Gotta Knock A Little Harder

The first time Spike saw the rain, he was two. Something in his mind shifted as he watched veins of water run down the car window, the world that sped by blurring into a single subject. Rain made the overwhelming shapes and structures melt into something far more simple. It soothed his developing mind, for everything seemed safe in the drumming of water on hood; everything seemed clear.
 

Water sloshes down his matted hair as he stalks through another alleyway. Opinions change over time. The pounding on nearby roofs drowns out the world; the crashing water cascades down rickety drains and gushes out to meet him. With age comes a certain grim understanding.
 

Spike flips up the collar of his shirt and shrinks down into its protection. He cups a hand over the cigarette jammed in the corner of his mouth, puffs on it. His sneakers are water-logged; the wonderful time when one could differentiate between sock and sogginess seems a golden memory. He stops at a crossway, wiping dripping strands of hair out of his eyes. He takes a left, tackling the sheet of rain with a grunt. Spike is, simply and utterly, quite miserable.

***
 

The door to the pub sticks in its frame, the swollen wood stubbornly resisting Spike's attempts at opening it. The comforting light of the OPEN-sign does little as to actually comforting him. He bites out a curse, followed by a litany of others. Like the game winning free-kick that sails through the air, towards the other side of the net than where the goalie is lying in disbelief, the crowd hushing, and finally slamming in to the post. He knocks on the door, the dampness absorbing his pounding.
 

”Hello? Anyone? Potential customer out here! Hello?”
 

With no answer forthcoming, Spike rests his back against the door, face upturned to embrace the droplets from above. Breath takes form in angry wisps of warm humidity. The bent cigarette in his mouth refuses to go out and Spike sucks on it gratefully. He imagines the warmth of the pub leaking out of the wet wood, the laughter and revelry diffusing through its breathing pores. He imagines himself breathing in time to it.
 

”You going in?”
 

Spike looks up into an indistinguishable face. A heavy, felt-lined hat shadows the stranger's eyes, the quirk of a grin nestling in his lips. Later, when Spike attempts to remember what the stranger was wearing, he finds he isn't too sure. It was most probably something dark and liquidy if it blended so well with the night, he decides.
 

”I would if I could,” says Spike. ”The door's jammed.”
 

The stranger says, ”Hmm,” and lifts the brim of his hat a touch. A gleam of unkown origins from the shadows where his eyes should be. Maybe some shades, thinks Spike, or a piercing of some sort. You can't be too sure where people put those these days.
 

”Well, that sure takes the waves from underneath your, ah, board. Such a rotten piss-fest out here that a few ales would perform right miracles, they would.”
 

Spike smiles without humor. ”Sure would. And nobody's answering my knocking either. With all the commotion inside, I guess that isn't too big of a surprise, though.”
 

He supresses a cough, the water finally soaking through his overcoat. His lips spasm with the motion; the cigarette flies from between them and lands on the ground, trailing fitful smoke as the sloshing water swallows it.
 

”Bloody rain,” he mutters.
 

The stranger stoops down and picks up the fallen smoke with a dark, gloved hand. He then reaches into the insides of his chest and pulls out a lighter, of the kind you can buy for less than a dollar at any given market.
 

”It would seem to me,” the stranger says, pausing to offer the soggy cigarette to Spike. He accepts it, bemused. The stranger flicks the lighter and a brilliant flame flickers to life. A touch of the flame and a hearty smoke trails from the glowing end of the cigarette, which, much to Spike's amusement, is suddenly dry. He inhales the smoke, letting it out through his nostrils.
 

”That if they can't hear you,” the stranger continues,”you just have to make more noise, is all. Seems logical to me.”
 

”If it only were so simple.” Spike hawks up some phlegm stuck to his throat and spits away his regret, wipes his mouth. He hides his snarl behind a grin. ”But if it's all the same to you, I think I'll just go find another pub.Thanks for the light anyway, man. Much appreciated.”
 

He gets out of his slump and takes a few steps away, hands in his pockets, when the stranger chuckles. Spike looks at him to find him grinning a toothy, happy grin, very much unlike his own.
 

