Lightning Larry

The tour bus hydroplanes through the river of rain on the windy road leading into Saint-Louis.

Looking out of his window, Allen Towne squints at the trees and quaint houses blurred by the downpour.

“It’s really coming down. Gonna play hell with our footwear.”

“I told you to get a pair of sensible, waterproof shoes, but you had to look trendy,” Maureen “Mo” Towne says as she and her husband disembark.

Allen looks up at the sky, brushing the rain from his face.

“I think I see a patch of blue sky…”

Allen’s hopeful comment is answered by a bolt of lightning streaking across the sky and a jarring crack of thunder.

Mo hands her husband an umbrella. “Do yourself a favor, hun. Leave the prognosticating to the weatherman. He gets paid to make mistakes.”

The plump couple, wearing touristy Hawaiian shirts, shorts, and sandals, with cameras around their necks, are typically curious journalists from the dairy town of Corn Cob, Illinois. They came to Saint-Louis for its old-world European charm, characterized by narrow cobblestone streets, antique shops, and ornate buildings.

Tucker Marshalle, the Towne’s industrious, blonde-haired guide, checks the streets for activity, finding none.

He has to raise his voice to be heard over the rain hitting the pavement. “You’re visiting us at an unexpectedly strange time.”

“Why? What’s happening?” Mo asks.

“Firstly, it’s the middle of our rainy season. There’s a lot of pop-up thunderstorms, sometimes as many as four a day. We’re also in the midst of a political standoff with our neighbors, the Creskins. They’re mostly friendly, uneducated folk who raise chickens, cattle, and goats.”

“Blue-collar workers and farmers,” Allen surmises.

“The people here in Saint-Louis are musicians, artists, and craftsmen.”

“Hippies,” Allen concludes.

“We trade with the Creskins. Recently, they demanded we give them the only crop we raise ourselves.”

“So, give it to them,” Allen says.

Mo intercedes. “Oh, no, Allen, not the Lightning Larry Wheatfields. I read in the tour guide that the Lightning Larry Wheatfields are considered sacred.”

“Why are they so revered?” Allen asks.

Tucker whispers, “It’s practically the only thing we export. Wheat is a huge part of our economy. Without it, we’d be peasants like the Creskins. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

The trio pauses under the awning of a café. Water pours off the awning, joining the stream flowing down the street.

Digging in her bag, Mo references her tour guide. “It says here that the Fields are the third most popular tourist attraction in Saint-Louis, behind the fire tower and Lightning Larry Lake.”

Tucker murmurs disapprovingly. “Sorry, Mrs. Towne. I’ve been meaning to reprint the tour guide. You must have one of the old ones. We had to take the tower down a few years ago. It was old, rusty, and unsafe. Lightning Larry Lake is now our number one attraction, and the Fields are number two. We’re close to the Fields if you want to see them.”

The couple follows Tucker down Saint-Louis’ cobblestone streets.

Allen notices that many of the businesses are closed or boarded up.

“Is it a holiday or something? Where is everybody?”

“Home, watching the news. The Creskins declared war on us this morning.”

“Over a few fields of wheat?” Allen exclaims.

“Must be really good wheat,” Mo counters.

“It would have been nice to know we were heading into World War Three before we got off the plane,” Allen continues.

“It may not be so bad. The last time we had a war with the Creskins was fifty years ago, and it only lasted a day,” Tucker says. “It started when we seized a herd of goats that had strayed into our territory. It ended when they wandered back home. Unfortunately, it’s happened again.”

“So, get a stick or a pied piper and guide them home.”

“It’s a little bit more complicated this time. A group of teenagers who’d oversampled our supply of Lightning Larry’s favorite beverage encountered the goats a few nights ago, frightening them. The goats chased the teenagers to the cliff overlooking Larry Lake, where the teenagers jumped in. Goats are good swimmers, but not if they unexpectedly run off a sixty-foot cliff.”

