Two Men on a Roof

Current thoughts and a short story

Photo by David Kouakou

There is a great deal that distresses me these days.

The upcoming elections. The war in Gaza. Ukraine. Have we forgotten about the devastation in Lahaina? More mass shootings. Congress and its inability to act like grownups. The ridiculous hate on Taylor Swift that says something awful about our society and the way we view women and power. And the despicable behavior we somehow now tolerate on online platforms, the vitriol found nearly everywhere.

And all of it has me thinking.

Many months ago, I wrote a short story based on the belief that humanity still has the ability to summon its better angels. The story was born out of a true story about a small town devastated by flood waters. My story is fictional. But my goal was to use the reality of the event and turn it into something hopeful. It would still have the sting of tragedy, but offer something promising about the human spirit. It’s part of a collection of stories I’m working on. And it came to mind again recently because of my current state of distress. And so, I re-read the story. And now I want to share it with you. Maybe you’ll feel the same way as I do, and maybe you’ll believe that despite the state of the world, the human capacity for understanding might still prevail.

Two Men on a Roof

They had never spoken to one another before the flood. They’d only exchanged simple nods, a smile when each of them left in the morning for work. And there was that time Paul waved from the back doorstep to Diego as he played with his young daughter in his yard. Paul remembers the squeal of her laughter. There was little between the two men, not until that day on the roof, the day Paul desperately climbed there to escape the charging, swollen river, and then locked his arm in Diego’s to lift him from his second-floor window to the black shingled roof.

Diego and his family moved into the small townhome next to Paul’s just a few months before the flood. It was a Saturday. Paul remembers the day because he was still in bed when he heard the unloading of a truck outside—the rolling clang of the truck’s large rear door, the retractable metal ramp scraping the street’s asphalt. Paul always slept late on Saturdays. Construction work means very early mornings and fatigued muscles, especially at his age, so weekends are sacred. And they’re usually quiet. Since his wife moved out and took their two boys, the weekends carry a peculiar silence, a blanket dulling his days. Paul and his wife tried to work it out. It was surely his fault, he thought. He wasn’t easy to live with when things didn’t go the way he wanted or hoped. But that’s another story for another time. Anyway, Paul got up that Saturday and looked out the window to see Diego emerge from the truck’s big rear door, lifting a small mattress over his head and carrying it through his front door. There were a couple of other men nearby in tee-shirts and shorts, moving clothes on hangers and big brown boxes. A woman and a little girl—Diego’s wife and daughter, look-a-likes with silky black hair and shy smiles—stood on the sidewalk, watching.

The river had been rising for a couple of weeks and then overnight it began to rage. Farmland north of town was quickly overcome, crops submerged and ruined, cows had to be rescued, some drowned. One farmer said he saw a dead cow floating in the bloated river. Some left their homes, packing cars and trucks with framed photos and food and clothes from their houses. Others stayed, praying for the best.

No one had predicted the continuing rain, the extreme downpours, and the broken levees. No one thought the river would rise so high, engulf so much. No one foresaw the quickness with which it all happened. No one calculated the river rushing fast and hard through this part of town. And no one expected the rows of townhomes, the connected duplexes to be in danger. After all, the homes sat on an upgrade in the southern section of the downtown, and the river, at its usual height, was nearly a quarter mile from Paul’s front door.

By Tuesday of the week of the worst flooding, many of the neighbors had left. By Wednesday, the street was submerged in water, two feet in some places, more in others. That night, violent storms delivered more rain, a foot of it, and the biggest of the levees on the north branch of the river collapsed. By Thursday morning, the river had found Paul’s front door and was still rising. He moved food from the kitchen and bottled water from the refrigerator to the second floor. By Thursday evening, the river was halfway up the stairs. Paul heard helicopters flying above and around the house. Hoping this was a rescue, he climbed out the bedroom window, and onto the roof where he could be seen. It was then that Paul heard Diego’s voice from the bedroom window of his adjacent home.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Hey, somebody?”

Paul leaned over the edge near the gutter where the roofs connected and saw Diego sitting on the window’s ledge, his arms holding onto the top frame.

“Can you pull me up?” he asked.

Paul was worried he wouldn’t have the strength to help him. But Diego was a young man, had always looked fit and strong. Just a couple of months before, he dug a hole nearly three feet in diameter in his front yard, a hole for a new tree.

Paul locked his hand around Diego’s forearm, and Diego did the same, creating a knot of muscle. Paul leveraged himself against the roof with his other arm and Diego hoisted his body on the window’s edge. Two strong tugs pulled him to the roof. 

“Where is your wife? Your daughter?” Paul asked, trying to catch his breath.

“Left two days ago,” he said.

Diego wiped the sweat from his forehead and sighed.

In between the off-and-on heavy storms that day, the August sun had peeked out enough to bake the roof shingles. Although they weren’t hot enough to burn the skin, sitting on them was becoming uncomfortable. Paul had taken his shirt off and placed it under him, hoping another layer between the shingles and his jeans would offer a bit more relief. 

“That work?” Diego asked, nodding at the cushion Paul had made.  

“It helps,” Paul said. “Sun’s almost down though, and it hasn’t been out that much, so it’s not as bad as it could be.”

Diego removed his tee-shirt and slid it under him.

“Diego,” he said, reaching out his hand to shake Paul’s. “Diego Mendez.”

“Paul,” Paul said, firmly gripping Diego’s hand. “Paul Lemon. Like the fruit.”

