Umbrella Wasteland

Downtown in the city, the moist ashphalt is drying after several hours of heavy rain. The sky is muted by clouds, floating high after having emptied their load. Standing between the buildings and looking up gives the impression that the buildings are very close to the clouds. Not in the sense that they reach for the heavens, but in the sense that they are laying flat upon the dreary canvas above.

It is the middle of the morning. There is activity, but it is sporadic. It is not the organized chaos that mobbed the streets only a few hours ago.

A bicycle courier rides in the gutter. Her grungy clothing and pierced face are a vain attempt at individuality. In this place of business, however, her uniqueness is not recognized. The inhabitents of this strange land are not shocked or offended by her appearance. Nor do they accept her as one of their own. She is a service for which to be paid.

Her bicycle rolls through a puddle, splashing water onto the curb and onto a decrepid, lonely shape. It is the wireframe skeleton of an umbrella, beyond the point of usefulness and abandoned to a pitiful fate in the street. This is not the only umbrella tossed away this morning. Others are scattered about on the sidewalk or shoved in a trash can. They are the markers of men and women who lost in the struggle against the elements.

On the umpteenth floor of some building, a man sits at a desk in a cubicle. He types an email on his computer, then reviews some papers. He reaches down into his satchel and removes a report. It is clean and crisp, and it is dry. The man is dry.

His fellow workers are slouching about the office, complaining about the rain that fell this morning and the forecast of rain for the afternoon commute. They are bedraggled and damp. Their hair is mussed and their pants are wet. One poor man has his socks hanging on the edge of his trash barrel so that they will dry. A woman who isn't so lucky must suffer in her wet pantyhose until she gets home tonight.

The man at the desk is unperturbed. Looking at him, you would not know that he walked for twenty minutes through the rain to get to this building. You would not know if he had walked through the fires of Hell to get to this building.

He stands. He gathers his report and walks out of his cube on some dire mission. It is apparent that the success of his career hangs upon the outcome of this mission. If you were to watch him for a day, you would see that he treats every action he performs as if the fate of the world itself depended upon his success or failure.

As he leaves the cube, he brushes his trench coat hanging on the wall. This is his armor. When he wraps himself in the scotchguarded fabric, the elements cannot touch him. It has been blessed by the angel of modern textile technology. In the rain, he is dry. In the cold, he is warm. And when the summer months arrive, he removes the inner lining, donning only the featherlight shell.

His task completed, he returns to his desk. His movements are not graceful, but they are efficient. He approaches his desk. He pulls the chair out. He sits down. He adjusts his seat. And yet he is not jerky in his movements; a certain fluidity joins one motion to the next.

As the day wears on, the sun moves unnoticed behind the clouds. Sanitation workers pilot street sweepers along beside curbs. Their steeds push the skeletal umbrellas along in front of them, like metallic tumbleweeds.

Weather patterns shift, and the air on the street becomes warm and heavy. There is tension. One might expect two figures to walk out of two buildings a block apart, and face each other down in the street. Time drags by in the afternoon air. Seconds feel like minutes, as it might for those two proud warriors.

The terrible tragedy is that there is no reward for the tension. There is no release. Those who feel the tension, who let it build within themselves, are not granted an end. It persists, seeping into their bones like a gangrenous rot. It saps emotion and passion, leaving nothing but a dull ache in their souls.

While those around him are worn down by the mood of the afternoon, our hero remains unaffected. He sits unperturbed in the fortress of climate control and artificial light that is his office.

His coworkers anxiously watch out the windows. They observe as the rain sneaks in, careful not to unbalance the horrible stress of the afternoon. It grows from a light drizzle to a persistent, steady shower. They start to muster the personal courage they need to face the elements.

The man continues to work as the office empties. There are those that will work late into the night, desperately trying to advance their careers. He is not one of them. He stays until his work is done.

Finished for the day, he prepares to leave. He cleans his desk. He stands and places some papers in his satchel. He dons his coat, buttoning it and tying the sash. Finally, he draws his umbrella from where it stands in the corner.

Here we see a momentary chink in his unbending facade. A sense of pride is evident as he flicks a mote of dust off the exquisite device. This is not a cheap umbrella from a drugstore. This is a piece of technology that exceeds even his coat. It is uncomplicated. It does not fold in a clever way so as to fit in a tiny pocket; such exaggerations on an umbrella only make it weak. Neither is it arrogant. It is not one of those giant umbrellas, intended more to protect the bearer's golf clubs than to keep a person dry.

This umbrella is a tested design, made simple and strong. It is constructed from the finest materials by craftsmen who have honed skills over lifetimes. Most would scoff at the idea of paying for a handmade umbrella. But then, most would also scoff at an umbrella of such low quality as to be turned inside out in a scant twenty mile an hour wind.

He exits the elevator and crosses the lobby. He pauses at the door while he undoes the snap, and shakes the material loose. A sudden downpour gives new strength to the rain. It is waiting for him. But its effort will be in vain.

He steps out into the dark, wet night. While others cower and scurry through the rain, he walks tall.

He is a trenchcoat warrior in an umbrella wasteland.