On Rainy Days

“Good afternoon! 

No answer? 

Fine, I don’t need you to answer. My name is Dr. Frederic Stein, you may have heard of me. I’m quite famous in my circles. You know, historians. However, that is not why I’m here. I am here because of you. You’re fascinating, so much so that I have made you my life project. Do you know that? 

Right, I forgot, you don’t speak. Well, let me tell you your story then. 

You wake up every morning at exactly seven o’clock. You sleep with your curtains open, and, when the sun shines in your room, you get up immediately. You search for your glasses, throw on your morning robe, walk down into the kitchen while humming old rock songs under your breath, and you make yourself eggs on toast. You drink orange juice with this. You like the bitterness of that with the salt on your eggs. While you have breakfast, you watch the latest news on your tablet. It is a healthy morning routine, and for as long as it is sunny outside, you stick to it. After breakfast, you pack your things and prepare yourself for your day in the office. You water your plants right before you leave. By now you have usually moved on to humming songs from musicals to the plants. You have read somewhere that plants like it when someone talks to them. You aren’t sure whether that’s true or whether it’s just been in a fantasy book, but you like the idea. And you think plants like musicals better than classic rock songs. After a bit of Wicked or The Greatest Showman, you shrug yourself into your jacket and grab your bag. Then you leave the house without a single glance back. You know, you will see it again in the afternoon, so why bother?

Work in the office is dull. You push around folders, read through contracts. Occasionally you sign them and put them in the outgoing post box on your desk. Their contents are repetitive, always the same excuses and lies wrapped up in similar pretty phrases that don’t make sense. You know the drill. You don’t care about these people, just like they don’t care about you. They want a job done, and you want the money. Who cares about reasons? About justification? And yet you don’t sign every contract. You need something, just a tiny something, that catches your eye. A tiny piece of certainty that tells you you do the right thing. You find it quite often, though, so even the excitement of finding a reason to sign has worn off. Now everything in that sterile white office of yours is monotone and boring. The signed contracts are sorted after date, so your boss, should she ever be willing to control your work, stands a chance to understand your work. You know that she never does anyway. She trusts you and you trust her. You have professional relationship that allows that. Not that you know for certain. You never cross ways with her in the office. You don’t have to; it is not essential for the job. You know what you have to do. She knows what she has to do. Those activity fields don’t overlap, at least not on sunny days. 

When you get home from work, you cook something and spend the rest of the evening in front of the TV. You make sure that you watch a weather forecast at one point. You let out a quiet sigh when they tell you that there it would be a bright day with a cloudless sky and lots and lots of sun again. Then you go to bed.

That was your day yesterday, down to the weather forecast in the evening. But today was different. The forecast was wrong. It had started to rain in the night. 

On a rainy days, you often wake up two minutes to seven o’clock. Two minutes too early. Heavy rain is drumming against your window, changing its rhythm every few seconds, because the wind changes its direction every few seconds. You stare outside, unblinking. The weather forecast had promised sun. And yet... a smile grows on your face. It tugs itself into the corners of your mouth, lifts them slowly. You follow the trails the raindrops leave in your window with appreciation. It is raining. That smile on your face deepens when you realise what this means. No office. No. Today is fun day. You curl yourself back up in your sheets and pick up a book from the nightstand. You still have three hours, why not spend them comfortably in bed with a book? You will have brunch later, just before you leave. The glasses still lay on your bedside table, forgotten.

At ten o’clock you leave the house in black trainers, black jogging pants, and a black long sleeved T-shirt, topped with a black rain jacket. Your pockets are filled with useful little things. The rain doesn’t bother you. It never has. You feel the cold drops on your cheeks and your nose. For a moment you want to just stand there, on your front porch, and let the rain fall on your face. Then a huge black van pulls up and you hop in without hesitation. While the van drives away, you give your flat one last glance. You run your eyes lovingly over the green door, the silver handle which reflected the greyness of the sky, and the big round flower bucket in the right side with the most beautiful collection of Monkshoods in the whole city. You like the uncertainty the rainy day brings with it.

The van brings you to your second office just outside the city. Your boss waits by the door. She smiles when she sees you and you see a reflection of your own excitement in her. For the next hours you read through the signed contracts again. On rainy days, it is easy to concentrate. You know what you’re looking for. The contracts mean fun.

You are lucky. The rain has only become heavier and more unpredictable during the day. At five minutes to five o’clock you look out the window and, not for the first time, think about how wrong the weather forecast had been. Your stomach fills with joy. You look at your boss. She nods. Simultaneously the both of you pick up your black rain jackets and heaved down one silver suitcase each from a shelf next to the door. You load them in the black van. The driver sees you and starts the engine. You feel a familiar thrill shoot through your body. Finally, the hunt can begin again.

The van brings you and your boss close to the city centre. Your heart is already pumping faster with anticipation. Your eyes are clear and focused. Your mind is centred around the first name from a signed contract. You smile. 

The van parked at the side of the road, completely unsuspicious in a parking lot. You slide open the door. You recognise the street from the satellite pictures you have memorised earlier. You know where you are, and you know where you have to go. Your boss besides you tenses, ready an afternoon in the city. She has a different list of names. She looked at you and you nod. Then you leave the van together and split up in two different directions. 

Your first name is at home when you show up. The TV is switched on with a loud action film playing, but the name is reading something on their phone. The blood rushes through your body. You feel alive for the first time in weeks. Climate change is really bad for this job. The first name hasn’t noticed you yet, and then they never will. The explosions from the TV drown out the gurgling of their cut throat. You never could resist your flair for the dramatic. You roll your eyes at yourself while you clean your silver knife on their shirt. Your list was endless and you look forward to every second of it.

There is a proverb in this city. People may forgive, but the rain never does. It isn’t entirely true, of course, is it? These contracts - your contracts - are commissioned by people after all. But in all my years of research, I was never able to find out if you are actually a person. If you are human. Now, I see you here, standing in front of me, and I can draw my own conclusions. Thank you for that. You have given me the most precious gift”, Dr. Frederic Stein smiled while rain hammered against the window pane behind his back and something silver flashed in front of him.