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He's chasing tornadoes I'm just waiting calmly Chasing tornadoes - Talula by Tori Amos 
 There is a house on top of the tallest hill in a small town called Evansville.The house has green shutters and a brown roof. The chimney seems like it could fall off any day now, but it has looked that way for about ten years and it hasn't confirmed suspicions of its instability yet. Besides, if it did fall off, who would fix it?No one had ever seen anyone come out of the house. Everyone, however, knew that it was occupied. The figures that people could sometimes make out through the windows were enough proof of that. The house never received any mail. No sounds could be heard from the inside.
It was found out that it couldn't be burned down by fire, thanks to the attempts of the residential mailman and Mrs. Mudry who taught the local kindergarten. Neither of them was punished for attempted arson.The residents of the town never referred to the house in conversation; in fact, they never referred to the house at all. Only when a cold wind sailed the streets and whistled in the trees did the citizens glance in its general direction. When they shivered, it may have only been because of the cold.Inside of the house... "Edna!" the young girl with the runny nose screeched, "Andrew's taking too long in the shower again!"
Edna Hurricane sighed and rose up from the brown battered armchair with the tear in the side. She walked over to the bathroom door.
"Andrew!" she yelled, her voice still strong despite her age, "Hurry up! The other people in this house need to use the shower, too!"
A squeak, and the water shut off. A few seconds later, Andrew stepped out, water dripping all over the place from his soaking hair, and puddles forming underneath of the towel wrapped around his waist.
He glared at them. "It's not as if we're going to go anywhere."
"Well, you should reserve the hot water for the more _important_ members of the family!" his little sister, Adrienne, retorted.
Edna didn't correct her.
Andrew stared at his feet and sighed. It was times like these when Andrew would've given anything _not_ to be part of the Hurricane family. Living here was, in Andrew's mind, the equivalent of being stuck in a dentist's chair. Not that he had ever been to the dentist, mind you, but Andrew had read about them and knew that they were twisted and sadistic only by the secondhand reports of fictional characters.
Andrew Hurricane, as well as the rest of his family, was allowed to leave the house only once in his life. Once. And Andrew had used that up about 7 or 8 years ago, when he had gone to play outside for one blissful day. He had been having one of the best times in his life, breathing in all of the rich scents and playing with the little toy houses and cars that seemed to be littered everywhere. He had been having such fun...
"Andrew! Stop standing there dripping and get dressed! You are such an idiot! The floors will be covered with water the rate you're going!" Edna said sharply, awakening him out of his daydream.
He mustered up his courage and said, "I'm not an idiot."
She turned on him. "Don't contradict me! Look at the last time you went outside! You claimed that you were _playing_ and you killed 38 people! You are more than an idiot; you are
pathetic!"
�Don't you dare cry.' He ordered himself. �Don't you shed a tear.'
To Edna, he said softly, "It was an accident."
If looks could kill, Andrew would have been splattered across the hallway. All she said, though, was, "Dolt." and walked back to her chair.
Andrew stomped down the hallway to his room. He would have gone inside to sulk, like he usually did when family arguments occurred, but the door appeared to be locked from the inside. Apparently Greg had gotten there first.
"Darn it, Greg!" he shouted, pounding the door, "Open up!"
He heard Edna shout something at him from the other end of the house. Probably to be quiet so he won't disturb the more _important_ members of the household. He glared at the solid oak door that barred his way from his refuge, which unfortunately was shared with his brother Gregory, who wouldn't let him in even when all he was wearing was a towel.
"Come on, buttwipe! Let me in!" He began hitting the door rhythmically, ignoring how red his fists were becoming.
Finally, the door opened a crack.
"What do you want?" his brother eyed him for a moment, then a hand reached out and grabbed his towel.
It took Andrew a moment to realize what had happened. When his second littlest sister Marisa started laughing, however, he began to run.
He couldn't go to the bathroom; Adrienne was in there. And his other sibling's rooms were out of the question because they locked their doors and they hated him just as much as every other member of the Hurricane family.
