Sometimes It Snows In April

Short Story by Brady Rhoades

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Savannah stood on the line, waiting for the 601 to take her from Fullerton to Union Station in downtown Los Angeles, where she worked in the Jewelry District.

It was ten minutes until sunrise and below sixty degrees, which is cause for complaint in Southern California. The Fullerton Depot, built in 1930, was revitalized in the 1990s during a time of urban renewal in Orange County. Art Deco condos and a busy night scene on Harbor Boulevard were a short walk from the tracks. In a nod to history, the Santa Fe Cafe and the bookstore were made of adobe, and the gable and shed roof of the depot was lined with Mission tile.

There were three tracks: two on her side, one on the south side, where five palm trees looked like a huge high-five. There were two elevators leading up to a steel bridge to get commuters to the blue, orange, and gray lines, each with a cycloptic eye for Perris Valley, Antelope Valley, the San Clemente Pier, Bob Hope Airport, or Union Station. The 601 would arrive at 5:56 a.m.

It still amused her that Angelenos and those behind the so-called Orange Curtain bundled up in this weather; she hailed from Stamford, Connecticut and wore a Lord & Taylor silk scarf for style, not warmth, and to cover her aging neck. She people-watched without moving her head (she'd honed her peripheral vision in Manhattan, where rubbernecking could get you full-throated blowback).

Commuters grabbed quick bites at the café and thumb-jabbed their phones. Some looked furtive; others, self-important. And there was an immense middle ground, she knew. How many crimes had been committed by them? Against them?

Simone arrived and handed Savannah The Los Angeles Times, which featured an obituary on the front page, just like every other daily in the country. “The most comfortable form of world travel,” Simone said, quoting Savannah.

“Another Christmas morning,” Savannah said, though it was April 22, 2016. She handed Simone a purple fleur-de-lis. Simone, who had a habit of looking at the ground and rising with a tragi-flirty smirk, rose in a near-cry but caught herself. How good it was to be comprehended. How good it was for Savannah to comprehend.

Was it enough? Yes, Savannah decided, one flower was enough for Simone, which is what mattered, and not enough for herself, which didn’t.

Here came Theodore. When he smiled, his skin did not seem to be attached to his jawbone. From the nose down, his face looked to be folding up like a triple-creased letter under a black hoodie. He was either middle-aged and looking very old or old and looking pretty good. But what an optimist. All he hoped for was a little breakfast.

“Enjoy,” Savannah said, handing him two dollars.