Someday a Real Rain Will Come
A short story prompted by the deadly flooding in Valencia last October
Marcos is checking his phone, when he’s distracted by the sound of a kid screaming.
“Aaaarrggghhh!”
He knows straight away what’s happened. It’s his five-year-old son, Diego.
“They aren’t any Cap’n Crunch left! Where are my Cap’n Crunch?!!”
“Shhh!! Calm down, son. You know it’s hard to get them here in Spain. We’ll see if we can stock up, OK? Have some Golden Grahams.”
“I don’t WANT Golden Grahams! I don’t LIKE Golden Grahams! I WANT Cap’n Crunch! MY Cap’n Crunch!”
“OK, OK, I’ll see what I can do.”
Diego was practically weaned on the cereal when the family were living in Houston because of his dad’s job at Texaco. Now they are back in Spain, while the latest prospecting project is on hold.
“Damned environmentalists!” Marcos cursed when he got the news. “They even have the banks by the balls now with this ethical investment bullshit.”
It means a few months’ garden leave in their homeland. A land that Diego barely knows. A land without reliable supplies of Cap’n Crunch.
Marcos picks his keys up from the kitchen table.
“Look, I’ll see if maybe they have some at the HiperCor at the gas station.”
Susana steps through the kitchen doorway.
“You are not going out in this weather, dear, no way. It’s absolutely pouring down, and they said it would get worse. Not on these tiny, little windy roads.”
“I seriously don’t think it’s anything The Beast can’t handle, eh, champ?” He grins at Diego, who softens his grimace for a moment in recognition of their pet name for the new Ford Maverick sitting in the garage. He chose the colour. Inferno red.
“Uh-uh. Don’t be crazy. You’ll get soaked. You could skid down the barranco. It’s like judgement day out there.”
A timely crack of thunder makes her point for her.
“Why don’t you try that new grocery app? BuscaYa or whatever it was called. You could have it delivered. Look — ‘All your grocery needs straight to your door in half an hour! You order — we fetch!’ That way my little boy gets his Cap’n Crunch, and my big boy stays nice and safe and warm.”
“Darling, you’re brilliant!”
Marcos puts his keys back down on the table, grabs his phone, and starts tapping away.
Miguel is checking his phone, when he’s distracted by the sound of a kid screaming.
“Aaaarrggghhh!”
He knows straight away what’s happened. It’s his five-year-old son, Miguelito.
“Ay, my bones! Papi, get the medicine, please!”
Miguel would rip his own arms off if he could make his son’s pain stop. Or just know what was wrong with him. Even get a hospital appointment with a specialist. See some way forward. Get the right treatment prescribed.
He grabs the packet of cannabidiol pills from the kitchen cabinet, and pours half a glass of water. He pops the last of them from the blister pack. At least they seem to help with… with whatever it is.
A bleep from his phone. The app.
“Conchi! Delivery job! I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
“Migue, you can’t possibly go out in this weather — look at it. It’s like the end of the world out there, and they say it’s going to get worse!”
“Honey, I can’t just turn jobs down. It’s the first one to come in today. We need the money. You know how much this stuff costs!” He rattles the empty pack of pills.
“I’ll do the job, and pick some more up at the pharmacy on the way back. I’ll be fine.”
“I just worry about you in that old van on those roads in weather like this.”
She hugs him tight, her arms cramping in a momentary shiver.
“I’ll be back before you know it. We need this. It’s going to be a tough month with the rent going up.”
The van starts, which is a good sign. Miguel dries his hands on his thighs and opens the app.
“Let’s see what this customer needs then… So, three packets of Cap’n Crunch, whatever the hell that is, and… [scrolling down]… nothing else? Seriously? What the..? Whatever. The customer’s always right — isn’t that what they say in the States?”
He sometimes wonders whether life would have been any easier there, if the papers had come through. His cousins were always shocked at how little he earned here in Spain, but he kind of felt more at home here, less of an outsider. So much further from Cuba, but somehow closer, more familiar.
Anyway, there’s no time to think about all that now. He taps the product name, to bring up the nearest supplier.
“¡Joder! All the way to the Corte Inglés in Saler? For a packet of cereal? What is wrong with these people? Still, more kilometres on the clock for me, I guess.”
He flicks the wipers and heater to max, and heads down towards the highway, like his van’s parting the Red Sea.
“Where are my Cap’n Crunch?! You said half an hour! Well??”
“Just be patient, kid. Let me have a look. We can track the delivery from the app. See — he must’ve picked up the cereal…”
“The Cap’n Crunch!”
“… the Cap’n Crunch, and now this red dot shows he’s driving up the V-30 towards our place.”
“Sooooo slow!”
“But he’ll get here, look now he’s… What the hell? He’s turned round? He’s going the wrong way. ¡Joder! These bloody immigrants — you can’t trust them even to do a simple job like this! No wonder this country’s in the state it is!”
“Call him! Send him a message or something! I want my Cap’n Crunch!”
“Just let me see if there’s a ‘Message driver’ function in this app. Hang on a moment…”
Miguel feels the van shudder as the water surges against it, pushing, swaying… now lifting it clean off the ground. The steering wheel goes limp. He’s floating backwards, slamming into whatever was behind him. The wipers have seized up — the electrics are fried. He can’t see a thing. He’s spinning now, careening back, down, up and over the barrier into the storm channel. The water’s spraying through the damaged seal on the dented side door.
He grabs his phone, swipes frantically, stabs at the screen.
“Conchi? Conchi, I love you! Look, it’s serious, it’s bad. Take care of our little boy. Conchi, I love…”
The call goes dead as the BuscaYa app invades the screen.
Customer complaint! Late delivery! Urgent response required! Enter code…
The rain begins to die down as the setting sun darkens the grey clouds over the mountains to a pall of black. The vehicle is on its side, completely filled with water. Miguel’s body bobs and spins with the deathly gentle motion of the van, as it floats in an island of garbage that has formed in the eddying flood.
“Where… are… my… CAP’N CRUNCH??!” Diego seethes with rage.
Author’s note
This story was triggered by the devastating flash floods that struck the area of Eastern Spain near where I live in October 2024. The death toll was over two hundred.
It is not based on any particular person or incident, but aims to reflect the fact that most of those killed were going about their daily business, having received no adequate warning of the scale of the meteorological danger. And also the way in which the selfish decisions of the affluent and privileged at the local and global level so often callously expose the less fortunate to their consequences.