The Raining Men
Last night it rained men, and by gum, it wasn't pretty. At about a quarter past nine
they started coming down, gradually at first, then this great shower of bodies
unleashed by the heavens. There were all types: men in suits, men in pajamas, bald
men, fat men, Haitian men, gay men, men so drunk they could hardly make out what was
going on--the lot of them tumbled hollering from the sky, arms and legs flailing and
thrashing like they were trying to swim their way back up into the clouds, and carrying
on like that the whole way down, right up until when they landed with a dull thud onto
the earth. You'd hear the bones snapping, tearing through muscle and skin, and they'd
just be this silent mess lying on the pavement, or wherever they happened to land.
It started inconspicuously enough: I heard a "THUMP!" and looked up from the soup bowl
I was scrubbing, out the kitchen window and onto the front yard, where a man was lying
in my tulips. At first I figured it had to be Mr. Henderson from down the road, who has
a tendency to fall asleep in people's gardens on his way home from the pub. But this
chap seemed a bit thin, and he was done up in linens--not the usual golf shirt and
bblue jeans--with skin that seemed a lot blacker than I remember Mr. Henderson's. A few
minutes passed, and then another fellow dropped out of nowhere and crashed through the
branches of my cherry tree, which really is a shame because it was just starting
to blossom. This one ended up sprawled on the lawn like a pile of sticks, with all
those lovely white petals sprinkled around him.
So I put the dishtowel down and went over to Janis's. I took my umbrella, which I can't
think now would've done much good had one of those men come crashing down on top of
me. As it was, the second I rang the doorbell, a chap of about sixty or so landed on
Janis's house--how he didn't go through and into the sitting room I'll never
guess--and came sliding down onto the driveway, right beside Janis's new Honda. His
skull was split open like a coconut, and the poor fellow's brains were oozing out of
it in a mess of pinkish, grey, mealy worms. Janis opened the door and, wild-eyed,
whisked me inside.
Janis used to be a nun. She turnned to me with a dazed look on her face, crossed
herself and whispered "Hallelujah, Mae. It's raining men."
"Darn tootin'," I said, nodding.
There was a crash from outside. We moved to the front window and looked out--across
the road a new man was draped over the hood of the LeBlancs' Pontiac, his head punching
a hole through the windshield. Of course these days it's just Daniel at the LeBlancs',
June having passed on at Christmas--only two months after my Larry. But at least with
June gone, between Janis, Elise Gammel and me, we've got even numbers now for on our
whist nights.
Then it really started coming down--an out-and-out downpour. Men came tumbling out of
the sky from everywhere, hundreds of them. Janis's poor house was getting bludgeoned by
them, and we stood in her living room listening as they slammed onto her roof,
watching as they crashed into her garden. Dead men started piling up in the road two
and three deep, those landing on top afforded a sort of cushion by the rest, and
surviving. Some of these lucky chaps started crawling around over the mound of bodies,
their limbs dangling at precarious angles. This was a bit off-putting.
"Let's turn on the weather," I suggested. I sat down on the couch. Janis eased into the
spot beside me.
On the television a woman stood before a map of the country, pointing to our town. She
seemed to be going about it all with a decided air of professionalism, explaining
calmly about our raining men. I caught something about a high pressure system before
Janis interrupted.
"She's good, this weather girl."
I had to agree. "You bet your socks she is, Janis."
At this we turrned and looked at one another. Janis's face was wet like paper, her eyes
little puddles of milky blue. Gently, I took her hand in mine, turned it over, felt the
ridges of bones and veins snaking beneath the skin. And then, before I knew it, Janis
fell into my arms, her mouth found mine and she kissed me, hard, and I kissed her back.
We held each other like that, faces locked together, while outside the rain of bodies
thundered into the house like a thousand persistent salesmen, begging to be let in.
Pasha Malla lives in Montreal.