A Dark and Stormy Night

A humor short story

Photo by Henry Be on Unsplash

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It was a dark and stormy night: the sky was the perfect shade of aquamarine mixed with apricot and pink rose toward the setting sun and dotted with wispy clouds. The air was warm and smelled of oranges and rambutans. A perfect night for sitting on the porch with a cold drink. A Dark n’ Stormy night. 

I put three cubes of ice in the highball glass and sloshed what I estimated to be three ounces of dark rum—Plantation—over the ice. It made a pleasant, comfortable sound crossing well-worn ground of my memory. 

A half lime joined the rum but when I looked for the ginger beer, the third ingredient for a Dark n’ Stormy. Although I’ve used Gosling’s in the past, I like the Plantation 5 Year and I’m not such a toady that I’ll let Gosling’s trademark of the Dark n’ Stormy name keep me from using whatever rum I want. 

I reached around the innards of the fridge and came up empty. Then sticking my head inside, I retrieved from the back not a cold unopened can of ginger beer but an empty cardboard case. 

Typical. I couldn’t remember finishing the last can but I was sure that I hadn’t felt like going to the store at the time. Or writing a reminder. When had I last had a Dark n’ Stormy? Yesterday? No, Saturday. Dan came over and we drank out on the porch. 

Dan was my neighbor, a family man with a wife and two kids and a job but when he could he got away and we’d have a drink or two on the porch and talk. He’d glowingly tell me about his family, while griping a bit, and we’d both gripe about our jobs or, if we were giving the masochism a break, about our favorite rock bands and movies. 

A good Dark n’ Stormy is one of my favorite drinks and I wasn’t about to drink rum and lime like a British tar so I plucked the ice from the glass, tossed the ice in the sink, and grabbed my keys and wallet.

The screen door swung gently shut behind me as I went out. I’ve always liked how a screen door swings. It’s so light that it swings like it’s trying not to close; they all seem to make that same squeaking sound as the rusty spring expands and contract—every screen door without fail has a rusty spring and I refuse to apply WD40 to mine—and the wood clunks hollowly on the doorframe when it finally shuts. Love a screen door. 

Dan was putting out his garbage next door. He’s a short guy, but stout and slightly muscled, like Nature had made the average man and then stepped on him for a while. 

“Come over for a drink later?” I said.

He brightened when he saw me, though his widow’s peak still gave him a severe, Mephistophelean air. He cast a compulsive glance toward his house. 

“Yeah, what time?”

“About an hour. I gotta get ginger beer. I’m all out.”

“You’re such an aristocrat. No Coke?”

“What am I, a politician?”

“I didn’t know politicians drink rum and Coke.”

“That way they look relatable like they’re drinking along with all the common folk when there’s really just a splash of rum or no rum at all but they don’t look like a stuck up teetotaler drinking a club soda.”

“You can just drink rum and lime.”

I sniffed. “I’m no philistine.”

“I thought you weren’t a politician.”

“I’m not a lot of things. The ginger is essential.”

Dan laughed. 

I checked my watch. “One hour? I’m gonna walk to Publix.”

“Yeah, one hour,” Dan said.

Down the road, flip flops flopping, gravel crunching underfoot, palm trees on my right lining the road, fronds swaying overhead.

Like a sixth sense, I had the barest warning before Sherman, the local kook, assaulted me with his presence. He seemed to appear from nowhere right in front of me.

“I’m raising money for the water clean up project,” he said, staring at my feet.

“Fluoride?”

“Fluoride? What’s that? No, they’re poisoning the water with a secret formula that combines snake venom and crystal meth. They’ve made sure it’s impossible to detect but I’ve figured out a way to do it. It’s not that hard really but I need money for it. See you just take equal parts liquid soap and Clamato with a touch of plutonium. Just add the tap water and the thing lights up like the Fourth of July. Will you help us?”

From this diatribe I think you understand what Sherman looks like but to complete the picture, he has shaggy hair past his shoulders, covering his face, and a huge beard. Sort of a Ted Kaczynski type, without the bombs. All that’s visible of his face are two water eyes. He wears Hawaiian shirts and smells of incense and cranberry juice.

“Who’s us?”

“Me and mom.”

“Ahuh. Where’d you get the plutonium?”

“I didn’t get it yet. That’s what I’m fundraising for.”

“Then how do you know it lights up when you add water?”

“I’ve run simulations,” he said, as if this was the most obvious thing and I was a moron for asking the question. 