�It isn't fair!' He thought to himself as he sneaked over to the coat closet to snag his trench coat.
�Just because I killed a few people while playing outside doesn't just give them the right to treat me this way!' He thought and glared at Edna, who was reading one of her many romance books she had picked up the last time she went outside.
Edna had killed a lot of people, too! Like, twenty-one or something. It was just that Edna was the oldest member of the family in this house, so no one yelled at her for it.
He returned to pounding on his bedroom door.
Finally, Greg opened up.
"Jeez-us, Andrew! I was trying to study!"
"It's my room, too!" he retorted and buried his head underneath his pillow to sulk and hide any random tears.
Marisa walked in without knocking. He had forgotten to lock the door.
"Hey, dork! Edna says for you to clean up all the water you dripped." She told him, tapping him on the back of his head.
"Go away."
"You're not supposed to treat the more important members of the family that way." She quoted, and skipped out of the room.
He sat up and watched her go out. "I hope you slip onto your face so that your jaw swells up" he muttered, "so everyone can tell how much of a big mouth you are."
Greg glanced over and realized Andrew was talking to himself. "Shut up, idiot. Make that up yourself?" He said and turned back to his sports magazine, which he had read thirty-odd times already.
Andrew began to cry, the straw finally breaking the proverbial camel's back. He hated it here! Everyone was always so mean to him. Even if he were to run away, he knew for certain that no one would even miss him...
He must have fallen asleep. His pillow had turned into raw, black earth and the ceiling had somehow transformed into a grey, swirling sky. He got to his feet, carefully brushing off the dirt on his clothes, and looked around. He was in a trailer park. It looked familiar, somehow, but Andrew couldn't place it."Hello there, boy!" A deep, scratchy, southern voice said, seeming to come from all directions at once. "You seem a little lost."
He looked around, turning, but no one was in sight.
"W-Who's there?" He asked, his voice shaking despite his best abilities to control it.
"Why, me, of course. Over here, boy!" A whistle came from behind him, and Andrew turned to see an ancient, grinning black man sitting by a trailer. In his brown, wrinkled hands he held a saxophone.
"Where am I?" he asked him, wringing his hands. The old man made him feel guilty and self-conscious, somehow."Doesn't matter. What matters is where you're gonna be five minutes from now."
"Huh?" Andrew said, "And where would that be"?
"A place where everyone hates you, including yourself. Don't hate yourself, boy. The only reason the others didn't kill as many people is only because of luck."
Andrew looked down at his feet. The feeling of guilt was getting worse and worse, and Andrew didn't know why. In all honesty, he didn't really feel _that_ bad about accidentally murdering 38 humans, but the way his family treated him he felt as if he was supposed to. "But it's my fault. I'm just dumb and pathetic. I killed all those people."
"Horse kaka." The man grabbed Andrew's face with his old, wrinkled hands and forced it up. "Now you listen here, boy, and you listen well. It's not your fault. It was an accident. All of your family members understand that, but it makes them feel important to put you down."
Andrew tried to pull out of the man's grip, but it was like iron.
"Stay still, boy! Unless you want to spend the rest of your life being told how stupid you are, you're gonna have to run away."
The old man let go of him, and smiled. "Don't be afraid boy. If we move, the storm'll keep behind us. Here, listen to my song."
The old man took the saxophone to his lips and began to play. It felt like love itself was being formed from the music. Suddenly, the winds around them grew stronger and stronger, and the old man was sucked into the air.
"Don't let the storm catch you, boy! Run away!" He shouted through the storm. "Run away, boy! Run!"
And then Andrew woke up.
"Oh my God, was that a dream?" He wondered out loud, only to have Greg throw a pillow at him for talking to himself, again.
�The old man told me to run away before the storm got me, but it got him instead. Perhaps I should leave. There's nothing left for me here.'
