Lightning Larry

“Seems like a waste to have a bus just for the two of us,” Maureen “Mo” Towne says as she and her husband, Allen, disembark.

The Towne’s first realized their four-day stop in Saint-Louis, a provincial village in Andorra, would be interesting when a quartet of men on horses carrying rifles nearly ran headlong into their Uber. The plump couple, wearing typically touristy Hawaiian shirts, shorts, and sandals and carrying cameras around their necks, are curious former news writers from the dairy town of Corn Cob, Illinois. They came to Saint-Louis because of its old-world European charm, typified by its narrow cobblestone streets, antique shops, and ornate buildings.

Tucker Marshalle, the Towne’s industrious, blonde-haired guide, checks the streets for activity, finding none.

“You’re visiting us during an unexpectedly strange time.”

“Why? What’s happening?” Mo asks, adjusting her floppy hat.

“We’re in the midst of a political standoff with our neighbors, the Creskins. They’re mostly friendly, uneducated folk who raise chickens, cattle, and goats.”

“Blue collar workers and farmers,” Allen judges.

“The people here in Saint-Louis are musicians, artists, and craftsmen.”

“Hippies,” Allen concludes.

“We trade with the Creskins. Recently, they demanded we give them the only crop we raise ourselves.”

“So, give it to them,” Allen says.

Tucker nearly falls over backward.

Mo thumbs through her tour guide. “Oh, no, Allen, not the Lightning Larry Wheatfields. The Lightning Larry Wheatfields are considered sacred.”

“Why are they considered sacred?” Allen asks.

Tucker whispers, “It’s practically the only thing we export. Wheat is a huge part of our economy. Without it, we’d be peasants like the Creskins. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

Mo references her tour guide. “It says here that the Fields are the third most popular tourist attraction in Saint-Louis behind the fire tower and Lightning Larry Lake.”

Tucker murmurs disapprovingly. “Sorry, Mrs. Towne. I’ve been meaning to reprint the tour guide. You must have one of the old ones. We had to take the tower down a few years ago. It was old, rusty, and unsafe. Lightning Larry Lake is now our number one attraction, and the Fields are number two. We’re close to the Fields if you’d like to see them.”

The couple follows Tucker down Saint-Louis’ cobblestone streets.

Allen notices that many of the businesses are closed or boarded up.

“Is it a holiday or something? Where is everybody?”

“Home, watching the news. The Creskins declared war on us this morning.”

“Over a few fields of wheat?” Allen exclaims.

“Must be really good wheat,” Mo counters.

“It would have been nice to know we were heading into World War Three before we got off the plane,” Allen continues. “Next time, Mo, we visit the stateside version of St. Louis.”

“It may not be so bad. The last time we had a war with the Creskins was fifty years ago, and it only lasted a day,” Tucker says. “It started when we seized a herd of goats that had strayed into our territory. It ended when they wandered back home. Unfortunately, it’s happened again.”

“So, get a stick, or a pied piper, and guide them home.”

“It’s a little bit more complicated this time. A group of teenagers who’d oversampled our supply of Lightning Larry’s favorite beverage encountered the goats a few nights ago, frightening them. The goats chased the teenagers to the cliff overlooking Larry Lake, where they jumped in. Goats are good swimmers, but not if they unexpectedly run off a sixty-foot cliff.”

“And the Creskins want compensation,” Allen surmises. “So, give them some goats.”

“We don’t have any,” Tucker answers.

“Which is where your sacred wheat comes in.”

They climb to the top of a small hill. Tucker points to a massive expanse of golden wheat below them.

“The Lightning Larry Wheatfields,” Mo says. “What are those posts sticking out of the ground?”

“Lightning rods. They protect the wheat from getting hit by lightning.”

“And the statue?” Mo asks, pointing at the thirty-foot metal figure of a man defiantly pointing at the sky.

“That’s our tribute to Lightning Larry. He stood in this field at least a dozen times absorbing bolts of lightning, protecting our wheat from destruction.”

“Talk about taking one for the team,” Allen replies, snapping a picture of the statue.

Allen notices the base of the statue.

“What’s with the empty liquor bottles?”

“He likes his cognac,” Tucker explains.

“So, do I. Is there a bar still open around here, or is everyone waiting for the next herd of goats to cross the border?”

“What an unusual-looking man,” Mo says, marveling at the sight of the man at the end of the bar.

“Reminds me of the pictures I’ve seen of The Leatherman,” Allen replies.

The man’s worn clothes are splattered with dried mud, and his faded, raggedy hat has lost its shade of deep blue. His curly brown hair appears singed and uneven, and his stained front teeth need maintenance.

