Rain’s Quantum Physicality abruptly punctures the Harrisonian Plane. Quantum Mechanicality. Quantum Articulations of the Atmospheric Curve. Yes, yes yes! He wakes up to streetlights, stoplights, spotlights, brilliance! It’s got to be something Quantum! He needs to get out there and find this fucking thing. Where is a quantum equation? The bitter reason. The trusty mechanic. Love’s Quantum Mechanicality. “But it’s impossible”—No. It’s nothing but another challenge, a proof, the True Test of Worth. He knows then it’ll all make sense. 

Finally, finally, he gets up and strides out of the alley where he pretended to sleep for too long, too long cowering under fire, under the fire escape, protected. He stayed dry, fine, but how claustrophobic he felt in that corner… all for safety! Ha! What a ridiculous reason to dream out of the way, protected, where nobody can see him, where lost cats go and nothing ever gets found, nothing at all but Harrison, finding himself quite afraid, yet again. Next to FRANKS, facing the road and all that gray sky, he has more room to remember. Damn it, Bowers, think! 

He backpaces and forth from the fervor out flies a tempestuous chord, a phrase of innocent virality: The Quantum Mechanicality of Love! Precisely. Now he’s thinking clearly. And… the question is realized: By what mechanism does love operate? Where is its hinge, the door, the key, the missing variable? What do they feel while feeling what’s so simply referred to as love? Oh, no, he can’t think about it all right now, this vacuous query, it’s too much for the lightheaded, for Harrison the Lazy, dizzy with paralystic despair. He digs his big toe into the ground, an old trick picked up for the balance beam.

Yes, it’s a foot question, soaked through. Soul soaked and through, and his stomach has a certain feeling. A food question? It’s a good question. A really good question, Harrison. He always did ask really good questions. To be answered in the prime of One Man’s life. There is no doubt about the rise and fall of Harrison Bowers. The unwise stoopsneer thinks: lowest low. Not the case! Harrison is strong, like plastic, or a little green twig, stepped over, stepped on, refuse, not refused. Harrison refused to snap. Refuses. He paces. Into the storm, Bowers, covered in grit. He is the very testament to a missing piece, to the Quantum Realm, to the mechanics by which snow No, stone, by which stone becomes sand, steel becomes sword, a whet heart honed without home. He, the bleeding edge, always on the edge, dulling, dulled, weak. No, not weak, weakened, clearly he is only weakened by the might of one thousand mishaps, karma squared, one million repeating. And no, not once, but never has rational reasoning logically explained this, this, this walk, sidewalk, sideplot he finds himself in. It was not grade school, not lonely lunches, not the ditching decepticore that bestruck Harrison’s hair with soot and starvation. Nay. Nay, and not without thirty thousand NEVERS! It’s not about the past, because never has there been any Real Doubt about Harrison Bowers. He is Destined. It is literally. Literary. It is a literary mind that Bowers possesses, never quite the Mathlete, but his mathematical aspect, this equation, its eventual discovery might just precipize something greater. Nobody understands him, of course. Nobody yet. Nobody. Yet? No, not yet. Not once, and not never. What? Too much, too much! 

In the middle, Not Safe, Harrison stops the pace and stands still. The warm spring. The wet night. The red awning, four feet away. In disguise are bullets, this sky’s bullets, hornets, zapping, plinking, speaking: 

bzzzzzzzpspzzz. 

Ineffectual stings, they may break one single molecule of his armor, might clean his hair. His skull. Actually, the fuckers might very damn well destroy him, little demons, cold and nagging, uncurious, know-it-all bastards. Bowers, his powers, completely and utterly obliviated by the simple rain. He looks up, as though fisting in wrathe the thousand wet plagues, but then a splat splats his eye. Typical. Classically typical of That Man Up There. Down here. Everywhere. That Man who spat in his eye and kicked him awake, thinking he was down and dead, but no. He is just feeling a little bit cold right now. 

Harrison looks down at his heavy wet thin body, sodden, as a matter of fact, and he trudges back under FRANKS LIQUOR. Suspicious, generosity. FRANKS neon red shadow judges even in the nighttime. An awning, a curtain, a shadow hangs over Harrison, a shadow in the night, the night enshadows him, and with it, the clenched fist of good light inside darkness. Under FRANKS he is safe. “Safe.” 

sasesssasessasssafffe

says the rain, but he’s cold still, wet still. Frozen and crazy still. For a second, everything is crazy still. It speaks

shhhhhsarrisssnnn

That’s his name. Harrison shivers and looks and listens. As always, he hears nothing but the spittle, spitter, spited, the gray night and brake lights… 

Spitlspktlemnsplshpsplt. 

He stands peculiarly still and screams out listening to the self-assured cypher for clues so hard but all that is heard is his name, his rain, the rain loud on the pavement, 

doitdoit… 

No, no, not Cathy’s inciteful smile and the pestile bong that started it all. He curses loudly the fate and sits down on the dry sidewalk, by the door. 

He looks inside. FRANK is dry. FRANK is watching. Behind the counter listening. FRANK thinks he knows what Harrison is and he lets him sit there anyway, the good bastard hears the Rain’s Revelation yet lets original sin simmer.

