This story was inspired by Cheryl Terra’s “When The Lights Went Out” series. Don’t know what I’m talking about? Well, have I got some news for you! Cheryl is a superb writer and her fiction is available at patreon.com/cherylterra Check her out and thank me later.

I wanted to write a story that took place over the course of 24 hours and focused on a character who finds out his worldview has been seriously skewed.

It was just some damned rain. These people were acting as if they had never seen water falling from the sky before. Okay, it was a little harder than normal and more sudden, but seriously, they were scurrying around like rabbits when the dog is loose.

I didn’t know my neighbors and they didn’t know me. That was the way I wanted it. I was polite and so were they, in a stiff, distant manner. Still, the differences were striking sometimes, like how they ignored snow conditions, and where I came from people freaked out over half an inch of flurries.

Back home you’d get a flashlight and an old paperback and sit on the porch for a few hours while waiting for the lights to come back on. Up here, people lost their damned minds. I was happy to accept the negatives that went with the positives. Northerners let you be. They didn’t pester you and try to get into your business.

Connecticut was far from where I grew up, but it served its purpose. I had a roof over my head, and I was far away from the scene of my life’s greatest failure. I sat on my enclosed porch, tried to enjoy my medicinal herb and kept an eye on the blue smoke coming from the smoker.

Wasting my cell battery talking to my fucking neighbors wasn’t making my day any better. I waited until the third ring before answering.

“So, hey, um, you probably noticed that there’s no power.”

Rolling my eyes, I took a beat before replying. “No power? Really? At your house?”

“At ... Yeah. You have power?”

“I’ve got no idea, Barbara. I’m out on the porch with a few Steam Whistles watching the smoker.”

I didn’t have power. No one did, but I enjoyed yanking her chain. They were those neighbors. The ones that never reach out until they need something from you, and it seems as if they always needed something. They’d called the fire department at least three times when the smoker was going just to annoy me but had no qualms about hinting how much they liked ribs.

I’m sure it was just to piss me off since I hooked up the neighbors I liked, but not them. I’d gone over the first time and explained, but there wasn’t a need. The smoke was light and twenty yards from the house. They could have seen it from their deck. [a]

“Right, the smoker. That’s sort of why I’m calling. Well, I’ve got a roast that I threw in the oven a few minutes ago and, well ... No power. Do you think it might fit in the smoker?”

I paused again. It would fit. Hell, we could empty the freezer of half the people in town and I could fit it all in the smoker. It was a stick-burner from Alabama that could smoke two dozen pork shoulders, twenty full briskets, and thirty-six racks of ribs at the same time. I use it for competitions and charity gigs from Maine to Virginia. Capacity wasn’t the issue.

These were the same people that saw me shoveling my driveway three months ago while they were using their gas snowblower. I kept shoveling and when they were done with their driveway, they went right back inside. It would have taken them five minutes to help clear a path to my truck. What’s worse is that they saw me finish my driveway and then do Mr. Milton’s and they stayed comfy in the house with their hot chocolate and warm cookies and, and ... well, whatever people like that enjoy after a blizzard.

“I’m not really sure, Barbara. More meat means more fuel. Do you have any split and dried wood I can use? Maybe some lump charcoal?”

“Um, no. We have propane grills.”

Of course you do. I sighed. “Yeah, bring it over.”

“Thanks, Kenny. You’re the best.”

Her call made me think. I looked down the block and saw Mr. Milton’s. I grabbed another rack of baby backs from the fridge, trimmed off some of the fat, peeled off the silver skin, slapped on some rub, and darted out to the rig. It went on next to the brisket and two pork shoulders. The smoker seemed almost barren with all that empty space.

What the fuck, it’s just some rain. I stopped at Mr. Milton’s first.

“Kenny, you’re drenched! What are you doing out?”

Aside from being the worst kvetcher I’d ever seen, he was a nice old guy. He had a garden in his backyard, and I was often the recipient of its largesse or one of his famous pies.

“I’m good. Just a little rain. Listen, I’ve got a rack of ribs on the smoker for you. Won’t be ready until about 9:00, but I’ll bring them over. You let me know if you need anything else, okay?”

“Appreciated, young man. I’ll take you up on that. Thank you. Have you heard anything from Ellie?”

I tried to plaster a smile on my face after the mention of my ex-wife. “No. We don’t stay in touch.”

“Such a shame. She was a nice girl. Your grandparents always spoke so highly of her. Smart as a whip. Whatever happened with...”

I interrupted his yenta tendencies. “Sorry, gotta get going. I’ll foil the ribs and bring them over. Can you do me a favor and let the neighbors know that I’ve got plenty of space if they want to bring anything over that they have in the fridge? Anything that might spoil or they were planning on cooking?”

