Fitz's Opinion: In a drought of reason rain is music to our ears

The following column is the opinion and analysis of the writer:

One overcast day down at the Arroyo Cafe we were discussing the likelihood of rain when Sour Frank noticed something different in the diner, an old jukebox in the corner. “That new?”

Carlos, the proprietor, said he’d picked “her” up at an auction. “Like it?” Frank asked Carlos if the dusty, dented thing still worked. Carlos grinned and plugged it in.

Purple, red, blue and yellow neon blazed to life across Carlos’ atomic age hearth, illuminating the entire cafe with the narcotic promise of nostalgia.

“Got her cheap. Old junk dealer said it he didn’t want her anymore.” Carlos scanned the list of oldies, settled on B7, fed the beast two bits and waited for The Cascades to tell him just what a fool he’d been.

“Listen to the forecast saying there’s no rain,

Telling me just what a fool I’ve been.

I wish the clouds would come and let us hope in vain.

And maybe smell some rain again.”

Carlos looked perplexed. “Those aren’t the words I remember.”

“Me, either,” said Rosa. “What happened to ‘Listen to the Rhythm of the Falling Rain’?”

Sour Frank, shaken, declared the jukebox, “Possessed — by Ed Abbey or that Greta Thunderbird.”

“Thunberg,” Lurlene snapped.

“The only world we care about we’ve led astray,

mega-droughts are just the start.

But little do you know the price our world will pay

For breaking Mother Nature’s heart.

Sun please tell us now does that seem fair?”

Lurlene shrieked.

I dropped my cup.

Carlos yanked the plug. The cafe fell silent. Sour Frank suggested we called Father Fimbres. “Exorcism is the only answer. It’s like that TV in ‘Poltergeist’!”

“Plug it in and let it play,” I said, passing my hat to collect quarters. Carlos reluctantly plugged the old rockola back in and fed it two quarters.

“B7,” We reminded him.

“Sun please tell us now does that seem fair?

For you to steal our rain away when you don’t care—

We can’t love these summers when our rain’s somewhere far away.”

Carlos crossed himself as thunder thrummed in the distance.

“Rain won’t you fall because we need you so?

Please, el Niño, make the summer winds blow.

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Rain on our home and let our dry rivers start to flow.

Listen to the wailing of the hot dry wind—

Telling us what wasteful fools we’ve been.

I wish that it would blow and let us hope in vain

Our rain will always come again.”

Retired with more broken bones than Tucson has broken heat records, Romero, the old rodeo clown, stood up and pointed out the big cafe window like Columbus spotting land. “Look at them clouds billowing over the mountains in the south! They’re itching to stampede our way, amigos. I can feel it in my bones.”

“Oh, listen to the falling rain…

Pitter patter, pitter patter…

Oh, oh, oh, listen to the falling rain…

Pitter patter, pitter patter…”

Phil Nimbus, our local KWHT — known affectionately as “K-What?” — weatherman, and world famous dust devil chaser, declared the jukebox to be an accurate misfortune teller. “Last monsoon our total annual rainfall was less than one hummingbird’s tear. One tear! Don’t be fooled by this season’s rains. I’m sorry to report this mega-drought is here to stay.”

“I wish the clouds would come and let us hope in vain

And let us smell the rain again.

The planet that we love is changing day by day,

And all of us have played a part—”

“Not me. I got solar!” Lurlene asked Carlos if Stephen King was the previous owner. “Did it come with a car named Christine?”

“But little do you know the price your world will pay

for breaking Mother Nature’s heart.

Sun please tell us now does that seem fair?

For you to steal our rain away when you don’t care…”

I saw a “Black Mirror” episode like this once. Sour Frank was puzzled. I said, “It’s like ‘Twilight Zone’ for hipsters.”

“Oh, listen to the falling rain…

Pitter patter, pitter patter…

Oh, oh, oh, listen to the falling rain…

Pitter patter, pitter patter…”

A thunderous boom got our attention; everyone jumping in their seats as thunder began rumbling and rolling across the ceiling, rattling the old fixtures.

We all ran outside onto the dusty street and followed our noses to the distant source of the unmistakable fragrance of rain, a veil of blue draping the Tucson Mountains in the distance, as the dust at our feet speckled, drop by drop by drop, with rain, sweet rain.

“Listen to that. The rhythm of the falling rain. Isn’t it beautiful?” We laughed, splashed and danced in the deluge. From inside, Carlos asked for musical requests.

Lurlene, soaked to the bone and dancing a jig, laughed. “Anything but ‘Who’ll stop the rain’ or ‘Heat Wave.’”