The tornado man of my dreams. His suspenders like the boundaries of decency, a line beyond which chaos cannot cross. His shirt blank paper, a lightning flash, bright behind the diagonals of his tie. Impeccable, this man.
He speaks without pause, standing next to his computer, the Doppler radar image wide and red on the screen behind him. His jacket has been off for many hours, a sign that all is not well in Alabama. His shirt is white against the suspenders. He says get into a safe place, but he means: You must be afraid, but not afraid. As if to say: This is a day for negative capability.
Spann’s voice is like cream, a butter lightly churned. It has a density beyond the gravity of his words, which are relentless. Like the physics of weather, relentless. Like the grid of a map. Or the fall of rain. An urgency, a forward momentum.
Something like sweat shines on Spann’s forehead. Something like awe rises in his voice. The sky over Tuscaloosa has gone diagonal. The grid has collapsed. There are things the Doppler cannot show you, and Spann is seeing them now. He catches his breath, just this once.
Spann says to get underground if you can, and he means: This is a day for wind. At 12:30 on April 27, I stand in the parking lot of Taco Casa with the wind in my face and look at the sky. The wind is warm and wet. I think: I will go home and turn on James Spann. There will be hours of creamy coverage, like going to therapy; I will sit on the couch and listen and be soothed by his voice. And hours later, I am listening.
A month later, I am still listening.
Editor’s Note: For those who have not seen the video, good Spann coverage starts around 3:54.