Seeing & Looking
His tropical shirt is soaked. Rain water swirls around his bare feet as he takes three last hits from his cigarette, while reading about the $16 lobster avocado cocktail on the restaurant menu.
Splashing him, a group of cyclists rolls through the water that locals call Lobster Pot lake. Above them all, a Cape Cod sky turns a leaden gray. The single car that creeps through the lake on Commercial street has its low beams on, in an attempt to find its way through the dark street.
A single baby stroller rolls down the street, its hidden passenger tucked safely under a blue hurricane tarp. Tethered to their dogs and kids, the parents mush.
My camera flash blazes. Staying dry under my old black umbrella, it wordlessly freezes vertical slices of rain, soaking them in to its memory card. Nearby, like blossoming flowers, bouquets of umbrellas open up to the sky. Their mizzled owners jaywalk across Commercial, because nobody one wants to wade though Lobster Pot lake.
This lake stretches just twenty-five feet across Commercial to the Governor Bradford restaurant. It reflects the red hues from the Lobster Pot's tubular, cursive neon sign. People are moving swiftly to shelter-- the Cape Cod cloudburst comes during lunch hour, at noon on a September Wednesday.
Between Ryder and Winslow streets, a few souls traverse the street. Punctuated by their dazzling sneakers, a puddle on Commercial street reflects a vinyl Peace Sign next to an equally plastic US flag. Sopping wet, but still velcroed to their owners, the running shoes dash off as their humans search out rain ponchos, but it's too late. . .
Lightning bolts divide the sky. It pours. Then...
Rain drops taper off. The storm clouds dissappear. Sunlight paints the street with diffuse light from the southwest. All the passers-by walk on, except for one young beagle who stops to snarf up a toddler-plopped ice cream cone.
Stuffed into my dry backpack, the camera contemplates memories, hypnotized with images, and dreams of imaginary scenes that escaped its owner's wide eyes. Outside, the afternoon sky is now a pale blue.
I feel lighter, and walk on.
Photos and Writings by Jim Austin Jimages