“And the Creskins want compensation,” Allen surmises. “So, give them some goats.”

“We don’t have any,” Tucker answers.

“Which is where your sacred wheat comes in.”

The trio climbs to the top of a small hill. The downpour slows to a moderate storm, petering out. The dark clouds begin to dissipate. A moment later, the sun appears on the horizon.

Allen gives Mo an I-told-you-so smile. “Just call me Mr. Weatherbee.”

Tucker points to a vast expanse of golden wheat below them.

“The Lightning Larry Wheatfields,” Mo says. “What are those posts sticking out of the ground?”

“Lightning rods. They protect the wheat from getting hit by lightning.”

“And the statue?” Mo asks, pointing at the thirty-foot metal figure of a man defiantly pointing at the sky.

“That’s our tribute to Lightning Larry. He’s stood in this field at least a dozen times, absorbing bolts of lightning and protecting our wheat from destruction.”

“Talk about taking one for the team,” Allen replies, snapping a photo of the statue.

Allen notices the statue's base.

“What’s with the empty liquor bottles?”

“He likes his cognac,” Tucker explains.

“So, do I. Is there a bar still open around here, or is everyone waiting for the next herd of goats to cross the border?”

***

“What an unusual-looking guy,” Mo says, marveling at the man at the end of the bar.

“He reminds me of the pictures I’ve seen of The Leatherman,” Allen replies.

The man’s worn clothes are splattered with dried mud, and his faded, raggedy hat has lost its deep blue color. His curly brown hair appears singed and uneven, and his stained front teeth need attention.

The bartender, a bright-eyed brunette with a blue lightning-bolt tattoo on her right arm, sets glasses of cognac in front of the couple. “That’s Lightning Larry,” she says with pride.

“The legendary human lightning rod?” Allen asks, taking a picture of him. “From the way you people talk about him, I thought he was dead.”

“Would you like to meet him?” the bartender asks. “The more cognac he drinks, the better his stories get. Hey, Larry, c’mon over here!”

Larry sways across the barroom floor. Plopping down next to Allen, he offers his hand. Allen is reluctant to shake it until he realizes the dark patches he’s mistaken for grime are burn marks.

“I’m Allen Towne. This is my wife, Mo. I hear you’re living proof that lightning really can strike twice in the same place.”

“Yeah, if that same place is anywhere I’m standin’ at. I wish I’d only been hit twice.”

“How many times have you been hit?” Mo asks.

“At least a dozen. The first time was when I was a teenager, fifteen or so. A big thunderstorm was comin’, so I thought it would be cool to watch it from the fire tower. Lightning struck the tower. I saw sparks runnin’ up and down the metal, then they jumped onto me. I ran all the way home with my clothes and hair on fire. Luckily, when my pop saw me standin’ in the doorway smolderin’, he threw a bucket of water on me.”

“Were you badly hurt?” Mo asks.

“I couldn’t grow hair on my arms or legs anymore.”

“You said you were hit twice in the same spot,” Allen says.

“Can I get some cognac? Hey, Solveig, how about a refill? I was playin’ baseball at the park. A storm rolled in in a matter of seconds. I could see the black horizon comin’ toward me. I watched the other team’s right fielder try to outrun a sheet of rain. He couldn’t. It was on me, too, before I knew it. I was holdin’ a metal bat. A bolt of lightning ran down the bat and down my arm. I got knocked off my feet, out of my shoes, and hit the backstop. When I came to, my burning spikes were still standin’ where I’d been.”

“And it happened again?” Allen asks.

“You think I’d learn,” Larry replies, smiling at Solveig as she sets a drink in front of him.

