This was one of those ‘pull the rug out from under your feet’ moments. “This isn’t very convenient at the moment, sir.”
“Daniel, have you heard the weather prognosis in Texas lately?”
What was my boss talking about? “They say the weather will be stormy for the next couple days. I wasn’t paying too much attention.”
“I want you to pack a bag and go to the Hamilton airfield in two hours,” said Bronsworth. “I’ve already made the arrangements. You’re flying to Wichita Falls to see a guy named Mott. He’s a professional storm chaser.”
“A what?”
“You know, these guys who chase and record tornadoes on video. They say a big storm front with the possibility of tornadoes could accumulate in northern Texas within forty-eight hours. So get your ass on that plane and see this guy. He’ll be waiting for you when you step off. You’ll be staying with him.”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry Mr. Bronsworth, this is frickin’out of the question.”
“You don’t tell me, Preis what is out of the question.” Bronsworth’s voice became angry. “You’re still on my payroll and when I say that capturing a tornado on video will be a hit on the Leather and Lace blog, it will sell in double-digit figures. And I don’t need you to say no to anything I damn well say to you because I’m the boss and you’re not. It was very kind of your mother to go out there and save your ass from ending this project too early. If you don’t comply I will pull the plug on your shop because it is I who hold the strings to it, not your mother. I will fire you and you won’t even have enough money to buy a ticket back to Boston. You will be unemployed, penniless and homeless overnight, and every hick in Hamilton will wonder what happened to poor Mr. Preis, and I will make sure that nobody will lift a finger to help you out. Is that clear?”
I felt like the bastard had stabbed me in the heart, pulled it out of my chest and was eating it raw in front of my eyes. Who was I working for, the Devil? Close enough. I weighed everything he had said to me and I figured he wasn’t bluffing.
“You’re too quiet, Preis. I want an answer from you. Are you going to Wichita Falls or not?”
“Sure. OK, Mr. Bronsworth I’ll go. I’ll find someone to manage the store while I’m away.”
“Don’t disappoint me, Preis.” He hung up.
Asshole. Now I had to ask two of my more reliable workers if they could help out for a couple of days. Karen still needed time to recover. The timing was terrible. I would have to make phone calls, then go home and pack, go to the airfield, all in two hours. I turned on the radio to listen in to the next weather report. After about fifteen minutes, I heard that there was indeed a massive storm front forming in the Gulf of Mexico and moving across central Texas, with the possibility of tornado warnings in the border region of Texas and Oklahoma.
After calling the book shop I was able to get Thomas to help in the office and help run the store while I was away. I was very grateful that he could help me out.
I called Karen and told her my situation.
“Daniel, this is crazy,” she said, still sounding weak. “You can’t leave the shop to Thomas, he’s inexperienced.”
“I have no choice, This is part of my job. I have to meet a storm-chaser or I’m fired.”
“Or fired? What sort of boss is this? It sounds like the meanest country and garden magazine in the whole world.”
“I don’t work for a country and garden magazine, Karen. That was just a front.”
“Aha, that’s what I thought. I had a sneaky suspicion there was more to this than meets the eye.”
“I wanted to tell you everything before you got bitten. The snake got in the way … OK, it was delicious, but it still interfered with my plans.”
“You ate the snake that bit me?”
“Kenny killed it and wanted to cook it.”
“You guys are macabre, you know that?”
I took a deep breath and let it out. “Karen, I work for Leather and Lace magazine in Boston. I have a nationally syndicated blog and I was debating about Obamacare last summer when I started to badmouth about people in Texas. The feedback was so great that my boss ordered me to spend a year in Hamilton and open a bookshop while recording what life is like down here. That’s the truth.”
She was silent for a moment. “Is this sort of like Playboy?”
“Yes.”
“And you like writing for a porn mag?”
“You don’t understand, Karen. I worked in Berlin for five years as a journalist, and when I came back to Boston I couldn’t find a job. Mr. Bronsworth from Leather and Lace was the one who hired me because he liked the way I write articles.”
