Umbrella

TW: vulgar language

Today’s the day I change. I can’t take anymore shit!

She looks up from her screen and stares off into the void of a grey wall. The flickering fluorescent bulb overhead casts its glow- the only light down here. She rubs her temples.

How am I still in the basement?

The clock has a few more notches to count off before she can leave. She’s kept the same routine thus far; once the hands reach the four and six mark she can sign out and turn off her screen. She stands and stretches. After scanning her small room doubling as a janitors closet she picks up her rinsed mug and tucks it into her backpack. She takes two steps from her desk and stands in front of her door, peering through the square window at eye level. 

Coasts clear. 

She hangs her bag on the coatrack by the door and picks up her umbrella to inspect the tip. The gold plated ferrule looks scuffed. So she wets a tissue from her bag and shines it. 

She slides the empty mop bucket out of her way. But, the bottom drawer of her bureau snags before it glides out. She uses more force and both hands- it slides out with a tug.

When’re they gonna to fix this?

The myriad of shoes bursting forth from the drawer may be the issue. She tosses her heels on top and extracts a pair of low top Chuck Taylors- her walking shoes. 

She slips on the dirty worn-in sneakers and sits down. 

The time is almost here, but her bouncing leg hasn’t given her the relief it usually does… not today anyway. One of the only people on her floor happens to be her supervisor, Tom (the Lingerer). He made his usual stop; to check in before the days out, he said. But, his eyes lingered on all the wrong places. And his right paw took the liberty, after resting on her shoulder for what was already an inappropriate period of time, to creep down the small of her back. Often, he’ll barge into her office like an overzealous parent in their child’s room; he enters while knocking. She could feel his breath today.

She glances back to the clock above the door.

Almost. But, no one will notice if I leave a few minutes early, will they?

She signs out, and turns off her screen. She stands, grabs her bag, and then heads straight for the door- right as her umbrellas’ gleaming tip catches her eye. It’s always there. Waiting to give refuge, if needed.

She snatches it from the corner, “Can’t forget you!” She knows when her umbrella portends; it always piques her attention at the last moment.

It’s going to rain. 

Her office building is empty. The more recent version of the plague has kept a lot of people away, everyone except the Lingerer. But, not her though, she likes the quiet, the space. She doesn’t have to pretend to be interested in Holly’s convalescent little Terrier, or Gleeses’ two new grandchildren. She doesn’t have to go to coffee and listen to Mariel’s love life, or what’s left of it anyway. 

She toes a stain in the carpet with her scuffed shoewhile awaiting the elevator, her ascent to the lobby. 

As the ding sounds, the L illuminates and she steps out of the sliding doors, under the tall ceilings and spacious walls. She can finally catch her breath up here where the air doesn’t taste like dust. Large-decaled-footprints direct traffic so body contact is avoided. But, she doesn’t miss pushing her way through a crowd of handsy commuters. The prints remind her of a maze, or some secret path that’ll lead to What She’s Always Been Looking For. But, if she knew that, she wouldn’t be looking. 

The prints take her to the front doors. Between towering Romanesque columns, past a life-size painting of rolling prairie hills. An oil canvas of golden wheat waves and yellow Canola fade into the distance, into oblivion. It takes up most of the east wall and she pauses to look.

She could almost sit and lean back on one of the hills. Finally have some space to think.

And I can’t even have a window!

As she steps out into the day, she looks to the sky- not a cloud in sight.

“You’ll get your chance.” She mutters to her umbrella. 

Her one-room apartment is ten blocks away. And she usually has her headphones in. If she’s actually listening to something, is another story. She’s come to realize they give off an air of confidence, indifference. When she’s enveloped by the magic-force-field engendered by the white cord she feels invincible. Once they’re in and she’s making her way, it has to be a very assertive type of fellow who would try to catch her attention. Who would harass her on her way home. But, if the magic isn’t working and someone tries to bother her, she’ll laugh and talk like she’s in the middle of a conversation with a real, live person.

It wasn’t the folks camping on the sidewalks that gave her trouble; sometimes they ask for change, so she keeps a loony or two handy. They smile, and tell her to have a nice day, regardless of her charity. 

No, trouble usually staggers out from behind the bar he’s tending, sucking on a half-smoked cigarette. They always ask: “How you doin’?” Unconsciously affecting a masculine stereotype. 

Women really want an assertive guy…

​She takes the footbridge over the tracks and cuts through the skyscraper buildings’ front entrance. The people and cars all fade from focus. In her commuters’ flow-state she’ll make it all the way home without one conscious thought of where she’s going, or where she’s been. She’s dashed along this route every workday for years. But recently, because of the news stories, she’s been skipping the ally behind The Last Drop. 

She stands, with her hands folded in front and waits the light to change to provide safe passage. It turns green; she looks both ways and steps out. As her foot leaves the curb a woman to her right makes an impulsive sharp turn- she jolts to a stop before crashing into the woman. As she halts with a gasp, she looks to the woman who darts past.

The only recognition is a glare.

“Sorry!” she says, to the woman’s back.

She shakes her head and rushes across to make the light. She’s sick of always apologizing first.

Especially when it wasn’t my fault in the first place!

She flaunts her headphones; twirling them in hand she spins them like a propeller. After inserting them she slings her umbrella over her shoulder. Like she’s running away with her knapsack. 

Her nostrils flair in offence- she smells the alley before she sees it. The stale sour-oil lingers in the air.

But the alley is the shortcut.

She’s not going to work any harder today to avoid the contact she usually shies away from.