“The followin’ year, I was at the plate again when a storm swooped in, this time from behind me. I threw the bat aside when the lightnin’ struck, thinkin’ I’d be okay since I wasn’t holdin’ anythin’ metal. Then I realized it had struck the metal backstop behind me. I got flung halfway to the pitcher’s mound. I woke up with dirt in my mouth. I heard sizzlin’. It was what was left of the beard I’d spent a year growin’. When my teammates picked me up, we all laughed ‘cause an image of my body had been burned into the grass.”

“Getting hit must be pretty painful,” Mo notes.

Larry raises his glass, downing it. “This numbs the pain... Gettin’ struck is like bein’ barbecued. As a result, I always feel hot. I’m always askin’ folks to pick up the phone because my ears ring most of the time. My eyesight is blurry, and no, it ain’t just the cognac. But the worst part is I can’t taste nothin’. Everythin’ tastes like a tin can. And boy, I used to love a good steak.”

“I’d be glad to buy you one if you let me write a story about you.”

Solveig brings Larry another cognac.

“What do you think, Solveig?” Larry asks.

“Go ahead. You could use the money. Larry’s paid a price for being a human lightning rod. He can’t keep a job, has to stay trashed to ease the pain from being scorched so often, and suffers from headaches, nerve damage, and memory loss.”

“I’m fine,” Larry insists. “Except I gotta carry a bottle of water with me at all times in case I get hit by a bolt of lightnin’ and catch fire.”

A clap of thunder echoes outside. Larry grits his stained teeth.

“You can add PTSD to the list of Larry’s troubles,” Solveig adds.

“Did you ever consider moving away from Saint-Louis?”

“They’d follow me.”

“Who?”

“Not who, but what. The storms. They’d follow me.”

Allen rolls his eyes.

“No, I’m serious. I tried to leave Saint-Louis once. I got in my old Renault and was gonna go to France. A storm come in and a bolt hit my car. I had the windows open, so the next bolt hit me, travelin’ down my arms and legs. I skidded across the road and into a ditch and was knocked out. When I came to, my eyebrows were still smokin’. Luckily, I had that bottle of water with me.”

A clap of thunder sounds. The restaurant’s lights flicker, then go out.

“Sorry, folks, it’s the price one pays for living in a small village,” Solveig says.

“No problem,” Mo replies. “A few candles and it’ll feel like I’m back in college at a mixer.”

Larry finishes his drink. Letting out a melancholy sigh, he heads for the door.

“Where are you going, Larry?” Allen calls after him. “Given your track record, I’d think you’d want to stay inside until the latest storm passes.”

“That won’t get the lights back on. Besides, the storm is callin’ to me.”

Allen and Mo run to the front window, trying to see Larry through the downpour.

“What’s he doing?” Mo asks.

“Standing in the driveway with his hands raised in the air.”

Cradling several voter candles, Solveig reenters the barroom.

“Where’s Larry?”

Allen cocks his thumb toward the window.

“You let him go outside? He forgets how lucky he’s been and that lightning can kill him.”

The trio presses their faces against the window, trying to see through the downpour.

A massive bolt of lightning streaks across the sky, illuminating Larry.

A second bolt of lightning strikes him in the chest.

Solveig runs outside, grabbing Larry before he can collapse onto the wet pavement.

Solveig pulls a burning Larry inside, yelling, “Get the fire extinguisher!”

Allen pulls the fire extinguisher off the wall, spraying the flames engulfing Larry.

Coughing and spitting foam, Larry gives a thumbs up.

The trio sits Larry down in a wooden chair, wiping Larry’s charred skin with wet towels.

“You know you should be dead, right?” Mo asks.

“I’ve never felt more alive!”

“You need to go to the hospital, Larry,” Solveig says.

“Or a firehouse,” Allen adds as whisps of smoke rise from his clothes. “Why’d you do that?”

“To keep the lightning from striking the fields. We need them.”

Standing, Larry walks to a wall socket next to the bar. He licks his finger, then sticks it in the socket.

The restaurant's lights come back on.

“I guess his mother didn’t warn him not to play with electricity,” Allen says.