“You mean he likes the way you write in a dark, sarcastic, bitchy manner to attract readers, is that it?”
“Yes … I mean no. I am not dark, sarcastic and bitchy. I am a nice person. You should know that by now. Karen, don’t you know that I saved you twice.”
“Because you were in the right place at the right time. It has no bearing on your character.”
“But you met my mother.”
“You are not your mother.”
“True, I am me. And I hired you because I like you a lot.” I wanted to say that I loved her but now wasn’t the right time.
“So, you hired me because I had experience in running a bookshop?”
“Yes, but in the meantime, I’ve developing a fondness for you, Karen.”
“That’s what I thought. It’s what I said to you on the hill before I got bitten, I don’t believe you could live in Texas to be with me as girlfriend and boyfriend. You would want to go back to Boston and I would never be happy there. I like you too, Daniel, but I fear we are incompatible. I don’t want another relationship to fail, like it did between Willy and me.”
“Who said I can’t live in Texas?”
“When a year passes, your assignment is over. You’re free to go back to Boston. Mission accomplished. Your boss will give you a bonus for better sales and everything is hunky dory. Why in Heaven’s name would you want to stay in Texas?”
“Because of you, Karen. That’s why.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Daniel, I delayed working for you until I saw the books arrive and go into a beautifully finished book store. I come from a family that doesn’t believes it until we see it. That’s the way I am. I will not get hurt by a man a second time. I would like to wait until your so-called one year mission is over and see what you think.”
“Ok.” I looked at my watch. Time was running short. “I still have to fly to Wichita Falls in less than two hours. Bronsworth will fire me and close down the bookstore if I don’t. That means we are all sacked if I don’t do this.”
“My Gawd, I can’t believe what I’m hearing.” She hung up.
I was stunned. For some reason I called my mother. I explained everything to her and she listened patiently.
“What should I do?” I asked.
“Get on the plane, son,” she answered. “And give Karen her time to work it out. When you get back, talk to her. Be honest with her about your feelings too.”
Chapter Ten
I stepped off the Cessna 172 plane after a thirty minute flight to Kickapoo Airfield in Wichita Falls. It gave me time to look up whatever I could about tornadoes on Wikipedia and storm-chasing in general. What did I know of tornadoes, except watching ‘The Wizard of Oz’ when I was a kid? My cell phone rang just as I was about to call my contact.
“Hello, Daniel Preis.”
“Hello, Mr. Price. Herbert Mott.” The man had an old, raspy voice. “Your editor in Boston gave me your number.”
“Yes, Mr. Mott. I was just about to call you.”
“So you wanna learn a thing or two about storm-chasing. By the way, did you have a good flight?”
“Yes, I just stepped off the plane. I was about to look for a hotel.”
“No need. You’re staying at my place. Come out to the front of the airport. I’m in a yellow pick-up truck
. I’m parked illegally, so make it quick.”
I grabbed my bag and jogged to the exit. An old yellow Dodge pick-up truck with dents and rust stains running along every seam was parked near the curb. A man in his late fifties stepped out. He had a scrawny grey beard with long hair in a pony-tail; he wore cowboy boots, faded blue jeans and a hunting vest. The man put out his hand.
“Mr. Price. Herbert Mott.”
“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Mott.”
“Just call me Herbie. Put your things in the back and we’ll get going before the meter maid shows up.”
I found a smooth pleasantness in Mott's way of speaking, like an old man telling stories at a campfire. The drive from Wichita Airport to the city was a rather quick one on the open flat roads. It was a medium-sized city, with a population of over 104,000 and the home of the nearby Sheppard Air Force Base.
“Sorry about not havin’ air-conditioning in the truck. Only got 360-ventillation.” Mott rolled down the windows. The wind blew through Daniel’s hair, cooling him down some.
“You have a family?” asked Mott.
