By 7422 427 2 4 4 32423
This is fiction, but the story is directly lifted from my friend Stu and what he actually saw (the story hit me very hard).
Although melodramatic, many of the themes in this story I I would keep, it has many of the motifs that I associate with life in Taiwan.
The wind catches the rain and moves it horizontally; it moves fast but looks slow, looks unreal. The rain pushes across, without beating, it gently shifts along the empty street. Taiwan pauses and Tainan watches from its insides. The city waits. I watch the floating rain, falling around buildings, past windows, and over lives.
I watch the rain from my balcony. It creates an enclave that holds the rain away. Tainan gets dirtier in the rain. The oppressive stench of rot that fills the sewers rises, and reaches higher. Now, the stench reaches the 8th floor, but I stood on the 9th, preserved from it.
This rain started with a lightning strike. Then it poured. It poured so hard it became more of a mist; the air became water. As the winds picks up, the rain never seems to hit the ground, just float along. The thunder gets worse.
People are still driving in the rain, cars making the same irrational decisions, but slower. Motorcyclists wearing bright yellow garbage bags, or blue, green, and yellow jumpsuits. Flashes of neon trying to stay up on the slick road.
Below my balcony is a one-way road. A car comes out of the parking garage under me, and turns against the legal flow of the street. Symmetrically, but faster, a motorcycle turns the corner about twenty feet away. He is wearing a blue rain suit and a small black helmet on a new scooter, his girlfriend is in a yellow garbage bag on the back.
Their tire sticks into one of the road’s ridges, and the bike quivers, about to fall as it finishes the corner. He corrects to the left. His tire leaves the ridge at once, causing a quick, unprepared acceleration. His bike leaves the ground for a second and then hydroplanes into the black car.
The driver's leg gets crush between the car's side and his bike; his girlfriend leaves the bike.
Her climb and her decent are more awkward than anything else, like throwing up a floppy plastic doll. It does not look poetic or dramatic, just peculuar. She lands on the car's roof, somewhat inexplicably.
She lies there as the scene freezes in the pouring rain. After a second, maybe two, the motorcyclist pushes back his bike back with his good foot. His bike is heavily scratched up, the car has a sizable dent where the motorcycle hit it, the roof is fine; the girl has not moved.
The driver of the car walks out, expressionless. I am nine floors away, and he is not expressionless because I am nine floors away. He just is expressionless, it’s simply the best word for it.
The motorcyclist and the car driver get out and talk. They seem upset as they speak, but it seems more like a passing annoyance or a difficult business deal than out right anger.
The car driver points to the dent. The motorcyclist points to the scratches, his leg, and his girlfriend. She shifts her head. The two go back and forth, pointing at their various loses. The car driver points at the corner, and makes a convex curve to show the motorcycle turning. The motorcyclist points the direction that the street went to show that the car was going the wrong way. Through their hands, its clear they reach a consensus that the fault and damage cancel each other out.
They carry the girlfriend off of the roof, and prop her up on the back of the motorcyclist. The pair drive away, with the girlfriend’s feet dangling from the bike. The car goes the way it was going, the motorcyclist, hopefully to a hospital. They never exchange cards; they just talked until there was an agreement. I walk back inside, and I write this.