***

Chief Renaud Rouler hurriedly enters Mayor Dudley Dubarry’s office. Bald, rotund, and short of breath from smoking imported cigars, fifty-eight-year-old Dubarry has served as Mayor of Saint-Louis for thirty years and has no intention of retiring.

Mayor Dubarry puffs wholeheartedly on his cigar as he gazes out of the second-floor window.

“No smoking in municipal buildings,” Chief Rouler reminds him.

Mayor Dubarry gives the tall, solemn-looking Chief a look that reminds him who is in charge.

“The Creskins are coming, Mayor.”

“You’re positive?”

“They were first seen gathering outside of the Mignon Line a few hours ago. At least fifty of them.”

Mayor Dubarry allows himself a smile.

“The Mignon Line has concrete fortifications, obstacles, and more than twenty large guns. It’s impenetrable.”

“That’s why they went around it.”

Mayor Dubarry chokes as his features disappear under a cloud of smoke.

“The Creskins hired Martin Koopmans to lead their army,” Chief Rouler reports.

“Koopmans… Any relation to the nutter who collects tin cans downtown and wears a beanie with a propeller on it?”

“The same.”

“Then victory is assured.”

“We should have given them what they wanted,” Chief Rouler says.

“Our wheat for a dead bunch of nanny goats? They want our wheat so they can grow their own strain and sell it. But they’re still a superstitious, uneducated lot. After all, they worship the Burning Man. They think he’s some sort of god.”

Chief Rouler smirks. “I guess that’s expected of people who believe that an eight-foot-tall wooden statue of a man symbolizes their faith, hope, and redemption.”

Mayor Dubarry looks at the clouds gathering on the horizon.

“How many men have volunteered to fight the Creskins?”

“We can just about match their fifty men if we include Claude Akin and Warren Wade. They’re in wheelchairs, but they’re feisty.”

Mayor Dubarry blows a smoke ring. “We can still win this war. I’ve got an idea. Bring Lightning Larry to me.”

***

Mayor Dubarry and Chief Rouler sigh as thunder clouds blacken the afternoon sky.

“Another storm,” Mayor Dubarry laments. “We need to protect our fields, Larry, your fields, and end the war. You know what has to happen.”

Larry gives the Mayor a thumbs up. “Yes, sir!”

Chief Rouler pours Larry another glass of cognac. Larry finishes it in a few swallows.

“Enough?”

“I only see one of you,” Larry replies. “Maybe one more.”

Lightning streaks across the sky.

Larry gulps down another glass of cognac.

“That should be enough to help me conduct the lightning.”

A bolt of lightning strikes a nearby tree, splitting it in half.

“I think Mother Nature is telling us to vamoose,” Chief Rouler says.

Mayor Debarry and Chief Rouler shake Larry’s hand.

“You may well be the bravest man I’ve ever known,” Mayor Dubarry says.

“Certainly, the drunkest,” Larry replies, watching the two men scurry away.

Honking loudly, a flight of frightened geese retreats into the encroaching darkness.

Thunder rumbles above Larry.

“Show time,” he says, smiling.

Larry spreads his arms. A blinding streak of lightning passes through him. He can feel his blood boiling and his brain cells frying as his hair sizzles.

His generous mop of hair a flaming beacon, Larry screams as his jeans and flannel shirt catch fire.

Larry sprints past the village gates, running down the road toward the Creskins’ waiting army.

A Creskin soldier shouts, “It’s the Burning Man!”

Screaming in agony, Larry runs in circles around the Creskin army.

The Creskins drop their weapons, falling to their knees in surrender.

***

Allen gives Solveig a bottle of cognac.

“Tell Larry it’s from us. I wish we could give it to him in person, but we’re due in France.”

“You might be able to give it to him after all,” Solveig says, pointing up the street.

Larry, his hair and clothes smoldering, dances proudly toward them. A herd of goats follows gleefully behind him.