The bartender, a bright-eyed brunette with a blue lightning bolt tattoo on her right arm, places glasses of cognac in front of the couple. “That’s Lightning Larry,” she says with pride.

“Oh, the legendary human lightning rod,” Allen replies, taking a picture of him. “The way you people speak about him I thought he was dead.”

“Would you like to meet him?” the bartender asks. “The more cognac he drinks the better the stories get. Hey, Larry, c’mon over here!”

Larry sways across the barroom floor. Plopping next to Allen he offers his hand. Allen is reluctant to shake his hand until he realizes the dark patches he’s mistaken for grime are burn marks.

“I’m Allen Towne. This is my wife, Mo. I hear you’re living proof lightning really can strike twice in the same place.”

“Yeah, if that same place is anywhere I’m standin’. I wish I’d only been hit twice.”

“How many times have you been hit?” Mo asks.

“At least a dozen. First time was when I was a teenager, fifteen or so. There was a big thunderstorm comin’, so I thought it would be cool to watch it from the fire tower. Lightning struck the tower. I could see sparks runnin’ up and down the metal, then they jumped onto me. I ran all the way home with my clothes and hair on fire. Luckily, when my pop saw me standin’ in the doorway smolderin’, he threw a bucket of water on me.”

“Were you badly hurt?” Mo asks.

“I couldn’t grow hair on my arms or legs anymore.”

“You said you were hit twice in the same spot,” Allen inquires.

“Can I get some cognac? Hey, Solveig, how about a refill?”

“I was playin’ baseball at the park. A storm rolled in in a matter of seconds. I could see the black horizon comin’ toward me. I watched the other team’s right fielder try and outrun a sheet of rain. He couldn’t. It was on me too before I knew it. I was holdin’ a metal bat. A bolt of lightning ran down the bat and down my arm. I got knocked off my feet, out of my shoes, and hit the backstop. When I came to, my burning spikes were still standin’ where I’d been.”

“And it happened again?” Allen asks.

“You think I’d learn,” Larry replies, smiling at Solveig as she places a drink in front of him.

“The followin’ year, I was at the plate again when a storm swooped in, this time from behind me. I threw the bat aside when the lightnin’ struck, thinkin’ I’d be okay since I wasn’t holdin’ anythin’ metal. Then I realized it had struck the metal backstop behind me. I got flung halfway to the pitcher’s mound. I woke up with dirt in my mouth. I heard sizzlin’. It was what was left of the beard I’d spent a year growin’. When my teammates picked me up, we all had a laugh ‘cause an image of my body had been burned Into the grass.”

“Getting hit must be pretty painful,” Mo notes.

Larry raises his glass, downing it. “This numbs the pain... Gettin’ struck is like bein’ barbecued. As a result, I always feel hot. I’m always askin’ folks to pick up the phone because my ears ring most of the time. My eyesight is blurry, and no, it ain’t just the cognac. But the worst part is I can’t taste nothin’. Everythin’ tastes like a tin can. And boy, I used to love a good steak.”

“I’d be glad to buy you one if you let me write a story about you.”

Solveig brings Larry another cognac.

“What do you think, Solveig?” Larry asks.

“Go ahead, you could use the money. Larry’s paid a price for being a human lightning rod. He can’t keep a job, he has to stay trashed to ease the pain from being scorched so often, and has headaches, nerve damage, and memory loss.”

“I’m fine,” Larry insists. “Except I gotta carry a bottle of water with me in case I get hit with a bolt of lightnin’ and I catch fire.”

A clap of thunder sounds outside. Larry grits his stained teeth.

“You can add PTSD to the list,” Solveig adds.

“Did you ever consider moving away from Saint-Louis?”

“They’d follow me.”

“Who?”

“Not who, what. The storms. They’d follow me.”

Allen rolls his eyes.

“No, I’m serious. I tried to leave Saint-Louis once. I got in my old Renault and was gonna go to France. A storm come in and a bolt hit my car. I had the windows open, so the next bolt hit me, travelin’ down my arms and legs. I skidded across the road and into a ditch and was knocked out. When I came to, my eyebrows were still smokin’. Luckily I had that bottle of water with me.”

A clap of thunder sounds. The restaurant’s lights flicker, then go out.

“Sorry folks, it’s the price one pays for living in a small village,” Solveig says.

“No problem,” Mo replies. “A few candles and it’ll feel like I’m back in college at a mixer.”

Larry finishes his drink. Letting out a melancholy sigh, he heads for the door.

“Where are you going, Larry?” Allen calls after him. “I would think that given your track record, you’d want to stay inside until the storm passes.”

“That won’t get the lights back on. Besides, the storm is callin’ me.”

Allen and Mo run to the front window, trying to look at Larry through the downpour.