Andrew lay still and thought for a half hour. He tried to come up with as many convincing reasons to stay as he could. When he couldn't even come up with one, he decided. He would run away and as soon as possible.
Later that night... Andrew was being careful. He had already packed enough clothes to last a week and wrote a goodbye note, although he didn't really have anyone to say goodbye to. Perhaps he left it to make certain that they knew he was gone. With the bag on his shoulders, he quietly opened the door, wincing at the sharp squeal of angry hinges that reverberated across the room.
Not breathing, he watched as Greg turned over on his other side and resumed snoring. Safe. For now.
He slid past the door and quietly closed it again. The moon was bright and full, streaming its light through the windows and onto the wooden floor of the hallway. He could still see the initials he had carved into the banister when he was two, when his family actually liked him.
�Andrew Hurricane' the large, scrawled letters spelled out. He sighed and remembered how happy he had been before he'd made that one mistake. The Hurricane family would never have a good name because of him, or so Edna was fond of telling Andrew.
He recalled her stormy, wrinkled face. Without a look back, he stepped out of the door and into his new life.
�Home free!' He thought blithely as he strolled quickly down the remains of the driveway. �Or, rather, free from home!' Giggling, he broke into a run, kicking up chunks of concrete as he went. "Whoo!" He cried loudly, then realized that shouting might wake some of the family up.
Then he realized that they wouldn't go outside. He was free!
Running faster and faster, feeling the wind swirl around him, he began to skip down the streets of Evansville, the town he had lived in his entire life.
Six hours later... "In later reports, the Sheriff of Evansville, a small town on the eastern coast, claimed that the hurricane came down so quickly that the citizens had no chance to prepare." The news anchor Beatrice McHiggans frowned a bit, which signaled the camera man to turn the lens so that the remains of the trailer park would be in full view to the home audience.
"There have been over 200 casualties, and almost all of the homes in this community
have been destroyed. In fact, the latest information I have been given is that only one house has been reported undamaged by the hurricane." She went on, and nodded.
The cameraman turned the tripod clockwise to show a crumbling, Victorian mansion resting on top of a huge hill. "This house, despite its hazardous location," the woman stated, "is in the same condition it was before the storm struck. I have now a local man to ask his reaction upon these terrible events. Sir?" She asked, turning to an oily haired farmer who would be called by the most decent of gentlemen undereducated, and by the majority of people out there, a hick.
"Ah-yep?" he said, wiping the sweat off his brow by means of a handkerchief the anchor knew had once, long ago, been white.
"Sir, how do you feel about all this? What are your thoughts?"The man seemed to think this over, complicated as it was, and then said after a full minute's time, "Bad."
This caught the anchor woman off-guard, but she took it in stride, and continued. "But, sir, what about that house over there? How do you think that the house survived despite the fact that it was up where the winds should have been strongest?"
The hillbilly glanced at that house, then visibly paled underneath his clammy, dirt-streaked skin. "I, ah, don't talk about that house there! I never do! You leave me be!" He yelled, and scampered away.
The woman turned back to the camera and gave a small smile, as if sharing a private joke with the live audience watching from all over the United States. "Well, I guess this disaster has taken its toll on the most fragile of minds. Back to you, John."
"And cut!" The camera man said, shutting off the transmission. "Good job, Bernice. What do you think that old hick was scared of, anyway?"
Bernice, already examining the town for new footage, smiled at her assistant and said, shrugging, "It's just a local crazy. Nothing worth our attention."
The cameraman nodded and hefted up the camera to the truck, sparring a glance at the old house. Involuntarily, he shivered, even though the temperature was seventy degrees and rising.
The Appalachian Mountains... "Whee!" Andrew had first shouted when he had started his runaway. It seemed like a long time ago, when he had left his home. Just like last time, there were lots of toy trucks and houses to play with, but soon that got boring. So Andrew had decided to head west, where he heard that cowboys and Indians still lived and fought their battles, according to one of the books he had read in their library in the eastern wing. Unfortunately, the books didn't mention anything about hills. Andrew was starting to get thirsty.