Heknowsheknows. 

Oh shut up. The rain is WRONG! There’s not a thing inherent about Harrison at all, nothing that the equation won’t explain. 

Say, where did he stash the warm treasure, the golden fleece? Whatever, nevermind. He needs something to eat. Something like… Denny’s. Nothing. Nothing makes sense. What does that mean, something like Denny’s? Only Denny’s comes to mind but Denny’s is for birthdays, Denny’s in Minnesota and way too fucking far away anyway. Why did Angel ditch him? Was it because he spoke too strong? Who, Harrison? The alienating sort? The type without regard for the thoughts around him. He’s so warped, wrapped, stuck in pervexing profundity within. NO. That’s wrong. He cared for everyone. Fuck them. That’s why he left them, the jerks. To here. And it was so far away. It still is. But Harrison knew true heat by the side of the road, The Hitchhiker, take me to ‘Sisco, he said to Sable. Sable, like cool ocean touch. Too bad she turned out to not possess anything of significance or merit. She pulled her ugly fat truck over for him. He’s better off alone on the sidewalk. Desolate thing, exhaust, not sweet or natural. He pulls his knees into his chest. Get away. Disgusting. And he tried to defend her! She lied, she said she liked him, she was lucky to meet him, but she was Charlie this Charlie that and who the fuck did she think she was to make this Charlie into some GOD that Harrison couldn’t even scratch or disprove, let alone stand up to. “My ex used to” “Charlie always” 

Get out of my car right now. 

His head shoots up in a swivel. Sable? Her voice. She stood him up. But she was everyone, everywhere, and he knows it was only the rain again. 

Fuck this, he thinks, stands up, fast, like SuperHero, Adventure, noble call to action. No, he’s not drunk, nor does he desire to drink, not even a little, not when there’s the Mystery of Love to be quantified. The only, no, not the only, just one of the many questions is Where. A night thrill agust straight through him. He can’t let this storm go bye. There’s something hiding out there in the dark, rushing waters, under a stone, worn round soft cold. Waiting for the right hand. The right hand and the right stone. Storm. The right storm uncovers the right stone, overturned by the right hand, his hand, to understand the Quantum Mechanicality of Love. But some things take time. Yes, and this equation has taken his entire life. It’ll keep taking if he doesn’t find it. Something in the air tonight. There’s something here, tonight. But it scatters away from him, down the street. So he goes, kicking stones to keep up. GOODBYE FRANK!

There are too many stones to kick. Most slow as they splash. So he walks faster. One stays straight, never slowing, sliding, slick, Harrison Bowers, the smooth gray pebble, kicked again and again back across the long road black. Shorter. Harrison was shorter when he could see farther. He could see in the dark and it didn’t even scare him, nothing scared him, not like Angel, who even cried before the slumber party, scared of everything, no but not Harrison, not anymore. That was a long time ago. He can’t even remember it, but he sees where he’s going. No one else can. No need. He knows it’s passed those buildings and then right. He knows the way to the creek.

The creek? What about food? What was it about the creek? He can’t remember. He remembers one thing from that night: he always knew where he would find them. That whole long hunt in that curdled milk rain. He knew they would ditch him all along. When he finally went back and found them inside, it was like he always already had, because he knew why, but he didn't really know why, and eventually, he gave up asking himself and just looked down and walked home, kicking a stone over and over that long black Minnesota night. The light in front of him turns red and obviously he stops. Everyone has to stop. 

Fuck that. Finding the equation NOW. Keep going. Never giving up. He knows he already will have found it sometime from now. In the park, the cold wet bed. The answer isn’t under blankets inside. It’s on the outside, with Harrison, hiding in the rain. Four blocks down. Past the many homes. For the ditchers and losers and fathers who care too little. Too much. Two blocks this way. The torrent soaks his brow now, but he really must stop entertaining his empty body and the questions lovelessness begs. He walks and blinks and walks and blinks and blinks and blinks Deep breath. Cold shivers. He stands still for some stupid reason but now he only remembers the newspaper, the quantum mechanicality of something or other discovered, and the day before he had to, no, got to escape that corruption institution of thought slavery and mind punishment. Now that he’ll always remember, for, when they ask him, he’ll need to remember. Harrison imagines the fuzzy microphone shoved in his face. The loose air tightened on his skin when he read the headline and then goose bumps and a break out. 

Thisisit,thisisit. 

Ridicule him to your cold heart’s content, it’s destiny. He shakes it off, but the sky’s million whispering ears cling to Harrison like wet cigarettes. 

Obviously. 

 Stop mocking his thoughts! Yeah, he remembers thinking it: Obviously! Love would be within the realm of the unseeable, the realm foretold, the Quantum Realm. He would need to see the unseeable. Bowers was only 19 years old and set his jaw to work on finding the equation. That was before The Man spat on his face. It was so long ago, after the misunderstandings, and the “hearings” where nobody listened to him, and the day before the letter in the mail room telling him he had to leave. He wanted to leave way before that. And then he had to deal with that and this and everyone and every pain all the time and there was never any time, never until now, suddenly, because tonight could be the time. Walk. He knows better. He can’t keep doing this. This reminishit. Harrison knows himself.

