The Rainmakers

By Nicole Callihan

It’s not even noon, but the sun’s way high, and Johnny’s on the jukebox. I’m sitting in the world’s shiniest diner, staring at the woman who has the most beautiful mouth I have ever seen and who may very well become the mother of my children.

“More?” she says.

“Sure,” I say.

She’s got this gorgeous thick ass and a fresh pot of coffee. I can see little moons of sweat under her arms when she pours. She leaves me, but then she’s back, and she slides into the booth across from me.

“You alright?” she says. I think she’s gonna touch me, but she takes my lighter to her long, skinny cigarette. She sucks deep, and when she exhales I want to know what she tastes like.

“Hello?” she says, waving her hand in front of my face. “Anybody there?”

I laugh.

“Oh my God,” she says. “Are you drunk?”   

“Drunk?” I say, but the cook rings the bell, and she’s gone. Her cigarette’s smoking in the ashtray, blue and feathery. 

I should’ve been a fucking writer. Blue and feathery, I’d say. People’d eat that shit up.

“Hey, Sarah,” I yell. “You got a pen?”

Maybe she’s ignoring me. She’s slicing strawberries onto oatmeal. She rubs her cheek with the back of her hand, and I think the knife’s gonna slice off her nose.

“Why don’t you just do her, asshole?” Dave asks. 

He’s suddenly sitting across from me, wearing his Save Room for the Flan T-shirt. 

“Where the hell’d you come from?” I say. 

 “Get a haircut,” he says. This, from a guy who quit shaving in the nineties. He picks up Sarah’s cigarette and takes a drag. 

“I think I’m gonna write a novel,” I tell him.

“Not today,” he says, smoke coming out of his nose. “We’ve gotta make rain in two hours.”

Dave and I make rain. We used to make T-shirts in Kansas. At first, it was sorority stuff, shit like Paint your Date and Top Ten Lies Heard at Dad’s Day. Then we started getting creative and scanning Andre the Giant’s head with the word “OBEY” under it. It was the first of many jobs we’d lose. Making tacos in Oklahoma. Selling books in Arkansas. Washing cars in Tennessee.

Somehow, we ended up in the hills of North Carolina making rain at a second-rate amusement park, known to locals as Tweetsie Railroad. It’s one of those funnel cake flinging, merry-go-rounding nut-houses that makes the news every year for knocking off some kid who tried to brave the “Silver Bullet.”   

Dave and I went in to work the “Zingo.” I was gonna do controls; he was gonna do coaster maintenance, but our boss, Fathead Eddie, had a dream.

“You boys wanna make rain?” he said.

“Why not?” we said. 

So now, Tuesday through Sunday, four shows a day, I put on a top hat and a yellow jacket and pour Kool-Aid into test tubes while Dave sits in a booth poorly playing a ukulele and watching for my sign.

 I pour. I sift. If I’m feeling a little crazy, I throw in an “Abracadabra,” but the final word is always “Ka-Zam.” When I wave my hands and say, “Ka-Zam,” Dave turns the crank and the sprinklers go wild. Kids look amazed, parents look ripped off, and then we do it again. Fathead Eddie says he’s never seen such a team. He’s promised us an assistant.

“What’s it about?” Dave says.

“What?” I ask.

“Your fucking novel, genius.”

“Hell if I know.”

Dave laughs, and Sarah’s walking over. She’s put her hair up in ponytails, and her lips are pink and shiny.

“You boys want dessert?” she asks. 

No, I want you.

“We’d love it,” Dave says, pointing to his t-shirt, “but I’m, uh, saving room for the flan.”

“Coconut cream pie,” she smiles, walking away.

“No, thanks,” I say. “But thanks. Really. Thank you.”

“God, you’re a putz.” Dave says.

“What?”

“Fuck it. Let’s go.”

The sun’s gotten even higher outside. We’re walking to Dave’s little white pickup truck, and I hear Sarah calling my name.

“Hey Seth,” she says. “Is it okay if I bring Hunter to the show today?”

“That’d be great,” I say. “Come to the six o’clock.”

I wave and try to look cool climbing into Dave’s pathetic excuse for transportation.

“A,” Dave says, “I hate when you slam the door. B, Who the hell is Hunter?”