“Are you good, Sherman? Do you need something to eat?”

“No. I ate yesterday.”

“Of course. Look, I gotta get to Publix. I’m trying to get some ginger beer—”

Sherman shook his head. “Terrible. Terrible for you. Ginger—very inflammatory. Worse than water.”

“Ahuh.”

I was looking around now for an escape route, something somewhere, anywhere that I could use to get away. 

I spotted my neighbor Angela walking her dog across the street, blurted out something to Sherman, and took off like a hamster shot from its wheel.

Angela was, to put it mildly, not happy to see me. We’d dated for a few months a year or two before and she hadn’t taken well to my habit of being generally aloof and my attachment to playing the harpsichord at all hours of the night which drove her and her dog, Roger, up the wall.

“Foster, what—”

“Hi, Angela, how’s it going? Keep walking, keep walking, let’s go, it’s Sherman,” I said, guiding her by the arm up the street away from the hirsute kook.

Angela sighed and rolled her eyes but understood immediately. 

Roger, a terrier mix, eyed me suspiciously.

Sherman shouted from across the street. “Hey, Angela. Do you have any cash? I’m raising money.”

“Just keep walking. Catch you later, Sherman! Just keep walking.”

“Don’t drink the water,” Sherman shouted after us.

“What’s he going on about?” Angela said.

“Just the usual conspiracies and cover-ups. Why did I tell him I’d catch him later?”

“You can let go of my arm now, Foster.”

“Ah, sorry.”

“You know, you’re cute when you’re angry,” I said with what I hoped was a twinkle in my eye. Although we hadn’t really gotten along, I still liked her. She had charming streaks of premature gray in her chestnut blonde hair. 

“Don’t patronize me.” The twinkle was not returned. Roger growled, reflecting his master’s demeanor. “And don’t talk to me like we’re still dating.”

I winced. “Sorry. How’s Roger doing?”

“How are you, Roger?” she said, looking down at the dog.

Roger stuck his tongue out giving Angela a smile then shot me another hard look.

“He’s fine. We’re gonna finish our walk so…see you later, or not, I guess. Bye.”

I waved at her retreating back and continued on my way. I had been so grateful to be away from Sherman, I hadn’t quite realized until that moment that I had in fact missed Angela in some way, even though we didn’t get along too well. Our fling had been something more than a fling and it had been nice to have a lady friend to spend time with.

I thought about Angela and, to a much lesser extent, Roger all the way to Publix.

Publix is something of an institution in Florida. Going there is like walking from a humid Hell through the pearly gates—without the dying part—into a gloriously air-conditioned Heaven that’s also a fully stocked pantry and larder. Fresh baked rolls? They’ve got them. Roast beef? Yep. Just add mayo, tomato, and lettuce and you’ve got yourself a sandwich. Or got a sweet tooth? The bakery is more than amply stocked. You can get croissants or sugar cookies, donuts or pound cake. 

It’s not just a supermarket; it’s an air-conditioned cornucopia with automatic doors. 

I moseyed over to the alcohol section where they keep the ginger beer. As you may or may not know, ginger beer has nothing to do with beer. It’s more like ginger soda but not at all like ginger ale, which also has nothing to do with ale. The best ginger beer is the fancy stuff with real ginger and real cane sugar in the little cans with the green packaging and they keep that over in the alcohol section, rather than the soft drink section, for the alcoholists like me. 

That’s right. I’m an alcoholist: a connoisseur of alcoholic beverages. Unlike a sommelier, I’m not interested in selling overpriced wines to the punters at the steakhouse. I’m just looking for flavor and texture at the right temperature to drink while engaged in pleasant conversation or, better yet, alone. Or with a woman. That’d be better but that’s not always an option. 

Champagne I like. Beer I like. A dry red I like with the right food. But nothing beats rum, lime, and ginger beer on a hot Florida night. 

So there I was, ginger beer in-hand, perusing the selection of mixers, taking in the panoply of colors and packaging, when up came Terry Chatterfield. 

I knew Terry from Sarasota Lanes where he worked the desk and did light maintenance on the ball return machines. He looked like a beige flamingo—he was all nose and bones and little else—with sand-colored hair.

To say he surprised me during my mixer musings would be an understatement. He ignored my impression of a cocktail shaker deftly wielded in the hands of an expert cocktail shaker shaker and instead launched into an uninteresting story about the goings on at the bowling alley.

