down the hill by now!" "Ah, you Americans. This is nothin'. You should see our Irish rain back home. Take what you saw this morning and imagine it twenty four hours a day, three hundred sixty four days a year and maybe you'll get an idea of what I'm used to." I spoke with the tow truck driver explaining my situation and they remained standing there, listening to every word, Jack occasionally inserting a suggestion or two. I couldn't get over how interested the both were in what was going on! After I signed the paperwork, Stu took my arm and pulled me aside, his voice very serious. "You're sure that you'll be able to get back alright?" "Yes, absolutely sure. . ." "Because if you can't, we're not busy doing anything until this afternoon so it won't be any trouble to--" "Stu, I mean it." I smiled again (oh, it was so hard not to smile around this guy!) "I think I'll be able to take it from here. Besides, I'll just have Rick pick me up after he drops off Pete at his Auntie's house." "And who's this Rick fellow? You're boyfriend?" My stomach fell to the floor. It was extremely difficult for me to even look Stu in the eye-- I swear he could read right into my thoughts. For certainly he was aware of the absolute frenzy he threw me into every time he looked my way. "No. He's Pete's father." Oh my god. Was that a smile I saw on his face? Oh god, what was that in his eyes? "Ready Ma'am?" Damn that truck driver. I took a deep breath. "Look. . . thanks again. Not many people in this town would have done all you did today for a complete stranger. If there's any way at all that I can maybe somehow pay you back one day." "Believe me, I'll let you know if the opportunity arises." "Yeah, like producing my musical," said Jack. "Yeah, we'll have to see about that one." "You'd better keep in touch with me on that! I mean it!" Stu took my hand in his. Soft, so soft. . . "For once Jack actually had a good idea." "What, making his musical a reality?" He's still shaking your hand, Sandy! His handshake had ceased and now he just held it, tightly, his voice unbearably soft and intimate. "No. About keeping in touch." He reached in for his cell phone and pulled it out. "Your number?" Like a trained puppy I answered him immediately. On instinct I asked him for his as well, sounding surprisingly casual about it, nearly convincing myself that it was merely the courteous thing to do. He told me then smiled, flipped the cover back on his phone and slid it into his pocket. "Well. . . if you ever need rescuing, you know who to call." "You can count on it." And with that I found the strength inside of me to actually turn away from him. But you better believe that I felt him, standing there behind me, watching me leave. A feeling that stayed with me the rest of the day. . . . It was nightfall by the time I finally made it back home. Pete had fallen asleep in the car ride home from his Auntie's and sleep was sounding quite desirable to me at the moment as well. But first things first: I tucked him into bed, kissing his thick, raven locks and trudged into the kitchen. The lovely gurgling noise of the Chablis pouring into my cup put a contented smile on my face. Oh and the taste, sweet to the tongue, was even better! I sorted through the unappealing stack of mail, setting aside a nice sized letter from dad, bless his heart. I flipped on the television and smuggled up with my wine and dad's letters, not really paying attention to the images on the screen. That is, until a voice coming from the television sent a shiver through my spine. I knew that voice. I knew that voice well-- I hadn't been able to get it out of my head all day long. That softly seductive Irish draw. Everything around me dissipated and suddenly all I could hear was that voice! It was talking to someone. . . coming from the television. My eyes slowly looked up from the letter until they saw the images on the screen. I most certainly had to be dreaming. For there he was. Plain as day, just as I had seen him earlier during that short yet wonderful hour and a half. Same hair, same beaming eyes, same contagious smile. Only this time he wasn't talking to me, or teasing his friend, rather he was talking to someone else. He wasn't real, just an apparition on the screen. Everything around me began spinning. My stomach was doing somersaults and it was getting hard for me even to swallow. It was a numbed state of disbelief. He was talking to a girl, a brunette I think, reciting poetry I believe. I can't say for certain what movie it was, even to this day. I was too busy trying to convince myself that I had to be dreaming. My cell phone picked that exact moment to ring. I absently reached for it. "H-hello?" "Hi, Sandy? It's Stuart-- you remember, from this morning?" Please don't faint, Sandy, please don't faint. Breathe, breathe-- that's it, keep it up, Sandy. . . "Stuart," I repeated softly, staring at his image before me on the television, knowing it was the same man who now spoke to me. "How could I forget my life saver?" "Well, I just got to thinking. You'd asked me how you could possibly repay us? Well, I came up with a way." Anything. You name it, I'll do anything for you. "Oh? Should I sit down for this?" "No! Just keep tomorrow night free, that's all. You're coming 'round for dinner." "Oh? Oh I am, am I?" "Yes, you are. Around seven-ish at Jack's place. And make sure you bring Pete." He rattled off the directions, and I must have been conscious enough to record them accurately. "Well," he prodded. "You're coming, right?" I found my voice miraculously and answered affirmatively. I heard a soft laugh. "See you tomorrow night." Click went his cell phone and the line fell quiet. I was frozen, unable to move, my hands glued to the receiver. I was really expecting to wake up at that moment-- for my alarm clock to be buzzing and the clock reading 6:45 and I would get up, shower, get Pete dressed and start the day all over again. Because things like this didn't happen in real life. Or at least if they did, not to people like me. I was much too ordinary for things like this. And then I had to smile. Because I didn't wake up-- I was still standing there, holding the phone he had just spoke to me on, clutching the paper with directions to meet up with him again tomorrow and the memory of his voice pervading my mind. "Yes. . . see you tomorrow night." THE END (c) Carley "Irish Rain" Chapter 1, October, 2002. |