“Her son.”

“She’s got a kid? She’s got a fucking kid?”

“Shut up, asshole, you knew she had a kid. Who the hell’s Little League games did you think I was going to?”

“Hmm,” Dave says, reaching over me for the glove box and grabbing an Altoid tin. 

“What do you mean, hmm?”

“Just, hmm. That’s all. I mean, I guess she’s not a virgin.”

 “Ha. Dick. I never thought she was a virgin.”

“Well, I guess now you know she’s not. Want one?” he says. He holds out a purple pill. I pop it.

“Don’t be an asshole,” I say.

“Don’t take my drugs,” he says.

“Whatever.”

“I’m just saying, I don’t care how great her ass is. A woman with a kid is bad news.”

“Stop at the store,” I tell him. “I need a slurpee.”

Fathead Eddie’s waiting for us when we get to Tweetsie. He’s got on beige-flesh-colored shorts, and I’m amazed that such a large man can have such knobby knees.

“There they are,” he says, his teeth even yellower than yesterday. “The boys who make me money by making rain.”

“Hey, Eddie,” I say.

“Nice knees,” Dave says, but Fathead’s smiling hard.

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that,” Fathead says, “because I love you, boys. I love you like sons.”

I light a smoke.

“You have a father?” Fathead says, slapping me on the back.

“Not really,” I say.

“Welp, now you do.”

“Hot damn,” Dave says, “and I just thought we worked here.”

Fathead ignores him and walks us past the bumper cars and the giant swinging ship.

“Ahoy!” yells the pirate taking tickets out front. Dave and I got high with him about a month ago, and he won’t leave us alone. “Ahoy!” he says even louder.

“Hey,” I say, but Fathead clears his throat and keeps walking. 

“My first order of business,” Fathead says, “is to buy my boys an ice cream cone.”

Some kid’s screaming for his mother, and I almost trip over him.

“You hungry, son?” Fathead asks me.

“Not really.”

“Okay, then, we’ll skip the ice cream.”

Music blares out of the haunted house, and Fathead’s walks with a purpose. “What I’ve got for you boys,” Fathead says, “is better than ice cream.”

“Better than ice cream, dad?” Dave says, clapping his hands together. “You shouldn’t have.”

I slap Dave on the back of the head, and Fathead throws his arm in the direction of the snack bar.

“There she is,” he says.

Sitting alone at a picnic table is a girl. Not a girl, exactly. I mean, she’s definitely sprouting into womanhood, but she’s young. Maybe 16, 17. She’s got long, straight dark hair and a tight little shirt.

“Dude,” Dave says. “She’s hot.”

“Yes, dude,” says Fathead. “She is.” 

He waves at her and points to us.

“That, my sons, is your new assistant.”

“Holy shit,” Dave says.

“Yeah,” I say.

Her name’s Georgia. Close up she’s even better. It’s her first job. Fathead knows her mom, says he feels a little like an uncle, and thought she’d be the perfect Vanna White of the Rainmaker show. He’s stepping it up a notch, he says. Wants to make the whole thing twenty minutes instead of ten.

“Draw it out a little,” he says. “Make them want it. I mean really want it.”

Georgia’ll wear high heels and a yellow skirt to match my jacket, and I’m supposed to say things like, “And now, my beautiful assistant will bring me the clouds.”

She’ll carry out the test tubes, and then stand around making sounds like “Ooh!” and “Aah!” while I pour the potion. “Hey Rainmaker!” she’ll say, “It looks pretty sunny today. Can you really do it?”

I’ll say, “Not to worry, my beautiful assistant.”

She’ll put her hand on her hip like she doesn’t believe me, and I’ll pour the final Kool-Aid. “Ka-Zam!” I’ll yell, and Dave’ll open up the sky. My beautiful assistant will take out an umbrella that matches our outfits. We’ll wave goodbye to the audience and then walk off arm in arm.

“Fathead,” Dave says, “you’re a fucking genius.”

The two o’clock show goes like magic. The bleachers are pretty much packed, even though people have to pay extra to even get in the gate. There’s this cute mom in the third row, and I keep telling myself, “Sarah, Sarah.” Then, pouring my potion, I’m thinking “Oh shit, maybe I’m just attracted to moms,” but Georgia does this turn and looks good so I figure I’m safe.