“Well, absolutely. Mighty generous. I sure will.”

Talking to the neighbors would give him an excuse to gossip and dig for information. Word would get out quicker than me knocking on doors, which I did anyway. I kept an eye out for fallen trees on my way back. Wood for smoking was always appreciated.

Barbara called me from her porch as I walked past their house. “Kenny! Kenny!”

She lifted a baking dish wrapped in foil. From her porch. While dry. Like I was supposed to come running over to her so I could have the privilege of cooking her dinner. Which, like a schmuck, I did.

The roast went on. I threw in some potatoes and carrots and went back to my porch and my pilsners. Alexa and her music had died when the internet did, so I sat in silence. My rig was from Shirley Fabrications and was a beast. It laughed at the rain. I’d opened the vents a bit and I would throw another log on in a while, but for now, I enjoyed the patter of the rain on the roof and the aroma of BBQ.

Just some freaking rain. I’d dealt with much worse.

It had been drizzling that final day in court three years and four states ago. Nothing like the driving rain we had now, it was just a dismal, grey day that was fitting for the end of my marriage. There was no single dramatic catalyst for the end, we just slowly grew apart. I actually still liked her after we decided to split and thought we’d end up as one of those formerly married couples that remained friends.

Then Ellie decided that she was entitled to everything but would graciously accept almost everything. She’d gotten the catering end of our business and I got the farmer’s markets. Half of my equipment went her way and she was allowed to keep using the name Woodson BBQ.

Never mind the fact that I’d started the business before we’d ever set eyes on each other. Never mind the fact that I’d paid for her MBA and didn’t get a piece of her future earnings. Never mind the fact she thought BBQ was laughably easy and anyone could do it.

Ellie handled the money, I handled the food and marketing. I’m not belittling her. She knew what she was doing and held up her end. She’d even pitch in if I needed her to run to the restaurant supply warehouse or act as a gopher; but her forte was running the money aspects of the business, and I appreciated what she brought to the table.

Unfortunately, that was a one-way street. I was the country bumpkin that threw meat on the smoker while she was the poor beleaguered paragon of learning and erudition who had the nobility of spirit to save me and our business from ruin. It’s amazing how an impending divorce can recast reality. That lasted less than eighteen months before she was coming to me for help.

It was too late by then. She’d ruined our reputation, and her horrible food and customer service had tainted anything associated with Woodson’s. Large orders at the farm stands dried up. I cut back from six locations to four and then four to two. I was selling ribs two at a time instead of by the rack or half rack.

Eventually I packed up and moved to my grandparents’ old place up north in Groton, Connecticut. I’d been renting it and my parents’ old place out but switched to renting out my home and became a transplanted southerner. With the rental properties and some investments, I was able to be comfortable if I lived modestly.

I’d spent summers in Groton with my grandparents growing up and many neighbors still remembered me. I tried to do right by my community and, in general, people did right by me.

There was a light rapping on my enclosed deck that pulled me from my reverie. Thankfully, it was someone I was always happy to see.

“Kenny? I brought over some sausage and Mrs. Tillis saw me and asked if you could put on some wurst and kielbasa. And I thought you might be thirsty. Felix won’t miss them.”

Mrs. Ortega lifted a six-pack of Yellow Rose IPA. Felix definitely would miss them, but I wasn’t going to say no. I spent my thirteenth and fourteenth summers spending more time with her daughter than I did with my grandparents. We never went too far, but certainly farther than her parents would have approved of. Felix and Rosa were good people and had been by a number of times to check on me since I’d moved to Groton.

“Come on in and get out of the rain.”

I took the small cooler from her, ran out to the smoker, and hurriedly tossed everything on, checked the temps, closed everything up, and ran back. Rosa was studiously ignoring the joint I had waiting on the table and had opened one of the IPAs.

Taking off my ball cap, I plopped down in my seat, toweled myself off, and finished what I had been drinking.

“So, any news on how long this is going to last?”

She looked my way. “The rain or the power outage?”

“Both. Either.”

“We’re not supposed to get power back until tomorrow night around six or seven.”

“Seriously?”

“Yup.”

I started thinking of everything I had in my freezers. “You know what we should do? We should have a block party. Just cook up everything people have in their freezers, line the sidewalks with tables and games for the kids, and turn it into a party.”

“You have a magic rock, Kenny?”

“What?”

“Rock soup?”

“I’m not following.”

