The Rain Outside the Train

About to exit the subway in the morning rush and head to work, climbing up the stairs in a too too sleepy haze I was snapped awake by a crack of thunder and the sudden stop of the foot traffic as the herd of commuters reached the stairs. Pouring rain had descended upon New York City and what looked like a Banana Republic model was unfurling her obese umbrella on the stairwell more concerned about a dribble of rain ruining her face than about the mass of humans behind her waiting for her to move so they could get out. She was a tiny little thing but her umbrella was one of those “protect your entire village” kinds—the kinds that, flipped upside down, could be employed by my family in Cuba to sail the current toward freedom.

The Betch! She almost poked out the eyes of the folks behind her with that parasol.

And she wasn’t the only inconsiderate jerk. Oh no. Plenty of dry clean only men and women followed her lead and hogged the stairwell with their monstrous rain shields. Doesn’t anybody carry a compact umbrella anymore? Do these fools own Hummers?

Of course I didn’t have an umbrella with me and of course I happened to take the train that lets me out furthest from my job so I had blocks and blocks of downpour to negotiate by the time I made it out of the subway stairwell.

Here I sit, dripping at my office computer, freezing from the global warming inducing air conditioning, worried about my excessive use of gerunds, and barefoot because my socks and shoes are drying on the window sill. Shit, I feel like God’s bedpan.