”Oh, but it is that simple. Sometimes, you just gotta knock a little louder.”
 

It suddenly seems like a very good idea to Spike. ”Alright, alright, I'll try. Can't hurt to try, I guess.”
 

Spike turns back to the door and pounds on it with both fists, a cat in the distance screeching at the noise he makes.
 

”Open up, damn you! Freezing customer out here! Open the damn door! Hello?” He turns back to the stranger, nearly smug. ”'S'not working.”
 

Spike starts; there's no trace of the quirky stranger. The rain's turned to sleet and bucketfuls of the wet slush pour down to slather Spike on the doorway, obscuring his view of the street.
 

”Just gotta knock a little harder, eh?” growls Spike. ”I'll show you harder,” growls Spike.
 

He takes a few steps back, feet planted in the barrage of clogging mass. He lowers his shoulder and charges at the door, sneakers slipping on the wet ground. The impact shudders through him, the tips of his fingers jolting from the collision. The door stays shut with the firmness of an annoyed mule.
 

”Oh no you don't.”
 

Spike staggers backward again and rushes at the door, the cigarette in his mouth flaring from the sudden rush of oxygen. For the second time the collision jarrs him, but this time he feels the door give way. Spike forces more and more pressure on the hinges, his jaw set as his muscles pump ferociously. He can feel the wood morphing, submitting; nostrils flaring, Spike summons up his reserves – and then he's through, stumbling over the crashing door into the spilled illumination of the pub.
 

The laughter and talk pause momentarily to observe the newcomer, and then the room shrugs as one, the scattering of conversations forming the homely din of the pub. The place smells of beer and grease, with a slight undertone of vomit, but it smells so in a good way. In a welcoming sort of way.
 

Spike gathers himself from the floor and shakes out his collar, smoothing his hair, which does absolutely no good. He makes his way to the bar, disposing of the finished cigarette on the way, and slides into a stool.
 

”Sorry 'bout the door,” he says, when the bartender strolls over, drying his hands on a cloth.
 

”What you talking about?” the man asks, frowning. ”You write on it or something?”
 

Puzzled, Spike glances back at the door. He is only midly surprised to see it standing up in its frame, the day having been what it had.
 

”Nevermind. An ale, please.”
 

”You want that medium or large?”
 

”Medium. No, wait. You know what, gimme a large one.”
 

Spike leans onto the counter, letting the earthy din wash over him, like the evening's royal waves rolling around on the ground with the pebbles. The damp in his clothes is slowly easing away.
 

”Here we are, a large ale. Oh, and your sandy-haired friend left this for you.”
 

”Which sandy-haired friend?”
 

”The one with the hat. Though he might have had dark hair, now that I think of it. Or was it red?” The bartender rolls his cloth around thoughtfully. ”Darned if I remember. Usually got a good memory with faces too.”
 

Spike's gaze lingers on the cheap lighter set next to his foaming ale.
 

”Don't worry about it,” he says, ”I don't blame you. He still here?”
 

”Nah, he left a minute ago. You just missed him.”
 

Spike nods his acknowledgment, eyes still on the lighter. The bartender makes to leave, brow still furrowed in thought. Spike grins suddenly, his mood spiking.
 

”Actually, could you get me another one of these?” he asks. ”For the good health of my friend.”
 

The man looks terribly confused. ”What friend?”
 

”Nevermind. Another large ale, if you would.”
 

The bartender nods, rushing away to take another customer's order. He calls over his shoulder, ”Coming right up, sir.”
 

His clothes feel dry, his spirits are high. With an amused shake of his head, he stows the lighter in his jacket. Spike hefts his ale, spilling a little. It drips down the side of the mug. He feels it appropriate to make a toast; it's been that sort of a day.
 

”Cheers,” he says. ”Thanks,” he says. And he drinks.

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The story was inspired by this picture:
http://www.pixel-ellipsis.net/wp-content/wallpapers/bebop1600.jpg