The three o’clock goes even better. “All that blue sky,” Georgia says, and even with the gray clouds, people believe her. They love us. All of them. The fat ones with tube tops, the skinny ones with bangs, everybody. When the show’s over, we’re signing autographs.

“Autograph,” Dave says at our three-thirty meeting. “You signed one autograph.”

“Two,” I say, and he calls it purple pill magic. “I could’ve done it without the pills,” I tell him.

“Sure you could’ve.”

I ignore him and watch Fathead lick his thumb to separate the bills he’s counting.

“You kids are good,” Fathead says. “I haven’t seen this kind of money since they caught me powdering balloons at the dart game.”

He’s so excited he tells us he’s upping the price to three bucks a head. I figure I’ll get him while he’s happy, so I tell him Sarah’s coming to the six o’clock and ask if I can put her on the guest list.

“Guest list?” he says.

“Yeah, you know, so she doesn’t have to pay.”

“Seth,” he says, waving a fiver around, “you’re not a rock star.”

Dave laughs. Mustard from his hot dog drips onto his shirt. He pulls it up to his mouth and slurps hard. We’ll see the yellow stain for months.

“You’re a pig,” I say.

“Who’s Sarah?” Georgia asks.

“Just this girl I know.”

Fathead clears his throat. “Two hundred and forty-six dollars,” he says. He slaps the money on his palm. “Not even God thought of charging people for rain.”

“She your girlfriend?” Georgia asks, her pretty little pouty lip.

“Okay, kids,” Fathead says. “I’m not paying you for a soap opera. Get out there and make some rain. You’ve got the four o’clock, then break. I want you back by five-thirty for the six o’clock.”

By the time I get my top hat on, the bleachers are filled. Fathead’s billing us as “The Greatest Rainmaking Team South of the Mason-Dixon.”

“You ready?” I ask Georgia.

“Sure am,” she says.

Fathead’s voice booms over the loudspeaker. “And now, ladies and germs, boys and girls, please welcome the Rainmaker and his beautiful assistant.” Dave starts in with his ukulele, and Georgia and I walk out hand in hand. She twirls around, and the dads in the audience and me stare at her long, tan legs.

“Oh no,” I say. “Looks like I forgot the clouds.”

“Not to worry,” she says and runs to the side of the stage to grab my test tubes.

Fathead beams from the control booth. He gives us a big thumbs-up, and the show goes without a hitch until the end when Georgia can’t open the umbrella. Rain falls all over us. Georgia’s white shirt is soaked. The audience goes wild and gives us what is possibly the first standing ovation in the history of rainmaking.

“Encore!” one of the dads yells. 

After the show, we’re in the double-wide known as the break room. Georgia dries her hair with a towel, and Dave and I try hard not to stare at her nipples.

“Have you guys always wanted to make rain?” she asks.

Dave shrugs. “It just sorta happened.” 

Georgia tells us she’ll be a junior when school starts. “I can’t imagine spending the rest of my life in this shit-hole,” she says. “When I’m eighteen, I’m moving to New York City to be famous.”

“Everybody’s got a dream,” Dave says, heading for the door. “Me, I’m a simple man. My dream is to have another hot dog.”

“Those things are gonna kill you,” I say, and the door slams behind him.

Georgia and I sit there.

“So…” she says.

“So…” 

“What’s your dream, Mr. Rainmaker?”

“Well,” I say, “I don’t know. Maybe just to be a good guy.”

“Oh my god. That’s so sweet.” 

. I think I want to kiss her, but I light a smoke instead. “Sarah, Sarah,” I tell myself, but Sarah’s a whole nother world. 

“Can I bum one?” Georgia asks.

“Aren’t you a little young to smoke?” I say.

“Aren’t you a little old to be staring at my tits?” 

I give her a cigarette.

“I’m just kidding.” She smiles. “I mean it’s not like you’re a dad or anything.”

Her fingernails are painted orange with little silver swirlies. She coughs when she inhales. She’s sitting on the metal stool, and I’m on the floor. I trace my thumb down her calf, but then I hear Fathead’s voice from outside.