Not today. Not anymore!

She makes the sharp right turn off the sidewalk and cranes her neck to assess the route. It appears safe.

I dare someone to mess with me right now!

As she forges ahead her hand reaches for the play button on the headphones’ cords that fall from her ears like white ropes thrown to the rescue.

Fire and Rain plays. James Taylor whispers right in her ears.

As she walks brick walls rise up at her sides with vibrant spray-painted forms. She tries to make out what they read, but this artist isn’t what she would call accessible. Each letter flows into the next, creating this smear of lines and almost letters, a tag. A claim. This is their turf.

I’m only visiting.

The halfway point in the ally is right before the back entrance to the bar. It appears empty- no one’s smoking their break.

Thankfully.

As her pace slows she increases the volume and lets the music inhabit her. She can’t help but whistle. Her mood is too lite. As she passes the back door it swings open. Out walks a tall, lean man in all black with a grease-stained-white apron draped over his shoulder. A younger man in a white shirt with an aggressive yellow stain follows. Unlit cigarettes hang off their lips.

There’s eye connect, but she keeps whistling.

Cause, ‘I’ve Seen Fire, and I’ve Seen Rain.’

She knows it gives off an air of assurance, of unconcern.

Can’t they see I’m busy, absorbed?

“Hey!” the older, taller one yells, “How you doin’?”

She’s only a few feet away, but shows no recognition and keeps forward. 

“What’s up?” the younger one says, “Why don’t you have a smoke with us?” 

She can’t help herself; she looks over- eyes connect. She snaps forward and increases her pace.

“Hold up! We just wanna’ talk!” one of them says, “Hey! I’m talking to you! You don’t have to be such a… bitch!” The last line stops her. As if those were fighting words she looks over her shoulder with narrowed eyes, pauses, and then mouths the words: ‘F You!’ 

She doesn’t have to wait long for a reaction. The inherent smirks painted across their faces turn into something more demonic. Their contorted mouths spew inaudible resentments as she tries to flee without giving chase. She risks one more glance over her shoulder, and sees the men encroach on her alley. They square up.

“We just wanna talk, hold up!” One of them yells, “Don’t be such’a… cold bitch!” 

She turns to run as red sparks from a cigarette alight about her immediate left.

After her first long stride, she looks back to see them chasing. A strong wind blows from behind, pushing her faster through the alley. 

“You’d be a whole lot prettier if you smiled, ya’ know!”

Their voices are gaining ground.

She halts, spins around, and draws up her umbrella- as if it were a sword.

“Don’t come any closer!” she yells, brandishing the closed umbrella from man to man.

“Ha ha! What’re you gonna’ do?” the taller man looks to his friend, “Throw some shade?”

The other snickers.

“Just leave me alone!” She yells, but her voice blows away. They show no reaction. “What’s wrong with you people?” She tries again.

They’re locked in a stare as old newspapers and McDonald’s bags whip past. Dirt and decay from the alley floor flies into the air. A whirlwind of sand and grime stings their faces. She squints with tight lips, studying them.

“’What’s wrong with you people?’” the taller man mimics in an affected-effeminate voice, and then snarls, “You’re what’s wrong! You stuck up bitch!” He steps closer, penetrating her with his eyes. She steps back and looks down.

I must protect myself!

The threatening of the pointed umbrella isn’t deterring them. She looks helpless as her head snaps around, frantic to find help.

“You’re useless!” she yells at her umbrella, now limp in her hands. The chances of protecting herself seem to fly away as another wind gust howls through the trio. It blows into them and rips open her white-with-black-polka-dotted-umbrella, no longer impotent in her hand. She sees the opportunity and points the tip into the wind- as if it were a shield. 

The wind and filth flies past as she kneels to take refuge behind her protector. A dirty white apron hits it, and then whips past. Before she can think the opened umbrella is caught by a whirling burst of air. And like a parachute deployed, it snaps backward with such force her knuckles turn white as she struggles to keep grip. Her feet slide in the gravel, as she’s pulled backwards- away from the men. 

“Hey! What the hell?” Is yelled, but sails past. 

The men jog faster as the wind drags her by her heels- she’s gaining speed.

The gust increases and causes a slight lift- she’s floating feet above the pavement.

She dips faintly, and then rises again. The wind picks and carries her higher and higher in elevation.

“Hey, Marry Poppins!” They yell, “Get back here!” But, she’s already meters in the air.

She drifts along in the now calm breeze with a gentle sway of this-way and that. Her grip relaxes, but she feels weightless and is held snug and close to her umbrella.James Taylors’ lullaby reaches it’s crescendo- 

My favourite part! 

“Sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground…”

As she gains distance the men in the alley become tiny, inconsequential flecks. She can forget them now- about their misplaced resentments, impulses, and anger.

She’s going to her place. Where no one can bother her.

The air whisks her down the ally.

At the upcoming intersection, she catches hold of a new front and makes the left hand turn toward home. 

She floats across the busy road. Admiring a couple with smiling faces on shiny bicycles. Sunshine pours through the street, melting those Goosebumps raised on her arms. With little effort on her part, she drifts toward her fifth floor walk-ups’ balcony. She glides past with a light tap on the tops of the tall spruce trees she’s gazed at every morning with her coffee. 

I can’t believe they were that aggressive, this early in the day…

Fire and Rain fades into the background as her toes, and then both feet touch down on the tiled balcony floor. She catches her Siamese through the sliding glass door giving her a tilted head look.

Umbrella