The wind violently howled, foreshadowing the pain that would later ensue. Its palpable agony permeated from house to house, bouncing from one to the other like a tiny yet destructive tennis ball. The clock struck three, and still the world was far from action-packed. Streets were empty and bare like a blank canvas waiting to be painted on. Recently named Sandy, she ultimately inflicted a durable pause button on the world, which halted many from stepping out from the frame and hitting play. Her wailing, a destructive echo that haunted many in their sleep, reverberated from window to window, a destructive echo that haunted many in their sleep. And no one could sound her out. Laughter ceased. A home felt like a stranger.
Streets were naked, without dogs or children as clothes. Blankets were brought out in abundance. Families were bound like two magnets, initially attracted and then repelling. The traffic lights refused to indicate whether people should move forward. Most sat, completely still, in eerie, unusual darkness and frigidity. Yet, one strange man decided it was the time to step outside.
In a bright red coat, he was the epitome of a sore thumb. A white beard covered the lower half of his face. Its brownish tint looked as if he either took a dip in a mud bath or an extremely prominent artificial dye. His head was practically naked, just coated with the tiniest strands of wispy, white hair. As he got colder, the chilled color of blue outweighed the natural healthy red in his complexion. He shook abruptly, as if he were inside of a mixer and some tiny child had placed it on extremely high.
As he began to rewind back to his boy scouting days, he followed one of the major rules: find shelter. A decayed tree was not too appealing, yet he immediately dashed underneath, shielding himself from the violent, angry wind. But then the thought came, a number one rule from Troop #5028. And as that thought reached his brain, it immediately signaled to his head to look above and his feet to bolt away. ‘Not during a storm you dummy’ he condemned. He looked around, perhaps to see if anyone witnessed him not living up to his safety badge, but in his self-consciousness, loneliness and need for company, he did not even stop to remember the reality that he was all alone.

Just days before the upcoming election, a Romney sign coasted by, landing directly at edge of the elderly man’s boot. His eyes spotted the sign, and squinted, peering eerily at it. Without any hesitation, he lifted his dirty brown boot and stomped with anger, imprinting his mark directly on Romney’s name. One might think as an older man, he would vote Republican, in judging that he must be set in his ways and in opposition to extreme change. Yet, he stands out from the mass, as a man not afraid to put his foot down.
He hopped around for a while, jumping frantically up and down to try to keep warm. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a 1990’s sized cell phone, dialing it anxiously. No answer. Then, he heard a sound that outweighed the howling wind, wheels screeching against the pavement followed up by piercing country music, singing to the empty streets about a beautiful girl in plaid and a pickup truck.
The blue dirty minivan was not the carriage one might be expecting. And in his long brown mullet and army green jacket, the driver was definitely not the typical knight in shining armor. But it was good enough for the old man, as he frantically flagged the van down. At a closer view, one could see the inside, coated with Wendy’s bags, permeating the smell of “you know when it’s real” throughout the neighborhood.
His dull blue eyes immediately rested on the van’s bumper sticker, a larger than life rainbow peace sign. ‘Man, hippies these days don’t even know what it was like in the 60’s,’ he groaned.’ The smell of fried chicken and the deafening country tunes were not the ideal rescue. In hesitation, the old man looked towards the sky, seeing the angry wind picking up its pace. He heard its howls and realized that this was just the beginning. And so, he stepped with his brown boots forward.
Matching his coat, the elder’s nose shined as red as Rudolph’s, yet he did not appear quite so jolly. His eyes were strewn with tears, perhaps of exhaustion, perhaps of helplessness. Why was he all alone? Where was his family? Did he even have a family?
The two very diverse men talked for a moment, probably the only occasion that these two men would converse. Why would the man want to talk to a middle aged Wendy’s addict? And why would the driver want to spend time with a man who actually lived through World War Two? Yet, finally, with slight hesitation, the driver motioned for the man to come inside.
Just as the heat reached the old man’s body his face broke out in pure joy. He ignored the fast food smell and the southern tunes. And he reached his arms around the driver in joy and relief. The driver was stunned but then, willingly hugged him back. This unusual friendship reached the men in a time of need. One may wonder if that perhaps was the purpose for the storm. Maybe the world was tired of people judging others and created a disastrous situation, to bring them all together.