“No sir, still single.”
“So this is for your leather and titty magazine, I hear.”
“Something like that. I don’t take the pictures, I just write the stories.”
“Oh, I’m not judging at all, son. I know you got a job to do.”
“Thanks.”
“Your boss said you spent a few years in Germany?” asked Mott, snorting through his nose.
“That’s right.”
“Where?”
“In Berlin.”
“Uh huh. So, what do you know about storm-chasin’?”
“Well, I interviewed someone from the National Weather Service in Maryland a few months ago, for an article on Global Warming.”
“I know many of the staff at the National Weather Service. Who did you interview?”
I had to jog my mind, but I recalled the name. “Professor Donaldson.”
“Uh, huh,” Mott uttered. “Fine man, that Donaldson. You think that’ll be enough?”
“No, that’s why I was sent to see you, since there’s going to be a storm approaching by tomorrow with possible tornado warnings You’re one of the best in the country.”
Mott remained silent. We reached downtown Wichita Falls. They had tall buildings with more than three stories. I hadn’t seen that for quite a while. He turned the corner and drove over a bridge, through a park.
“This is why they called it Wichita Falls.”
To my right, on the river, was a pristine waterfall network, surrounded by rock formations and clean-cut grass. “It looks a little too sterile,” I said. “Almost like a water ride at an amusement park.”
“All artificial,” Mott explained. “The original falls were wiped out in a flood in 1886. For over a century visitors were wondering what happened to the falls that gave our city its name. They built an artificial waterfall here in Lucy Park, near my home.”
“Interesting.” I could have fainted over this news.
I listened to the hum of Mott’s souped-up motor as we cruised down the last few yards before turning into Mott’s driveway.
The house was a one-story structure of wood and brick, with old Mexican tiles on the roof and two satellite dishes crowning the top. The garden consisted more of weeds than grass, with old car wrecks and piles of tires scattered around. The scent of motor oil permeated my nose. Behind the house, stood a large antenna tower about six stories high. Mott’s wife, wearing a white cotton dress, came out of the house to greet me. Their adult son, who wore farmer’s coveralls and rubber boots, also shook hands.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Daniel,” Mrs. Mott said.
“Pleasure’s mine, ma’am,” I said, trying to say it with a Southern accent.
"Ah, I still hear your East-coast accent, but good try," she said.
“Molly, can you get the guest room ready?” Mott asked. “We’re gonna’ have a chat in the living room.”
All over the house hung photos of Mott and his son, Billy-Bob, posing in front of various Ford and Dodge trucks, including some eighteen-wheeler big rigs. Mott explained that he ran a trucking business and was considering early retirement but his son didn’t want to take over. Mismatched antique furniture filled the living room, while antler trophies were mounted on the wall. Above everything, a wagon wheel chandelier dominated the scene. We sat down on a leather sofa facing a large stone fireplace. I noticed the tacky velvet paintings of Elvis and the Virgin Mary on opposite walls. Mrs. Mott brought in a tray with two large trucker mugs of coffee with a sugar bowl and a small can of condensed milk, then left the room. Mott drank his coffee black. I tried not to gag after taking the first sip, and then added extra sugar and milk to hide the bitter taste.
Mott laughed and opened his mini refrigerator next to his sofa. “I have to admit, my wife makes the coffee too strong. You wanna Bud?”
“Pardon?”
“A Budweiser beer, son.”
“Yes, please.” I hate Bud beer. After tasting the real types in Germany, the American beer tasted like piss in water.
Mott pulled out two cans and gave me one. I took a few sips and did my best pretending to enjoy it. “I was in Germany in the Air Force, back in the 80’s.”
“Where were you stationed?” I asked.
“Ramstein.”
“Ah, near Kaiserslautern.”
“That’s right. K-town.”
“What did you do?”
“I was in the 86th Airlift Wing, doing logistics support. After I came home I started my trucking business.” Mott took another swig. “Ich kann deutsch.”