"Ugh..." He mumbled as he spotted another, steeper hill that he would have to climb. The rocks were digging into his feet. His shoes had proven their apparent lack of worth a few miles back, when he noticed that the bottoms of his sneakers had withered away to nothing.
�Serves me right!' He said angrily to himself. �I should've remembered to bring another pair. Some water, too!'
He had never been dehydrated before. Whenever a relative died, it was because of dehydration. Andrew was starting to get scared.
"My god. These hills are starting to look like mountain," He murmured to himself, trying not to stumble into a boulder on the right. "Maybe I should take a quick rest..."
Suddenly, he heard a strange sound, like music. It was coming from far away, true, but it was definitely not something made by any plant or animal. He continued climbing, forcing himself up the cruel, steep path. Forcing his bruised feet against the ground, he pushed himself up against gravity and raised his head. About what seemed a million miles away, yet close enough to make out, he could see one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen, standing at the far end of the mountain range. She was standing alone next to a rock and was watching him. He wasn't quite certain how he knew that she was watching him, but Andrew was sure she was, the same way he was certain she was beautiful. He could tell she was slim, with light hair and skin. Despite the lack of details, he knew in his heart that she was perfect, and that he must tell her so. Andrew made up his mind right then to make it across, no matter what the challenge.
The sun, however, had never been so bright, so hot, or so cruel. It bore down on him with the weight of a thousand men, and he had never been that strong. Greg used to beat him up on the boring days when he couldn't find anything to do but damage his siblings. Andrew had always been the closest one there. It entertained his brothers and sisters, at any rate, but it seldom entertained Andrew himself. He had always been too weak to fight back, but he had always gone through those ordeals with the knowledge in the back of his mind that one day he would be stronger; that one day he wouldn't be a victim anymore.
It was only when he climbed up the tallest of the mountains that he had yet encountered that Andrew realized that he could die of dehydration. After all, he was sweating up a storm.
Same time, a bit farther east... A TV camera was perched on one of the sharp ledges of the road. The same female anchor stood in front of it.
"This is Beatrice McHiggans reporting for WCB news, in the Appalachian mountains. Apparently, something is happening here that none had ever expected to happen. A hurricane is crossing the mountains into the Midwest.
"You see, hurricanes stick to the eastern coast because they can't cross the Appalachian mountains. Or at least, that's what we had originally assumed. Unfortunately for the folks out west, it seems that this particular hurricane, branded Hurricane Andy by the folks at home because of its similarities to Hurricane Andrew in 1992, has nearly reached the Great Plains.
"Let's cross our fingers, folks, because this logic-defying hurricane will reach the far edge of the Appalachian mountains in about 5 hours. This is Beatrice McHiggans; back to you, Dave."
Half a day and 20 miles later... The girl was closer now. Andrew could see that her hair was a light golden brown and her sweater was a cherry red. She was sitting against a small tree, reading a book.
"Hey!" He tried to shout, but his throat, which was already swollen, reminded him of just
how impossible it was to try and speak while dehydrated. He moaned and tried to swallow, but his mouth was as dry as the desert and he couldn't quite remember how to form words anymore, anyway.
But the girl would know, if he could catch up to her. There she was, waiting for him. He began to run, ignoring the pain as the blisters on the bottom of his feet popped. She was now only at the bottom of this one, small mountain. All he had to do was run and get her, and then she'd know he existed.
Unfortunately, he didn't see the rock. As Andrew fell flat on his face and began to tumble down the rest of the mountain, he might have noticed the girl at the foot running toward him. If he did, he probably discounted it as a hallucination a few seconds before he blacked out.
Andrew was dreaming again.
The old man was once more sitting by his trailer, but the sky was a light blue, with only a hint of turmoil in the far east.
"Hello, sir."
The old man began to laugh. "Heh heh heh. Would you listen to that? Sir!" Andrew stood self-conciously as the old man got over his amusement.