“Better not be any monkey business going on in there.”

We laugh. Dave walks in.

“What’s this I hear about monkey business?” he says, then sees Georgia’s cigarette. “Dude,” he says to me, “She’s like twelve.”

“So?” I say. “What are you a friggin’ saint?”

“I’m almost sixteen,” Georgia says and coughs again.

“Whatever,” Dave says and starts in on his dog.

“Seth was just telling me about how he wants to be a good guy,” Georgia says.

“Oh, was he?”

I shoot Dave a go-to-hell look. He licks chili off his thumb.

“I don’t know about you,” he says, pulling out his Altoid box, “but my sinuses are acting up.” He hands me two purple pills and takes two for himself.

“Antihistamine,” I tell Georgia.

“I want one,” she says.

“No,” Dave and I say together. 

“I’ll tell Eddie,” she says.

“No fucking way,” Dave says.

“Eddie,” she yells, “Oh, Eddie.” I slap my hand over her mouth. She takes a long, soft bite at my middle finger. We hear Fathead’s footsteps.

“Give her one,” I say. “Now.” 

Georgia swallows it just as Fathead opens the door. I wanna kill myself. I want to bone Georgia and then kill myself.

“Your girlfriend’s here,” Fathead says. “You didn’t tell me she has a kid. I gave them a two-for-one . Want me to send them in?”

“No,” I say. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

“You might want to tell her that.” Fathead laughs and shuts the door. “Thirty minutes to show time,” he yells back at us.

I take a peek out the window. Under the “Rainmaker” sign is Sarah. She’s on her knees in the gravel spitting on a tissue and wiping Hunter’s face. She’s wearing a jean skirt that makes her ass look a little wider than usual, but, hell, she’s a mom. A really good mom. A really good fucking mom.

“Is that her?” Georgia asks, looking over my shoulder. “Wow. Her kid’s old.”

“He’s only eight,” I say. She presses her hand into my back and stands on her tiptoes for a better look.

“I was eight,” she says, doing the math, “seven years ago.”

“Yeah,” Dave says, looking at me, “and we were eight twenty years ago.”

 “Damn,” I say.

Sarah straightens Hunter’s shirt. I think about the night we were almost together. It was in her kitchen after one of Hunter’s games. “I don’t have time for bullshit,” she said.

“It’s not about that,” I told her. “I like you. I really do.”

“Then kiss me,” she said, and I went in for the kill, and she tasted so good and felt so good and smelled so good. I thought I could change, but then Hunter yelled for his mayonnaise sandwich. “Later,” she said, and I nodded. “Promise,” she said, and I did.

Now in the heat of Tweetsie, Sarah’s fanning herself, fanning Hunter, then fanning herself again. I want to yell out at them. I want to tell them that I’ll make it rain, that everything will be okay.

“She’s pretty,” Georgia says.

“She’s alright,” I say.

Fathead walks over towards them. He’s got a blue balloon that he hands Hunter. Sarah smiles and brushes her hair behind her ears. Fathead whispers something to her. They laugh, but when he walks away I think she looks a little sad. She glances at her watch, then leads Hunter towards the bleachers and out of view.

“I don’t feel so good,” Georgia says. 

Dave’s all hyped up. He paces and shakes his hands. “Fuck,” he says, “I knew this would happen. We shouldn’t have given her anything.”

“I’m almost sixteen,” she says, but she’s sitting on the floor with her head between her knees so we can barely hear her.

“Five minutes,” Fathead yells at us.

“Get me something,” Georgia says. I grab the trash can, and she pukes in it.

“Fathead’s gonna kill us,” Dave says.

“Stay calm,” I say, and she pukes again. 

“I’m okay,” she says, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. 

Fathead yells through the crack. “How’s my numero uno team?”

“We’re fine,” we say.

Apparently, high heels and drugs are a bad combo. I’m pretty wrecked, but Georgia’s tripping all over the place. Fathead’s on the loudspeaker, and Dave plays his ukulele way too fast. Georgia holds onto my arm so we can get center stage.

I manage to tip my hat to the jam-packed audience. I see Hunter’s blue balloon bobbing above the crowd and follow the string down to his face. His big brown eyes make me wonder what his father looked like. He waves. I look at Sarah, and she smiles.

