Saturday's Storyteller: "The weather was weird, which, in California, means 'not gorgeous.'"

by Belinda Roddie

The weather was weird, which, in California, means "not gorgeous." However, I was one of those Californians who liked that kind of weather. I enjoyed seeing the gray overcast skies, feeling the chill air tackle my nose and cheeks, and listening to the wind bristle through the dry trees that were still desperate for a bit more rain.

Days like this in the Bay Area made hot chocolates taste better, sweaters feel more comfortable, and strolls around downtown seem like much more of an adventure. The life I was led was fairly mundane, regardless of sunshine or lack thereof. But I liked it that way.

It was gray and overcast when I sat outside the local bookstore, trying desperately not to look Bohemian as I consumed a hot beverage and read an admittedly heavy tome. At a table nearby were scrawny twenty-somethings in beanies and vests and jeans torn just enough to show off that sexy patella. They sucked cold pseudo-coffee through straws and talked way too loudly about the "toxic political climate and the lack of youth representation" - though I was pretty sure, though I didn't vocalize it, that they were the kind of people that complained about people not voting and then didn't even bother to fill out a ballot themselves. 

My strained judgment of the group's pre-conceived self-righteousness aside, I found myself focusing on one of the men in the group, who sported long black hair and a beard that protruded from his face like a defensive shield made of hair follicles. It was like he had emerged from the woods and gone into a thrift store looking for new clothes after surviving for months in the wild. His stained denim and worn out leather jacket only added to the hipster panache.

As I let the cocoa settle and lose its warmth in my mouth, I surprised myself with a sudden jolt of recognition. I knew this guy. Where had I seen him before?

The book was now phenomenally less interesting. I closed it, bookmarked, and carried both it and my cup of sweetness over to the table, where all three of the grungy but most likely affluent buddies sat.

"Hey."

"Yo."

"I'm wondering if I know you."

The man in question scratched at his beard. He stared at me through narrowed eyes.

"High school?"

"Ignacio."

"What year?"

I inhaled. "2007?"

That was when he broke out into a smile. I was as shocked as everyone else witnessing it when he jumped up and shook my hand.

"Grant," he said, my name bubbling on his lilted voice. "You took me to prom. Remember?"

It couldn't be. My prom date hadn't looked like that. My prom date had had short black hair and wore a purple gown to match my tie.

"I...you..."

The man grinned. "I guess I may as well tell you," he chuckled. "I go by Ryan now. How've you been?"

I couldn't stop staring at his majestic beard. Above our heads, the California sun finally managed to claw its way through the stain of clouds.

This week's prompt was provided by Roger Collins.