It rained again. It just never stopped. Last time he could remember it not raining must have been in China, years ago, a long, long time ago.
But New York? Rain, rain, rain and more rain. Well, snow, sometimes, then wind. The wind was worst, maybe. It would just go under his skin, try to flip him over, ridicule him, make him lose his job, lose his head, lose his life?...
He knew exactly where the umbrellas ended that were not able to keep their heads on their necks. He saw them littering the corners, pathetic little carcasses. And there were new ones coming into the city, hoping to make it through the season. Some were being given to people for $3... pathetic little weaklings... they were lucky if they survived a good drizzle.
New York was a really interesting place for an umbrella anyway. Some of the good restaurants offered resting places for umbrellas, little conversational areas. This is where the best stories were exchanged. One umbrella has once seen a holdup. This other large had a really secret story about his owner... (nobody knew if such things could really be true.) There was one beefy guy who claimed that his inside was printed with a happy, cloudy sky. No rain? Yeah right.
So this conversational part of the job was not so bad... the wind, the rain, the long, lonely drying sessions in the bathroom... they were less fun...
But what could be done about all this... after all, he was a professional, automatic, unique, holding tight.