“...so then Debra tells the guy that he can’t do that here and the guy—I didn’t catch his name—says what are you going to do about it and Debra tases him—”

I guess I lied. The story became mildly interesting. 

“—just straight up hits him in the chest with one of those taser guns that shoot out the two wires with the metal sticks like thermometers you put in a roast—”

I got the idea right away.

“—so anyway, after that I finally got up the nerve to ask Debra out and we’re going out tomorrow night.” Terry grinned.

“Hey, good for you, Terry. Listen, I gotta get going,” I held up the ginger beer, “need to get these on ice with some rum and lime but it was good seeing you and—”

“No problem, no problem at all. I’m just heading out too.” He held up a pack of wine coolers. “Debra likes wine coolers. I figure if things go well she might come back to my place and I could have them ready to go.”

“I didn’t know they still made Bartles & Jaymes.”

“Eh, these are Marbles & Thames.”

“It sounds like they ripped off the B&J people. I wonder how Messrs. Bartles and Jaymes would feel about that.”

“Messers? You think they did something illegal? I don’t think they messed around like that at all. What kinds of crimes can you commit in the wine cooler game?” 

I shrugged. I didn’t know what he was talking about. 

He went on. “Not that I ever met either Bartles or Jaymes; actually, I don’t think either of them are real although they had those commercials back in the 90s with the two guys. Bartles did all the talking and Jaymes—I think his name was Ed—played it straight and also silent.”

“I remember those. They were pretty good; used to come on during Letterman.”

Terry was quiet. “I wonder if those guys are in jail.”

“Why do you keep saying that? First of all, those guys in the commercial were just actors. Second, I’m not aware that anyone of the Bartles & Jaymes people committed any crime of any kind.”

“You said they were messers. I assumed that was some kind of slang for breaking the law, that you meant they were playing fast and loose with the tax laws or something, or maybe using cheap Russian potato alcohol instead of California Pinot.”

I shook my head. “Messrs. Messrs. M-E-S-S-R-S. It’s the plural form of Mr. You say Messrs. instead of saying Mr. Bartles and Mr. Jaymes.”

“Why didn’t you just say that?”

“I did!”

“No you didn’t.”

“Hey! Hello!”

The cashier was staring at us. I looked around and there were five people lined up behind us. 

“Oh, sorry, sorry,” I said.

We paid and left. I couldn’t shake Terry so he kept walking with me talking about horse racing and asking if I wanted to go to the tracks. I made noncommittal noises but I was otherwise too distracted thinking about getting home and sitting down on the porch with a tall cool drink to plan my weekend. 

We got across the busy road and headed down the street going the same direction because Terry lived down the same way but just a few blocks over. 

Still thinking about rum, lime, and ginger I didn’t notice anything was amiss until the alligator charged from the brush on my right, lunging mouth agape, teeth flashing in the falling dark. 

I blurted something like ‘Highyah!’ and jumped backwards. My back hit a palm tree up which I scrambled like a constipated racoon. The alligator charged toward the base of the tree and thrust a mouthful of teeth in my direction.

You get used to alligators everywhere in Florida but being treed by one like it was a coonhound was a new experience for me.

Although busy with the alligator I was able to look around and see that Terry, who had been lucky enough to have me between him and the alligator when it sprang its ambush, had scuttled across the street and was standing there watching the proceedings.

“Would you come help me?”

“Nuh uh. Not with that thing there.”

“Terry. Terrence. Get over here and scare this thing off.”

“With what? It’s like ten feet long.”

“Twelve. Not that it matters. Just get over here.”

“No way.”

My arms, desperately clutching the trunk, were beginning to get tired. My fingers burned and the bark dug into my palms. My right foot slipped and I pulled it back up out of the reach of the snapping jaws.

“Just lure it away a bit. Then I can climb down and we can both take off.”

“Nope.”

A black BMW came to a stop between us. The driver rolled down the window.

“Better watch out for that gator,” said the smarmy slick-haired guy in a dress shirt. “They bite.”

“Thanks. I had no idea. I was just climbing this tree for fun.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“No—I—”

He drove off. 

I attempted to ignore the eyes from the onlookers who had come onto their porches up and down the street.

“Any help? No? No one? Terry, come on, Terry. It’ll be fine. Just do it. I can’t hold on forever. Dammit, Terry.”