“Rock Soup, that old kid’s story. The con man tells people he has a magic rock that makes the best soup and he’ll share if you contribute one thing. Somebody contributes carrots, someone else brings meat, and so on. He eats for free.”

“Never heard it.”

She snorted. “Philistine.”

After Rosa left I began prepping some beans. She’d spread the word and people began dropping by. Everyone brought something for me to throw on the smoker and most brought me something for the effort. I got enough beer to stock a refrigerator, three pints of ice cream, some chips and two cigars. Two college kids came by with a case of frozen burgers and a couple of grams of weed.

I had four briskets that I’d split the point from the flat. I loaded up bus pans with saltwater and put most of the meat I had in the freezer in them for a quick defrost. Digging out two cans of apple pie filling, I chopped the contents up and threw them in the beans, and added a bunch of Blues Hog sauce. I’d been using Keri’s recipe for years and it had become an internet staple for a good reason.

The disposable hotel pans with the beans went on the racks directly below a brisket and I placed four or five pounds of Conecuh sausage on as well. The heat was steady at 260°, so I went back and continued prep work, coring out jalapeños and listening to the rain hit the roof.

Someone with a sense of humor was playing “Have You Ever Seen The Rain” by Creedence on an acoustic guitar and the music danced across the neighborhood. It made for a relaxing night. Tending a fire and prepping was old hat to me. Someone had to be pit-bitch at any BBQ contest and stay up through the night. Since I didn’t like people touching my rig without me, I was the self-appointed overnight guy.

My mind drifted and I thought of the people I’d loved and who had loved me back. I considered my success and failures and how I’d become a hermit living with Yankees. I didn’t like to fail. I made varsity in three sports in high school and still graduated near the top of my class. My business was a success almost from the start; I had too many trophies to count from BBQ competitions, and I had friends that were as close as brothers. None of that ameliorated the failure of my marriage. Sitting there working while listening to the guitar and rain I still had no idea how I’d misjudged Ellie so badly.

It rankled.

When the ribs had retracted from the bone and they had the proper bend, I sauced them and wrapped them up for Mr. Milton. Some of the brats and kielbasa hit 160°, so they went into a half-tray with beer to go back in the smoker and I jogged over to the old man’s house.

“That smells fantastic, Kenny! You have time for a beer? Maybe some Uno?”

“Thanks, but no. Gotta get back to the food. You heard about the block party?”

“Sure did. I’ll be there with bells on. What time?”

“It’s a weekend, so the kids are home. Maybe around two or three?”

“Sounds great.”

My jeans were chafing and I needed to change my drenched shirt, but I’d realized that I’d forgotten to put the tray with the brats back in the smoker. Trying to avoid the puddles, I was twenty feet from the smoker when I saw a medium-sized dog jump from the stool I had out there onto the runner outside the smoker’s doors. It grabbed a string of wursts, jumped down and ran off.

I was too stunned to even yell at the daring mutt.

Not willing to risk the rest of the wursts, I grabbed them, ran back to the porch and tossed them in the garbage. Who knows if that dog had licked them or something? I was thinking about turning the hamburgers into a smoked meatloaf and began chopping some onions and garlic. Serenaded by the patter of the rain and occasional low rumble of thunder, I thought of where I had wound up.

This town and neighborhood had been an important part of my childhood. Every year, without fail, I’d complain about visiting my grandparents and leaving my friends for most of the summer. Every year, without fail, I’d complain about leaving my grandparents and the friends I’d made as I returned for the school year. That got much worse when I’d discovered girls. Everything is so heightened at fourteen and that included the angst and sorrow at leaving Andrea Ortega to head back home.

I’d taken to wearing a beat-up John Deere ballcap to drive home my image of the backwards, southern shitkicker. People up here didn’t like talking to anyone that was different, and I was leaning pretty heavy into that southern good-ole-boy role. Tilting the hat down on my forehead, I pushed away my mise en place, stretched out my legs and hoped I’d wake up in an hour or two.

When I opened my eyes, my watch told me I’d been asleep for almost ninety minutes. I stretched, grabbed some agave and my spray bottle with apple juice, worcestershire and apple cider vinegar. The rain was still coming down, so I jogged over to the smoker instead of walking. The temps had begun to dip and opening her up would cause further havoc, but it had to be done.

I added the agave to the beans, gave it a good stir and sprayed the pork butts. The briskets had some good coloring, and I’d need to add some more beer to the remaining brats and sausages soon. Closing her up, I added some hickory and cherry to the firebox.

When I finished, I turned to see that dog again. He or she was staring at me from about ten feet away. It turned and ran a few yards, stopped and looked back at me.

“I’m not feeding you again, mutt. That was enough to last you three days.”