The falling sun mingled with billowy, dark clouds in the western sky, leftovers of the volatile weather. An orange glow painted the edges of the clouds. It was the kind of sunset only turbulent conditions can produce. Paul and Diego sat and watched the sun disappear. For several minutes there was not a word between them.

In time, Diego asked, “See any help come by?”

“Helicopter a couple times. Pilot seemed to see me. But haven’t seen him since,” Paul said.

Diego looked down to the muddy water below. He shook his head. “Can you believe what’s happened? Can you believe this?”

“Frightening,” Paul said. “Wife and daughter are safe, though, right?”

“They’re at her mother’s.” Diego ran his fingers through his hair, then around the back of his neck, and over his face, as if not knowing what to do with his hands. “Haven’t talked to them since yesterday. Can’t get a call out.”

“No one can,” Paul said. “I’m sure they know you’re okay.”

“Just wish I could tell them,” Diego said.

Paul looked up to the now darkening sky, the stars delicately forming in the blackness. “Maybe it’s clearing,” he said. “Maybe it’s over.”

“And maybe someone will come,” Diego said impatiently. 

“Were you able to get anything out of the house?” Paul asked, adjusting the shirt under him, and leaning back on his elbows. 

“Some photos and my daughter’s books. I brought them upstairs to the rafters where it’s dry. Don’t think the water is getting any higher. I put my guitar up there, too. Just too small up there to put myself.”

“Didn’t know you played. I never hear anything.”

“It’s acoustic. I just pick around. Not that good,” he said, “but it’s my escape.”

“I used to play. Don’t have a guitar anymore.”

“My daughter likes me to sing, I guess.”

“You play for her?”

“I learned an easy version of that Winnie the Pooh song. You know, the one about the House on Pooh Corner.”

“Sweet song.”

“Aurora loves it.”

“Aurora,” Paul said softly. “Pretty name.”

“Aurora, yes,” Diego said, smiling. “It was my mother’s.”

One of Paul’s boys was named after his father, Francis. His son never liked the name. Paul and his wife tried nicknames like Frank, Frankie, and Fran, thinking that would help. It didn’t. The boy’s friends started calling him Bud, so Paul did too. His mother still calls him Francis, always has.

“Do you think anyone knows we’re here?” Diego asked.

“The helicopter pilot I saw has got to.”

“Then where is he?”

“Darkness might be a problem. They’ll have to get a spotlight or something.”

“They might be rescuing others.”

“Maybe.”

Diego put his shirt back on, his hands behind his head, and rested his back on the roof, his knees bent upward.

“You said you got some of your daughter’s books out?” Paul asked.

“Yeah. I can’t imagine her without them,” he said. “A couple of Dr. Seuss ones and Goodnight Moon.”

“Goodnight Moon. Wow,” Paul said, wrapping his arms around his knees. “Bud loved that one.”

“Your son, right?”

“Got two. There’s Bud and Charlie. Sixteen and twelve now.”

Diego paused and cleared his throat. “They live somewhere else?”

“With their mother. Long story.”

Diego scanned the horizon, squinting to see any sign of anyone or anything that might suggest an impending rescue.

“It’s so quiet,” Paul whispered. “Like there’s no one else in the world.”

“Kind of nice in a weird way,” Diego said.

Diego and Paul heard no voices, no helicopters, no emergency sirens in the distance. They felt forgotten but strangely content. They knew they’d soon be plucked from the roof, certainly, but in that moment, they had found an awkward peace. Lying on his back and his eyes closed, Diego began to sing the Winnie the Pooh song, the song he hadn’t heard or sung in many years. It came back to him as if he were reciting the address of his childhood home. He sang the first line, the second, and Paul joined in.

Diego giggled, his shoulders shaking. “You remember?”

“I think I could sing the whole thing,” Paul said, singing the third line louder and stronger, Diego joining in right along with him.

Suddenly, the sound of African drums.

“That’s my phone. My phone’s ringing,” Diego said, sitting up and pulling the phone from the front pocket of his jeans. “Baby?” he answered.

The sky had slowly cleared in the early hours of the night and cell phone service had returned, at least enough for Diego’s wife to get her call through. Diego assured her he was alive, unhurt, and awaiting help, and they assured him that they were safe and dry. He told them, several times, how much he loved them, hung up, and called 9-1-1.

“We are not hurt, yes,” he said, answering the emergency operator’s question. “Yes,” he said, “Yes, we. There’re two of us here.” Diego glanced at Paul and smiled. “No. He’s not hurt,” he said. “Yes, I know him. He’s my friend.”

In time, a police helicopter with a high-intensity spotlight and a large basket-like contraption on a long rope, came to pluck the two from the rooftop. A police officer helped them into the basket. They were lifted into the chopper and taken to the hospital for observation. The next afternoon as Paul was being released, he asked the hospital receptionist for any information on Diego Mendez. 

“Sorry, sir,” she said, smiling. “I’m not allowed to do that.”

“Can you tell me anything?”

“Privacy laws. All I can say is that he’s no longer a patient at this hospital.”

Not long after the waters finally receded, bulldozers and cranes tore down several homes in town, including the townhouses where Paul and Diego had lived. The damage had been too great to salvage them. Paul took an apartment west of town. He’d heard later that Diego and his family moved somewhere down south.

David W. Berner is the author of several award-winning books of fiction and memoir. His memoir, Daylight Saving Time will be released this summer and is available now for pre-order. Join the monthly Writer Shed Newsletter for free.