“No,” they both say and I say “Well, no harm in my having tried, I guess,” and the first man says “No harm is right except for our precious lost time,” and sticks out his hand and I shake it and shake his partner’s hand and say “Can I use your men’s room before I go? It might be my last chance for a while.” His partner says “Second door to the right on your way out to the elevator,” and I say “Which way is the elevator again, left or right when I get out of your office?” and he says and I say “Thanks,” and they say and I leave, wave goodbye to the receptionist, go to the men’s room on their floor, take the elevator down, go through the building’s lobby to the street. It’s a nice day, finally. It was raining heavily when I came in. My umbrella! Damn, left it upstairs, should I go back for it? No. Yes. What the hell, why not, it’s not an old umbrella, it’s still a good serviceable umbrella. And if I don’t get it I’ll have to buy a new umbrella at probably twice what the one upstairs cost me three years ago the way inflation’s going crazy today.
I go back through the lobby, elevator, get on it, upstairs, their floor, past the men’s room, into their office and the receptionist says and I say, “I know, but I,” and point to it and the partners come out of the room we were talking in before just as I grab my umbrella and look at me but don’t say anything when I say hello but just walk into another room and I say goodbye to the receptionist and she nods at me and starts typing rapidly and I leave the office, elevator, lobby and see it’s raining heavily again. Rain coming down like, streets filled with water like, people running out of the rain like, sky like, traffic like, I open the umbrella and walk in the rain totally protected because of my umbrella, long raincoat and boots and think “Well, I at least did one thing right today and that’s going back for the umbrella, and maybe one other thing and that’s wearing the right rain clothes,” when someone ducks under my umbrella, a woman, hair soaked by the rain, and says “Mind if I walk with you as far as the bank on the comer? It closes in a few minutes and I have to put in some money by today.”
“Sure,” I say and we walk, I hold the umbrella, she her coat together at the collar, and talk, she “Can we walk faster?” I say sure, she asks where I was going, I say to an office building a block past her bank, she asks, I tell her, she says “Well what do you know,” because it seems she’s a good friend of the very man I want to see most about the same story project I spoke to those partners about, but whom I haven’t been able to get an appointment with for more than a month. So I suggest, she says “Yes, but let me get done with my bank first,” goes in, comes out, we have coffee at a coffee shop across the street, she asks, I tell, starting with the guy who comes in and says and I say and we do and the woman and all we said and did and then the partners, men’s room, lobby, sunshine, umbrella, should I? shouldn’t I? upstairs, receptionist and partners again, I retrieve, I leave, typing rapidly, raining heavily, everything looking like something else, open the umbrella, woman ducks under, though at first I didn’t think it was a woman, I thought it was a mugger, walk, talk, faster, she asks, I say, well what do you know, she knows so and so, I suggest, she says yes, bank, coffee shop and coffees. “So what do you think?” I say. “Your friend will like it or am I fooling myself?”
“If he doesn’t like it he ought to change professions,” she says and borrows a coin from me, makes a phone call, comes back, “He says to hustle right over,” we do, elevator, office, receptionist, secretary, big how do you do from her friend who I tell the whole story to from the beginning, he says “Better than I expected even from what Pam told me it would be over the phone. I’ll take it,” and we shake hands, sign a contract, he writes out a check, we drink champagne to our future success, Pam and I leave, downstairs, lobby, sunny outside. Oh my God, I think, I forgot my umbrella again. “Oh my God,” I say, “I left my umbrella upstairs.”
“Leave it,” she says, “since you now have enough money to buy ten umbrellas. Twenty if you want, though I don’t know why you would.” “True,” I say. “Want to go for another coffee?” “Coffee?” she says. “I think a drink’s more what we deserve. I know I sure do after what I just did for you.” “True,” I say, “and we’ll go to the best place possible,” and we start walking. Sun goes, clouds come, we walk faster, looking for a classier bar than the three we pass, but not fast enough, as the rain suddenly comes, drenching us before we can find protection from it.
“I knew I should have gone up for my umbrella,” I say. “So we’re wet,” she says. “So what? It’ll make the day more memorable for you. In fact, what I’d do if I were you, just to make the day one of the most memorable of your life, is—” but I cut her off and say “I know, I might,” and she says “Not you might, you should,” and I say “I know, I will,” and she smiles, I smile, we take each other’s hands, put our arms around each other’s waists, “Let’s,” she says, “Let’s,” I say, and run out from under the awning into the rain. “Dad, look at those crazy people getting wet,” a boy says, protected by his father’s umbrella.
“You know what I want most of all now that I’ve sold my story project?” I say to her, standing in the pouring rain and holding and hugging her and looking over her shoulder at the boy being pulled along by his father because he wants to stay and watch us and she says “What?” and I tell her and she says and I say “And also to eventually walk in the pouring rain with an umbrella over my future wife and me and future daughter or son, but with the child being around that boy’s age.” “Why an umbrella?” she says and I say and she says “Silly, you don’t get colds that way,” and I say and she says “No,” and I say “Oh.” Just then a cab drives by too close to the curb and splashes us up to our waists and I start cursing and shaking my fist at it and she says and I say “You’re right, raincoats and all we’re already slopping wet,” and we laugh and go into a bar a half-block away and order a glass of wine each.
“What are you two so happy about,” the bartender says, “besides getting yourselves dripping wet and probably catching your death?” and I say “Really interested?” and he says “Interested,” and I say “Then I’ll tell you,” and do, starting from the time the man came in, woman, partners, office, men’s room, lobby, sunny again, umbrella and rain, woman and bank, coffees, what do you know, so and so, deal, champagne, check, no umbrella, mixing the story up a little here and there, sun goes, rain falls, running through it, father and son, my thoughts and wants, bar, drinks, bartender and he says “That story rates a drink on the house if I ever heard one,” and pours some more wine into our glasses, we toast and drink, he holds up his glass of soda water, people coming in ask what the celebration’s about, I tell them, from beginning to end, leaving a little out now and then. “Very interesting,” one of them says and buys us another wine each. By that time the rain’s stopped but we’re not dry yet and I say to Pam “Let’s make it a perfect end to a great day,” and she says “No, really, I’ve had a change of mind, besides my boyfriend waiting at home,” and goes.
Just then a man comes in and I say “You wouldn’t believe—” and he says “Wouldn’t believe what? Because if you think you’ve something to say, listen to my story first,” and he tells me about his wife who suddenly left him last week same day his dad got a coronary and his dog ran away and I say “Excuse me, you’re right, and I think I better get home before it rains again,” and I get off the stool. “Wait,” he says, “you haven’t heard the worst of it yet,” but I’m out the door, rain’s started again, I hail a cab, feel in my pockets, no wallet, wave the cab away and walk the two miles to my home. Phone’s ringing when I enter the apartment. It’s the man who bought my story project. He says “Tear up that check and contract as I just received a cable from overseas that says our company’s gone bankrupt.” I shout “Liar.” He says “Not so.” I slam down the receiver, am shivering, sneezing, want to get into a hot tub, but for some reason the water only runs cold.