Rain: The Colonel

The air was as quiet as any air has ever been precluding a storm of phenomenal proportions; the Colonel sat at the weathered iron gate the edged the boulevard, in an old metal folding chair propped on two legs at such a sharp angle it was a wonder to onlookers that he didn’t topple over; but the Colonel was an experienced hand, although he appeared at all times to be half asleep. Here comes the lovely young Sarasina to talk to him about his overdue grocery payments; he hardly looks up, though it would be the privilege of any young man in the town to simply look in the direction of the proprietor of the grocery store.

“Colonel, I want to talk to you.”

“Ah so?”

“Yes, it’s about this month’s payment, and last month’s too.”

“Ah so?”

“Colonel, you have never paid.”

“Ah so? Blame my nephew,” the nephew in question, being the only surviving member of the Colonel’s family, was in theory in charge of all the old man’s monetary affairs; the rest of the family had been killed by various blood feuds, plagues, and wars in the years since the Colonel had retired from the military at the age of 76.

“Colonel, I cannot continue to offer you credit.”

“Ah so?”

“Colonel, you owe me thirty-seven dollars and nineteen cents.”

This figure the Colonel dismissed with a desultory wave of his hand. “There’s money inside the house. Run along and get it.”

Sarasin protested that she would never dream of removing the offending money, but the Colonel insisted, never once removing his hat, nor moving any part of his anatomy more than an inch in any direction; never once a greeting—no hello ma’am, no how’s business, apart from my debts, no lovely weather we’re having; but that was the way of the Colonel. The townspeople would have whispered to each other, as they did habitually, as they passed. But there was no-one in the streets. They had all gone home to escape the impending rain.