Terry inched across the street stork-like, as if he was wading through water trying not to disturb the fish. The alligator rounded on him and I prepared to drop to the ground. Terry halted as the gator took one step, then a second toward him and stopped with its head turned sideways. Its right eye was toward me, its left toward Terry and it winked as if trying to tell us something. For a brief moment the wink and its matching toothy grin gave the alligator a comical cast and it seemed somehow less menacing. 

That was when it lunged at Terry. He backpedaled, tripped on his flip flops, the Marbles & Thames shattered on the road, and Terry was speeding off into the distance. 

I had just set my feet on the ground when the alligator was rounding back on me again and back up the tree I went, now Terry-less and even more tired than before. What I had done to this alligator to make it so particularly miffed was beyond me. I eyed it as it approached and extended another seventeen inches of teeth in an effort to reach me.

At this point the less useless neighbors started approaching with brooms while hooting and hollering but it didn’t do much good. 

There I was up a tree with alligator all around me, seemingly everywhere at once. 

Suddenly I realized that I still had the Publix bag in my hand, some kind of ginger-focused reflex having made my fingers clench around the handle rather than drop it when startled by the gator. 

I knew then that I had but one choice: sacrifice my precious cans of ginger beer in a last-ditch attempt to scare off the alligator. 

Hugging the tree to my chest with my arms, I freed my hands to reach into the bag—hands and bag being on the far side of the tree so I had to work by touch—and prize apart the top of the carton to get at the cans. 

Increasingly feeling like Roy Scheider in Jaws, I aimed a can at the alligator’s head right between the eyes and threw. 

The gator, mouth open and gazing upward, anticipated the aerial assault and launched itself at the can snapping its jaws shut and sending a gout of fizzing ginger beer across the pavement. 

I selected another can and threw. It skipped harmlessly off the alligator’s back as it thrashed around chewing on the first can. 

You know when you take a few cans out of a four pack or twelve pack and, having gained a little elbow room, the remaining cans careen about the place like greased marbles? Well, just as I threw the second can, one of the two remaining made a break for freedom and tumbled down to the ground, bounced off the base of the tree, and rolled to a stop an agonizing twenty feet down the sidewalk. As if entranced, the alligator and I both watched it, each of us realizing the same terrible fact: I had one shot left and I probably wasn’t drinking a Dark n’ Stormy that night or any other night if the gator had his way with me.

I plunged my hand into the carton, grabbed the last can, and held it tight. I unwound one leg from the tree and dangled my right foot tantalizingly close to the gator’s mouth. He took the bait and all twelve feet of him surged forward, mouth open. Instead of aiming straight down at his head, I swung around and to the side so that my hand made a wide arc from high in front of me on the far side of the tree and ended down by my feet. The can, my last great hope, flew wild and low and took the alligator in its right eye.

Winking and smarting and no longer grinning the alligator backed off a few feet, then a few feet more. Then I jumped. No great leap, but enough. I tumbled, rolled inelegantly, losing my flip flops in the process, scrambled to my feet, my hand closing on something round and cold as I did so, and I was gone without a backward glance at my erstwhile devourer. 

Panting I pulled open the screen door on my now dark porch, crossed the living room, hit the light, and slumped into the wooden chair at the kitchen table. 

Only then did I realize what was in my hand. 

A few moments later I was back out on the porch getting myself around rum, lime, ginger beer, and ice which was sweating in my hand.

Dan waltzed up the steps whistling a tune.

“What took you so long? I came by earlier and you weren’t here.”

“Don’t ask,” I said.

“Alright. I’ll grab a drink.”

“I finished the ginger. I only had one left.”

“They sell them as singles?”

“No. They don’t. But there’s beer in the fridge.”

Dan shrugged and went inside. He came back a few minutes later carrying not a beer but a glass of fizzing dark liquid.

“What’s that?” I said.

“Dark n’ Stormy.”

I furrowed my brow. “I’m out of ginger beer.”

“I found one in the back of the fridge.”

It took me a couple minutes to get over the shock. “That figures,” I said, nodding to myself.

The sun disappeared altogether. The crickets chirped. We basked in the humid, still warm air.

It was a Dark n’ Stormy night.

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Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, strictly a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance, perceived resemblance, or similarity to any other fictional works, to actual events or persons, living or dead, and any perceived slights of people, places, or organizations are products of the reader’s imagination. This fiction is the result of a partnership between a human writer and the character(s) he accessed with his creative subconscious as he raced through the story with them. No AI of any kind, generative or otherwise, was used in any way to write this story.

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