Lincoln, Nebraska

The radio is beeping on every station. The sky’s rolling black clouds feel low enough to touch. The tornado siren sounds for the second time in ten minutes as I pull into a nearby parking lot. Sirens in this town are essentially a “don’t walk” sign. People line store fronts duck under awnings. No one is moving. Work seizes to function as employees press their faces against the large glass window fronts, gazing upwards and pointing.

I pause in the van, waiting for the rain to let up. Fat suicidal drops hurl themselves towards the pavement, coming in from the right. The wind changes and suddenly the kamikaze droplets are hammering down from the left. All too unexpectedly it stops. There is a giant breathless pause. Heads poke out from store fronts. It is the break before the firework finale on the 4th of July, we know what’s coming, but aren’t sure when.

I make a dash for it. Despite what nature is up to, I’m hungry, and rumor has it the burgers two blocks down can’t be beat. I duck into the bar right as the rain picks up again and the fourth siren begins. I order and sit next to the window to watch the clouds churn as I sip my lemonade.

I suppose I wasn’t concerned because no one else in the town seemed to be. When the fifth siren sounded someone cranked up Dave Matthews Band, frat boys wearing golf gear ordered another round to ready themselves for the evenings “golf pros and tennis hos” themed party, and I began a quick walk back to the local bike shop.

I didn’t think much of things until the sparkle of metal caught my eye. Newly pierces trees stood adorning their newly acquired shards, insulation squares caught in bare branches. A few blocks away the houses missing roofs made me evaluate where I was, how close I was.

But that burger was damn good.