Story #49 - Weatherman Lies

Weatherman Lies

It was colder than predicted; Josh should have brought a warmer coat with him to work. He knew better.

The walk home from the bus stop took under ten minutes but the biting wind was getting to him, tearing through thin cotton to shiver him like the first groping touch of hormonal adolescents – abrupt, and not pleasant.

He smiled though he found it difficult to do in the face of the howling gale.

“Ten percent chance of showers,” the too-perfect man of weather had told him this morning, “light winds gusting to fifteen.” Yeah, right.

He'd never paid much attention to weather as a kid – it was either raining or dry, cold or hot.

As he got older, he started to rely on the weatherman, count on the “expert” advice given about what to wear, what to bring and what to expect from any given day in the city, and he'd noticed something odd. It had taken him over a decade to figure out - something he wasn't too proud of, though the fact that few others had the same idea made him feel a little less slow – but it turned out that weathermen lied.

All the time.

The wind came up again, harder, and he dug his hands deeper into his pockets. It was early April, but “unseasonably cold” temperatures were predicted to stay “longer than usual.” He was told again and again each morning how they were “below average” for the month but couldn't remember a recent one in which they'd been above, giving rise to the notion that maybe the average wasn't so average or that the well-dressed men of meteorology and women of weather should have a little bit more knowledge of basic math.

That had been before he put it all together, started to finally see the pattern in the randomness. Sure, weathermen told lies. It was part of the job, they would say, part of the process to be wrong sometimes and right others, but they were doing their best. They were using all of their knowledge and technology to make sure that good citizens had access to the best in real-time forecasting, make sure that those across the city would know when they could finally expect release, finally anticipate the chance to go unscathed by the marauding chill outside their doors.

Somehow, that day never came.

It had taken time to collect all of the data the local station had ever reported over the years, but luckily the city's library had excellent records. Once he'd had it all laid out in front of him – temperatures and promises side-by-side on a large sheet of paper – a pattern and a purpose began to emerge.

Each time the city had experienced sudden and “unseasonably” cold temperatures, there had been a prediction for a far higher temperature, one not accounted for simply by the law of averages. He'd checked the data, and the same was true in the summer when waves of heat stalked the old and the fragile; weathermen always promised the best just before the worst was going to happen.

Somehow, they knew. For some reason, they wanted as many people outdoors as possible when the worst weather came.

He'd checked the 'net – there were some few that agreed with him but not the numbers he expected given that the data was so readily available. In truth, he wasn't even sure what he was going to do with the information he'd gathered; tying meteorologists to temperature-related “murders” wouldn't be an easy sell.

A knife of wind to his skull scattered his thoughts and drove his legs to propel him more quickly around the final corner to his street. His house was nothing special; a good deal he'd picked up when the market was low but today it stood out in stark contrast to the line of similar homes on the block thanks to the perfectly white news van parked out front.

Waiting at his door was a tall man dressed in a sharply pressed suit, skin carrying a tan that had no business appearing on a human in this climate. He was handsome enough – with straight black hair and broad shoulders – but Josh had to wonder how he managed to look at himself with that color on his skin every morning.

“Josh,” he said smoothly, extending a hand, “we need to talk. Let's go inside.”

There was no question in his voice; no consideration for the notion that Josh might refuse but when an open door wasn't immediately forthcoming, the man spoke again.

“I'm Lenner Ras, lead -”

Josh cut him off sharpy, “weatherman for KTRA. I know who you are. Fine. Come inside.” Pushing past Lenner he unlocked the door and let the tall man in, but didn't go farther than the entryway.

“Why don't we have a seat in the living room or the kitchen, Josh?” There it was again; that smooth weatherman voice, that liar's tongue.

“No.” Josh stood his ground.

“Oh.” There was a hint of irritation, a note of displeasure. So much the better. “Well, then, to the point. I've heard about your work, Josh, and I'd like to ask you to stop.”

“Why?”

Lenner leaned back against the front door, arms crossed and head down. “Look, Josh. People need the information I gave them everyday – that we give them everyday – and I do my best to be accurate. Weather's a chaotic thing. Seven days or so ahead the whole system breaks down; the smallest changes can have far-reaching effects. We try Josh, we really do. But I need you to stop.”

“No.” If this was all Lenner had, then the conversation was going to be quickly over.

He sighed. “Fine. I figured it would come to this, but hoped you might see reason.” Lenner's hand went quickly inside his jacket pocket and Josh flinched, the realization hitting hard for the first time that he'd let the man inside his house and that they were here alone.

All Lenner drew out, however, was a small piece of paper with a very large number written on it. “Cash it, Josh. Cash it and throw away all this nonsense your working on. Let me just do my job.”

Josh spent ten minutes after Lenner left considering his options. He wasn't on any sort of moral crusade; he'd simply become aware of some information he thought was worth sharing, but no one seemed to care. The weatherman couldn't change the world – so what if his predictions were a little off?

One trash bag and some brute force later, Josh had a clear desk. One quick, cold trip to the bank and he had a substantially lighter mortgage and a good bit of cash to play with.

He could always wear a warmer coat.

***

Lenner chuckled to himself as he climbed back into the news van. These humans were so easily manipulated. One would realize the truth periodically – see the easy data right in front of them – but it took very little to convince them to abandon what they knew.

He took a few calming breaths. Coming here meant no time to head home before the evening taping and that meant an extra three hours in human form. He'd never been able to get the skin tone quite right, but thankfully so many of the their number purposefully burned themselves for fashion it didn't matter.

They were foolish creatures, but passionate, and they had little idea of the power their emotions held, especially when cast out at a furious unknown source. They trusted him, believed in him to tell them what they could expect each day they left their homes. All it took was an “accident”, a reasonable prediction that didn't come true – and thousands of them took to the streets, their freezing or burning forms screaming out sweet, luscious defiance into the air; a veritable buffet of emotional appetizers and furious main courses.

He smiled broadly as he started the van. Tomorrow was looking warm and sunny. Unseasonably so.

- D