the umbrella man

I'm walking in the rain, getting soaked to the skin while chatting on my cell phone. As the rest of New York is huddled under umbrellas, I'm splashing around in puddles of water on the sidewalk. I have no umbrella and my hair is sticking to my face and getting into my mouth. My clothes are sticking to my skin and rain drops keep falling into the speaker of my cell. "This," I inform my friend on the other end of the phone line, "sucks. Royally."

New York has been under a deluge of wet weather, and I'm not enjoying any of it. There's something to be said for the cooling relief of rain during an urban summer, but, then again, there's something to be said for not having to walk around everywhere with rain boots and a jacket on.

There I am, walking along, step after step (with a regular SPLASH! of a puddle), when a plump young man falls into step beside me. He's looking at me curiously, and when I catch his eye he offers up a small smile. The handle to a big black umbrella is clutched in his right hand, and his balding head of hair looks neat and dry. I am, of course, jealous of this fact. (Not his balding head, but the fact he isn't suffering from damp clothing.)

"Want to keep dry?" The man extends his umbrella over my head. He looks harmless enough, and so when he asks where I'm headed to, I don't feel sketched out enough to blow him off. Instead I do the surprising thing of being truthful with a stranger for once. "Honestly," I tell him, "I'm not sure where I'm going." When he looks confused I try to explain again, all the while still attempting to continue the conversation already taking place on my cellie. "I'm lost," I mouth to the umbrella man, "but I think I'm headed in the right direction."

"Well, I'm headed in the same direction too. I'll walk you there," is his quick reply.

And so we trail along at a stately pace. I feel a little silly with an umbrella being held over my head by a man who is carefully trying to match his walking pace with my own. At the same time, however, it feels kind of nice, like being a modern day noble with a dutiful servant at my beck and call.

The man holding the umbrella politely lets me finish my conversation on the phone as we walk. When I tell the person on the other end "I love you," the man at my side cracks up and says "I love you too!" Once I've hung up, he wants to know if I was speaking with a boyfriend. I give an affirmative 'yup' and he puts on a dejected face and sighs, "Oh well, I was hoping it was a parent or family member."

Tough luck.

After double checking some cross streets, I realize I'm heading the right way to my destination. I admit to the umbrella man that the part of Manhattan we're in is strange to me. It's not my style, I tell him. Too many rich ladies in fur coats walking small, pissy dogs.

As promised the man escorts me to the door before heading off with a "Have a great day -- and don't get rained on!"

And that is the very short tale of the umbrella man who kept me dry during a rainy Manhattan week.