"No, boy, you can call me Henry." He held out his hand, and Andrew tentatively began to shake it. He had never shaken hands with anyone before. No one in his family ever touched him, except to hit him.
"Hi. I'm Andrew."
The old man, Henry, nodded. "I know. You killed me back in 1992, remember? Blew me clean away."
"Huh?" He asked, confused. He had thought that once you killed someone, they couldn't ever come back.
The old man, however, refused to clarify. "That girl you saw. You like her, don't ya?"
Andrew blushed. "Well, I guess..."
Henry chuckled, which was a nice and pleasant sound. His family only laughed, or cackled. Andrew never shared in their jokes, though, because it was usually at him."Come on, boy! Don't you ever be ashamed of love. If you do, you'll end up like your family over there." He gestured towards the east, where the skies were black and stormy. "Now, you go and find that girl. If she runs, chase after her. It'll be worth it."
He grinned at Andrew, his teeth a shocking white against his dark skin. "I don't mind that I'm dead now. No one ever minds, after they bite the big one. They find out that there's always somewhere better to go, even if they were bad news when they were alive. The only thing I regret, though, is that no one will ever hear my music again."
Andrew felt bad, but offered a small smile. "I'll listen."
Henry nodded and picked up his instrument. "This is my love song. My old pal Calloway once told me that it was love itself. I'm not certain if it's that good, but I like it sure as dandy."
With that, Henry began to play.
When Andrew woke up, he was lying in a grassy field next to a pitcher of water, which he immediately gulped down. He guessed he must have looked funny, because he heard a giggle come from behind a clump of tall grass, and then saw a flash of cherry red.
"Hello?" He called out, his voice still raspy, but a lot better than what it had been. There was no answer, but he heard some movement, and the sounds of shuffling. Suddenly, the girl with the golden brown hair raced out away from him.
"Hey, come back!" He rasped, ignoring the sharp pain in his stomach as he chased after her. She paused and looked back at him, then smiled charmingly before racing off again.
Andrew sighed. It was obvious she didn't want to talk to him. He sat back down again in the middle of a clump of weeds, not caring what might be living in it. The sky here was beautiful, with livid reds and blues and pinks and yellows all rolled into one. He fell on his back
and watched the clouds move from one corner of the sky to the other.
The sun was setting, lighting fire in the sky. Andrew had never seen a sunset like this when he played down south those many years ago. The only thing that measured up was the song played by the old black man in his dreams. Suddenly, Andrew remembered where he had seen Henry before.
Before, when he was down in Florida, he had heard a brief lament on a saxophone, from
an old, ancient black man who lived in a trailer. He was sitting outside his home and playing his instrument with the greatest care, and it was visible to Andrew, even from way up in the sky, that the man loved that saxophone more than Andrew himself had ever been cared for.
In the song that the old black man played, Andrew heard love itself. The wind around him quieted while the player finished his piece, and only then Andrew began to move. Against his will, the winds around him returned, and the man was blown away.
It was then that Andrew learned of loss and sorrow, and knew it was time to return home. Even though he had never heard anything resembling that saxophone music in his house, he returned to utter humility and hatred in a silent and loveless family. He wished he hadn't killed that man, if only to ascertain that he would continue making his music.
Only that one love song could've compared to the sky as the sun dipped below the mountains faster then Andrew would've thought possible.
"This is so beautiful." He breathed, as the last ray disappeared behind the mountain top.
"Yes, it is."
Andrew jumped. The girl had returned, and was standing beside him. Even in the dim light, she was lovely.
Although he was mentally kicking himself, Andrew began to stammer. "Um...h-hi. I'm An-Andrew Hurricane. H-hi."
She smiled at him, disarmingly, and sat down next to him. "Hello. I'm Talula Tornado. I saw you coming down the mountain."
She had a strong accent that he couldn't place, but it sounded rich and inviting, all the same. Her hair was now up in a bun, and she had changed her clothes. The possibility never entered his mind that she had dressed up to meet him.
