ROBERT REYNOLDS

Sunshower Power
Robert Reynolds wasn’t born to be a singer.
With a name like his, a career as a weatherman, a financial advisor, or a podiatrist seemed
most likely. Yet, here he stood, guitar in hand, ready to strum himself into popular culture. Sure,
there were like fifty people here tops, and yeah, they were mostly shitfaced already, but a first
gig was a first gig.
It made him a performer, a star waiting in the wings.
Technically, he was a financial advisor, but none of these people knew that. To them, he looked
like a god, the guy who had it all figured out. Straw hat, board shorts, and a Hawaiian shirt with
Woody surf wagons on it, unbuttoned down to the top of his chest, a resounding fuck you to
the necktie that choked his spirit the other five days of the week. He was living their dream,
playing music by the pool, sipping an ice-cold beer from a frosty-looking can on a sunny
summer day that even the most cynical person would struggle to find an issue with.
Hot, but not too hot.
Pool water is warm, but not too warm.
The kind of day where every sip you took made you sink deeper into your chair and let out a
long “aaaaahhhhhh.”
It was 5 o’clock somewhere, but it wasn’t here. Here in East Bay at the Pelican Pool Bar on the
beach at 11th avenue, it was 1:17 pm. But Saturdays in July were when the rules could be
broken. So did Tuesdays, Thursdays, and their evil twins, Monday and Wednesday, but
Saturday was special. Saturday was that magical day that let all the framing that held up
society’s overachievers come crashing down, the house torn down to the studs. Friday started
too late for most, forcing them to miss the midday festivities and relegating them to the Wharf,
where nighttime really got a chance to sink its teeth in. This, of course, made Saturday
afternoons all the more special, because everyone’s blood alcohol level already had a head
start, prompting the first few drinks of the day at the pool to jump-start the engine with no
drag. No one liked Sunday except preachers and NFL players, and the latter had the summer
off.
Robert looked down at his guitar, plucking gently at the strings as he watched a beach ball
careen past his face. A blond twenty-something with a bright pink streak through her hair, and
a tangerine bikini that the company had surely maximized their profit on, scrunched her face up
and yelled, “Sorry!” He got up off the barstool and grabbed the ball, passing it back to her and
her friends. She smiled, and he did his best to return it without looking like a fool.
The manager, who looked like the party had ended for him a few years earlier, nodded in his
direction and flipped off the sound system that had been warming up the crowd with the great
crooners of the coast, inciting sing-a-longs at an hour of the day where that term was hardly
ever used.
Here it was.
Showtime.

Robert’s mouth opened, but nothing came out, fear gripping him with its jaws. He smiled and
tried again, a wave of panic racing up his throat.
What the hell is happening?!
He adjusted the mic, then tried again, this time his voice managing to eke out a semi-coherent
sentence about a nice day out. Even he didn’t know what he had said. Tangerine bikini was
gone, and a dozen other sets of eyes watched him curiously, drinks in hand. It was the kind of
quiet that killed. The manager walked up to him and covered the microphone with his hand.
“You ok?” He asked.
Robert nodded and took a sip of the beer from the stand next to him.
“Well, c’mon, people are getting antsy,” the manager said, moving back towards the bar where
a tray full of colorful frozen drinks waited, dying as soon as they were born under the sunny
skies.
Robert waved down the waitress and asked her for a shot of something. Anything as long as it
was cold and packed a punch. If he couldn’t get a note out, he was going to be paying for the
drinks, so he might as well make it pop. She raced back over and handed him a small plastic
shot cup with a cloudy liquid inside it that smelled like Mentos had released a new flavor
geared to those who lived life a little further on the edge.
Over the lips and through the gums, look out liver, here it comes!
He felt his right hand move down the strings now, and the guitar exhaled happily. The manager
looked at him, this time with a shaker full of irritation and agitation. His hands went up and he
mouthed the words, “What the ....”
A fluffy white cloud passing above just below the sun opened up with no warning, and a gentle
rain fell onto the crowd, pushing everyone’s eyes to the skies, and forcing wild applause and
hollering from the crowd.
The guitar leapt into action, leading the charge even if his voice couldn’t yet. The crowd now
moved to the rhythm as more notes poured out and he strummed hard against it, everything
waking up, including his voice.
The first of anything was the worst of anything, but as the rain fell and the sun shone bright, he
sang with everything in his soul, twenty years of being someone else finally set free in that
moment, like his spirit had had its conviction overturned.
***