I smiled. “Ok, wir können auf Deutsch reden. Mein Vater ist Deutsche.”
“I’m already out of your league.” Mott laughed.
“How did you get into storm chasing?” I asked, wanting to change the subject.
“I’ve loved looking at clouds and storms since I was a boy. I spent hours making sketches and paintings of them. I also read Storm Track magazine all the time. That was started up by David Hoadley, one of the early pioneers of storm chasing.”
“Yes, I remember Professor Donaldson mentioning his name.”
Mott continued, “I had the privilege of meeting Hoadley when I was in High School. Rode with him on some chases before I went off to the Air Force. He taught me how to read the weather maps and use his ham radio.” Mott rose from the sofa and walked to the fireplace. He took a framed picture from the wall. “Take a look at this,” he said “My first shot of an electrical storm near Lake Wichita.”
It was a panoramic view of a prairie with deep blue storm clouds in the sky, getting darker as they receded toward the horizon. A curtain of rain showers on the far left, and on the right, three columns of bright lightning bolts. I could imagine hearing the rain fall and the thunder clap echoing across the landscape.
“It’s breathtaking,” I said and returned the picture to Mott. He placed it on the fireplace mantle.
“That’s why I love storm chasing, Daniel. Some folks love hunting or canyoning, but nothing’s more thrilling than capturing things like this on film. Nothing like it in the whole world.”
I nodded. “By the way, is that a ham radio antenna outside your house?”
“It’s an old tower I put up years ago. Nowadays they use satellite dishes. I got them too.”
“May I see your equipment?”
“Of course.” Mott led me to his office. Inside were several desks and bookshelves cluttered with paperwork and old versions of Storm Track magazine. On one side of the office, stood the older ham radio with other electrical devices; on the other side were three computers with large flat screens. A map of the United States hung overhead. Red markings had been added by hand to the map, indicating where tornadoes were tracked. Over the decades it looked like the whole mid-west and plains states were stained in red.
“These are my weather-tracking computers, Daniel,” he said as he sat down and offered me a seat. �
��Everything’s connected to the National Weather Service. The data is synchronized to my computers every five minutes.”
Mott clicked the mouse, showing a map of North America with wavy lines running across, resembling the grooves of a fingerprint. “This is a weather prognosis chart used for forecasting, they’re accurate up to seven days.”
I looked at the map. “So when you see circular patterns close together, like here in the Gulf of Mexico, it means a storm is coming?”
“Yes, it also represents things like increased cloudiness, winds, temperatures, and precipitation. And it looks like a storm front is on its way; most of Central Texas will get a good shower, but the bigger problem is here." He clicked the mouse again, the map now revealed two fronts; one from the Gulf of Mexico and another from Colorado, both converging over the Texas Panhandle.
“It’s always the same. When a warm, moist front collides with a cooler front, you have a recipe for tornadoes.”
“So my boss was right when he told me to look for you.”
“We’ll have to see in the next twenty-four hours if you get your money’s worth for your magazine.”
Molly called us to dinner. We had an interesting dish of home-cooked rabbit and deep-battered squirrel meat. While we were having ice cream for dessert, Billy-Bob gave me a note.
“Had to show this to you,” he said.
I looked at the scribbling. “What is it?”
“Only a true red neck will understand it.”
MR Ducks
MR Knot
OSAR
CM Wangs
LIB
MR Ducks
“I don’t get it,” I said.
“Let me read it to you the way a redneck reads it." Billy-Bob smiled and spoke with a long, slow, hic drawl:
"Em are ducks.
Em are not.
O yes da are.
See them wings.
Well, I'll be.
Em ARE ducks.”[4]
I snickered, along with Herbie and Molly. Billy-Bob took pride in such humor. After we helped Molly with the dishes, Herbie took me to his garage and showed me one of the vehicles used by his storm chasing team.
Heart of Texas Page 8