Sspltpksspltksspltksk. 

Again. This Guy’s always one to snigger. It doesn’t matter to him. He’s just a spit sea of fucking hatred for the slippery assholes who tried to He lets out a well deserved scream, because it is impossible to cage a predator on the prowl, and yet. And yes, there, see that? The light, split the sky with your brilliance, Harrison, and 1 2 3 4 Aha! Four miles away. The first of furiated rebukes from above, and he knows tonight may be the night the Rain’s proved wrong. Swept downriver, one can only swim so long. Thunderbird of the Quantum Realm. But from the falls, falling, snatched from the jaws of the Lowest Low, the Thunderbird will fly. Another cold shiver, but feeling taller, stronger, reunited drop by drop with the Father failing to fail him again. He’s Dancing! Eyes closed, squirgling at the legs and arms, and then self conscious. Searching for hidden meanies. 

Oh, but how hard he searched that night. The Seeker! Finally! Up and down Grant Street. Up and Down Waverly. They were supposed to be hiding there. He knew, but he kept looking. In literally every single sopping bush. And alley. But always as he was. Alone and not his fault and so he gave up and trudged, their front yard muddy though to his soles already soaked through obviously so it didn't even matter but he found them just as he already knew, warm on the couch laughing at Stewert and the white Dog. DITCHERS. They ditched him and they had a damn good reason, they even convinced Angel. All he needs to do is cinch his Purpose onto the why, the mechanism, it’s something small, something tiny, something overlooked by everyone, as always, overlooked and nobody tries to understand, and you know what, they couldn’t if they tried. Just forget about the past. He needs to walk faster now why isn’t he there yeWOAH! He slipped on the grassy edge of the park but caught himself, pulsing and alive in the tender mushy balance. Harrison you are twenty four years old and you are not failing. He leans forward to walk, but his big toe digs into the mud.

Ssssssssslow. 

You think he should slow down? Slow down? No! Faster. It’s the big wet yard again, and NEVER. NEVER. 

Alwaysssssss. 

WRONG WRONG WRONG. The rain is wrong, never right. Dad never ever told the truth. Called him a disappointment. Harrison didn’t do anything. He didn’t even say that to that stupid TA TA. Always wrong? WRONG. I promise! He knows it! Harrison, the rain is right. No, no, no, avast! He just needs to keep walking, for he’s so close, sosososo close and he’ll eventually tonight in the creek turn over the right stone and then later with Mom we will celebrate the equation on a dry piece of paper at home…

Stop, full stop. mom? Stop! He needs to No, obviously Harrison must keep walking, keep going, do not let this slip, this pathetic and clearly insufficient slip on just another patch of mud be the last. No. NO. He needs to stop right now in the rain and cry. cry? CRY. Cry? You’re out of your damn mind. Crying proves them right!  Have you any idea what this brilliant boy needs? Deserves?

Always. 

SILENCE, SKIES! I DEMAND SILENCE. Listen. Keep walking. Listen, now, Harrison. To you? You think he’ll listen to you? Bully with a whip, you think the rain will stop? The rain will not quiet, and you can’t make it stop, because it knows what it is doing. It knows so well. It rains. It rained and rained and rains. And he’s nothing more to it. Harrison sticks his arm out. Only as if to fall—don’t fall! He’s going to fall. And then, finally, he does fall, he falls, and an old eucalypt catches him. His arm knew, his hand was ready, and he slides down the true foot, exhausted. 

Harrison wakes up forty minutes later, hungry and shivering. It’s just fine drizzling now. He walks over the bridge by the creek and on the other side slides down the mud into the water’s edge. Under the bridge, hand wedged in a hole between the cement and a wooden beam, he pulls out the patagonia fleece from that bag behind Goodwill. Big breath in. He holds it and tears off his rain jacket and his long sleeve and his t-shirt, all soaked through to his skin taut and licked, he throws them to the ground and pulls on the fleece all in one motion. Soft, he exhales hard. So much better. You don’t need anyone to be warm and soft, Harrison remembers. Stupid me, stupid equation, always keeping him alone through the rain. Never again. He doesn’t need to solve anything. They ditched him because they were jerks who didn’t even want to be found. That can’t be his fault. Let him sit. Rest, on the stump beneath the children’s bridge. His tendons ache as his knees bend, but damn if it doesn’t feel good to feel. The creek twinkles with lamplight. A literary mind, they told him once. He loves the sounds of wordstream, slipping into each other’s light. Oh. He loves. He doesn’t need you, Mr. Narrator. But I only wanted to tell our story right, Harrison, to rebut our voice to the rain. If not answers, or apologies, at least love my words. Just let him sit and listen to the creek. He’s not a kid anymore. But his blinking’s beginning to slow… and sleep winks his apathetic eye…

A glare from grumbling Stomach wakes Bowers in the cold and the wind. No. Sleep finds a man neither food nor friends. Sleep is where little boys go to pretend.