“It’s a pretty sunny day out there, folks,” I begin. “But not to fear, the Rainmaker is here.”

The audience cheers.

“Oh no,” I say, “it seems I forgot my secret ingredients. I’ll have to ask my beautiful assistant to go and retrieve the clouds.”

Georgia picks imaginary lint off her shirt. I say it again, louder, touching her back.

“You okay?” I whisper.

“I want you,” she says, grabbing at my shirt.

“Perhaps I will get the clouds myself,” I tell the audience.

When I get back with the test tubes, Georgia is sitting on the stage unbuckling her shoes.

“What the hell is going on?” a woman yells from the crowd.

“Not to worry, folks,” I say, as Georgia lies down on the stage. “It seems my beautiful assistant isn’t feeling so well.”

Sarah tousles Hunter’s hair. Dave’s ukulele music starts up again. I take off my yellow coat and put it over Georgia. 

“I want you, Seth,” she says.

“No,” I say, and she starts crying.

“I thought you wanted me too,” she says.

“You’ll be okay,” I tell her and go back to my concoction.

“The show must go on!” I tell the audience.

Georgia crawls on the ground. Her skirt’s up around her waist. Red panties. Hair all messed up. “Just sleep,” I tell her and accidentally step on her hand. She sucks on her fingers, crying and rocking. “Sleep, goddammit,” I say. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Fathead says over the loudspeaker, “please be patient. We’ve had a bug going around. Please remain in your seats, and watch the man make it rain.”

People start to get out of their seats. I want to win them back over, so I beat on my chest like Tarzan. “I will make it rain,” I yell. “In sickness or in health!”

“This is bullshit!” some dad says.

“I want my money back!”

“I will make it rain,” I yell again.

“Well,” Fathead says, “goddammit, do it.”

I pour my potions, test tube into test tube, beaker into beaker, but I’m not ready to say “Ka-Zam.” I realize this will probably be my last gig at Tweetsie, and so I sing.

“And since we have no place to go, let it rain, let it rain, let it rain.”

“It’s snow, dumb ass,” the dad yells. “Let it snow.”

People start filing out in groups.

“Rainmaker,” Fathead says over the speaker, “make it rain. Immediately.”

Some punk head kid throws an ice cream cone at me. I shoot him the middle finger, but then I remember Hunter’s there, so I try to make it part of the show. Sarah shakes her head at me.

“And now,” I tell the audience in my last ditch effort, “I will drink the magic potion!” I gulp down test tube after test tube. “I will become the rain!” I fling my arms towards the sky.

“Please be reminded,” Fathead says, “there are no refunds for the show.”

I look at Sarah. “Why?” she mouths to me.

And then, it starts to rain. 

“I didn’t say Ka-Zam!” I scream, but everyone’s leaving. 

Fathead’s flaming pissed. “Show’s over,” he says, and the sprinklers go wild.

Sarah whispers to Hunter, and he looks at me, disappointed, infinitely disappointed. I want to do something, but then Georgia wakes up. She pulls at my pants.

“I’m cold,” she says. “I wanna go home.”

Dave walks up on the stage, laughing like a madman.

“That was brilliant,” he says. He does a little dance, snaps his fingers. “And since we’ve no place to go…”

“Make the rain stop!” Fathead cries over the speaker.

Dave laughs even harder. “Fathead turned the crank so far, he can’t turn it off.”

I look for Sarah, but she’s gone. Everyone’s gone. 

“Leave,” Fathead booms into the loud speaker. “Now!”

The rain keeps coming down. I stare towards the entrance, but I can’t see Sarah there either. 

“She’s gone,” I tell Dave.

“Sucks,” he says almost like he might mean it. “You alright?”

“Whatever,” I say.

The wind’s starting to pick up, and I wonder where Dave and I’ll go next. Probably up north a little, or maybe back over to Tennessee.

About the author

Nicole Callihan’s This Strange Garment will be published by Terrapin Books in 2023. Her other books include SuperLoop and the poetry chapbooks: The Deeply Flawed Human, Downtown, and ELSEWHERE (with Zoë Ryder White), as well as a novella, The Couples.