“What’s he doing?” Mo asks.

“Standing in the driveway with his hands raised in the air.”

Cradling several voter candles, Solveig reenters the barroom.

“Where’s Larry?”

Allen cocks his thumb toward the window.

“You let him go outside? He forgets how lucky he’s been, and that lightning can kill him.”

The trio press their features against the window, trying to see through the downpour.

A massive bolt of lightning streaks across the sky, illuminating Larry’s form.

A second bolt of lightning hits him in the chest.

Solveig runs outside, grabbing Larry before he collapses onto the wet pavement.

Solveig pulls a burning Larry inside, yelling, “Get the fire extinguisher!”

Allen pulls the fire extinguisher off the wall, spraying the flames engulfing Larry.

Coughing, spitting foam, Larry gives a thumbs up.

The trio sits Larry down in a wooden chair, wiping Larry’s charred skin with wet towels.

“You know you should be dead, right?” Mo asks.

“I’ve never felt more alive!”

“You need to go to the hospital, Larry,” Solveig says.

“Or a firehouse,” Allen adds. as whisps of smoke rise from the back of the chair.

“In a minute,” Larry replies.

Standing, he walks to a wall socket next to the bar. Licking his finger, he sticks it in the socket.

The lights in the restaurant come back on.

“I guess his mother didn’t warn him about playing with electricity,” Allen says.

Chief Renaud Rouler hurriedly enters Mayor Dudley Dubarry’s office. Bald, rotund, and short of breath from smoking imported cigars, fifty-eight-year-old Dubarry has been Mayor of Saint-Louis for thirty years and has no intentions of retiring.

Mayor Dubarry puffs whole-heartedly on his cigar as he gazes out of his second-floor window.

“No smoking in municipal buildings,” Chief Rouler reminds him.

Mayor Dubarry gives the tall, solemn-looking Chief a look that reminds him of who is in charge.

“The Creskins are coming, Mayor.”

“You’re positive?”

“They were first seen gathering outside of the Mignon Line a few hours ago. At least a hundred of them.”

Mayor Dubarry allows himself a smile.

“The Mignon Line has concrete fortifications, obstacles, and more than twenty large guns. It’s impenetrable.”

“That’s why they went around it.”

Mayor Dubarry chokes, his features disappearing under a cloud of smoke.

“The Creskins hired Martin Koopmans to lead their army,” Chief Rouler reports.

“Koopmans… Any relation to the nutter who collects tin cans downtown and wears a beanie with a propeller?”

“The same.”

“Then victory is assured.”

“We should have given them what they wanted,” Chief Rouler says.

“Our wheat for a dead bunch of nanny goats? They want our wheat so they can grow their own strain and sell it. But they’re still a superstitious, uneducated lot. After all, they worship the Burning Man. They think he’s some sort of God.”

Mayor Dubarry looks at the clouds gathering on the horizon.

“How many men have volunteered to fight the Creskins?”

“We can just about match their fifty men if we include Claude Akin and Warren Wade. They’re in wheelchairs but they’re feisty.”

Mayor Dubarry blows a smoke ring. “Bring me Lightning Larry.”

Thunder clouds blacken the afternoon sky.

Chief Rouler pours Larry another glass of cognac. Larry finishes it in a few swallows.

“Enough?”

“I only see one of you,” Larry replies. “Maybe one more.”

Lightning streaks across the sky.

Larry gulps down another glass of cognac.

“That should be enough to help me conduct the lightning.”

A bolt of lightning strikes a nearby tree, splitting it in half.

“I think Mother Nature is telling me to vamoose,” Chief Rouler says.

Chief Rouler shakes Larry’s hand.

“You may well be the bravest man I’ve ever known.”

“Certainly, the drunkest,” Larry replies, watching Chief Rouler run off.

Honking loudly, a flight of frightened geese retreats into the encroaching darkness.

Thunder rumbles above Larry.

“Show time,” he says, smiling.

Larry spreads his arms. A blinding streak of lightning passes through him. He can feel his blood boiling and his brain cells frying as his hair begins to sizzle.

His generous mop of hair a flaming beacon, Larry screams as his jeans and flannel shirt catch fire.

Larry sprints past the village gates, running down the road toward the Creskins’ waiting army.

A Creskin soldier shouts, “It’s the Burning Man!”

Screaming in agony, Larry runs in circles around the Creskin army.

The Creskins drop their weapons, scattering.

Allen gives a bottle of cognac to Solveig.

“Tell Larry it’s from us. I wish we could give it to him in person, but we’re due in France.”

“You might be able to give it to him after all,” Solveig says, pointing up the street.

Larry, his hair and clothes smoldering, dances proudly toward them. A herd of goats gleefully follows behind him.