"Thank you for bringing me water."
"No problem, Andrew." She said, plucking up a wild flower that had been growing near her foot. "You looked like you were about to die of thirst, and I didn't want that to happen."
He blushed, although he was certain that in the red light Talula wouldn't be able to notice. "Why not?"
She frowned, her forehead wrinkling. "What do you mean, why not?"
He explained. "You don't know me. I could be an evil serial killer monster or something and you wouldn't have known it and saved me."
Talula giggled. "I don't think that you're a monster, and even if you were, I would have still brought you that water."
"Well, um, thank you."
She grinned at him. "You said that already."
They sat there in silence, listening to the hum of insects as the first stars began to shine their way into the sky. Talula's lips were moving as she studiously plucked the petals from the wild flower. Andrew wasn't certain what she was doing, but she seemed well satisfied as she plucked the final petal from the stem.
She turned to him. "Well, it's going to get a little wee bit cold out here, so do you want to stay the night at my place?"
Andrew couldn't believe his luck. He nodded enthusiastically. "Thank you so much. I didn't know where I was going to sleep tonight."
She looked at him for a minute.
"You mean, you don't have anywhere to go?" She asked him."Nope," he answered, "I ran away from home."
"Why?"
"They didn't love me."
She believed him, and stood up. "Well, I'm going to ask if you can stay with us."
He was star struck. "You're kidding! They wouldn't let me stay!"
"Oh?" She challenged. "And how would you know?"
"Well, um," he began, "I'm not a member of your family."
She thought about that. "You look like a Tornado. Your skin is all dry like ours is, and your hair is all wind-blown."
"But I'm a Hurricane!" He protested.
"Not anymore. You ran away, remember?"
"Oh, yeah." He muttered. This was really weird. He hated his family, certainly, but he wasn't certain if he really didn't want to have at least one thing in common with them.
"And you did lose a lot of water on the way, right?"
"...Right."
"So," She decided. "You're no longer a Hurricane, so you can be Andrew Tornado."
Something was wrong. She was starting to make sense. "Um, can I sleep in your barn tonight?"
"Sure. I'll ask Mama if you can stay in the house with us, tomorrow. Maybe there'll be room in my sister Ade's bedroom, and I think Heather or Leo might have room, too."She held out her hand and pulled him up. "Come on." She said, beginning to run. "We'll be at my house a lot sooner if we hurry."
Andrew began to follow, racing up the light hills, when he suddenly skidded to a dead halt. He thought that he had heard music in the wind. He thought he had heard the song that the old black man had played.
�Nah.' He decided, and continued running. �Can't be. That old man is long dead.'
Still, while he ran after Talula, Andrew heard the unmistakable sounds of a saxophone in the wind.
Sometime later... "This is Beatrice McHiggans coming to you live from the town of Marie, Kansas. Hours ago this community was ravaged by twin tornadoes which seemed to appear out of nowhere, according to the locals. I have here a Marie elementary school teacher, Mr. John Monroe. Excuse me, Mr. Monroe?"
Mr. Monroe, a young looking man with striking blue eyes, turned to the camera. "Hello, Beatrice. My wife and I watch you all the time on the television."
Beatrice smiled. She loved it when she met fans. "Thank you, Mr. Monroe. What is your opinion of this tragic event?"
"Well, the only thing I can think of saying is that it was kinda odd."
Beatrice pressed her lips. "Really? Explain."
"Well, the tornadoes. They seemed to be, well, chasing each other. Like some kinda
game. Hide and seek, or something. I know, because the wife and I watched them for a minute,
before taking cover."
"Oh, really?" She asked him, then turned back to the camera. "Well, folks. It's been quite a week for strange weather phenomenon. It seems that I've been chasing tornadoes and hurricanes all over the place. Let's hope that next week will be a bit more normal, hmm? This is Beatrice McHiggans, reporting live at Marie, Kansas."
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