I make a point of not using an umbrella unless I'm wearing a suit for court or a wedding. For one, on rainy days rarely am I outside for so long that I am at risk of getting thoroughly soaked. For two, umbrellas tend to obstruct people's views and track water indoors. More to the point, though, I generally consider myself not so much of a raging vagina that a coat will not suffice under most rainy weather circumstances. The downside to this display of pseudo-roughneck masculinity comes when I find myself with nothing to defend myself as I navigate a crowd or a busy street full of umbrella-wielding dicksuckers.
There is nothing more aggravating to me on a rainy day than people who do not know how to use their umbrellas in a way that does not put my eyesight at risk. The situation is even more frustrating from a personal perspective when it's barely drizzling and people still insist on hunkering down underneath gigantic golf umbrellas like they're fucking Gremlins. The only thing I've ever seen melt off a person when exposed to rain is foundation and bad mascara. Unless you are Tammy Fae Baker or a Ringling Brothers clown, you really have nothing to worry about. Honestly, do you think your busted-ass dye job or your prostitute-pink lipstick will be ruined if they come into contact with 90 seconds worth of Bay Area coastal mist?
If this morning on the BART platform is any indication, the answer to that question is a resounding YES.
Considering the tendency of the water-fearing populace to bury their heads under the arced fabric of the umbrellas they hold as they walk, it should be no surprise that the great many of them haven't a clue as to what is in front of or beside them at any given moment. This will happen, of course, when you lack both the fortitude to withstand a little rain and the common sense to wear appropriate shoes on bad weather days; compelling you to keep your gaze fixed on the ground immediately beneath your feet in search of puddles rather than 10 feet ahead of you in search of red lights, curbs, and my fucking face.
What you need to appreciate about my situation is that being 6'5" puts me at eye-level with the exposed ends of open umbrellas being carried by people of average height. For most, rainy days present nothing more than a cluttered mass of clattering umbrellas. For me, they promise nothing short of an eye-gouging siege. I can be standing still and off to the side, and they will still find me...like last Wednesday.
I was waiting for the 8:31 San Francisco train and was leaning against the back wall of the raised, open-air platform. A very slight drizzle was coming down. There was no breeze to speak of so the mist that was falling fell slowly and lightly upon everything. I, of course, had bothered neither to check the weather nor peek my head outside while getting dressed so I was in slacks and shirtsleeves. Most everyone else on the platform was bundled to the nines and huddled under the covered section with umbrellas out and half-cocked, ready to throw them up the instant they would have to venture into the exposed air in order to board one of the train cars farther down the track.
I watched them for a little while, alternately laughing to myself and shaking my head. Some shifted uncomfortably under the constrictive nature of raincoats, scarves, and overstuffed totebags. Others squinted up at the sky and across the bay looking for some sign that the deluge would abate sooner rather than later. I swear to god, I've gotten more wet in front of a mist fan than I did standing out on the platform in the "rain" that morning.
But it was no use. Once the sign flashed that the San Francisco train would be arriving in 3 minutes, the gaggle of overstuffed Gremlins popped their umbrellas and scurried toward the end of the platform where they would be assured of getting their "regular seat" on their "regular car" (and people wonder why I want to put 90% of the adult population into forced agricultural labor camps). This, of course, is where the fun began.
The platform at this BART station is not exceedingly wide. Even pressed against the back wall like a refugee on an escape train, there was still only room for two maybe three people to pass each other. With umbrellas out, that number was reduced to a very snug two. Within 30 seconds I'd been nicked in the side of the head by a Callaway golf umbrella held by a chubby, stoop-shouldered, redhead who has probably never swung a golf club that was not a putter at a putt-putt course. I jerked my head to the side but decided against saying anything to her. What was the use anyway? She was fat and red-headed. It's not like she wasn't already working with two strikes against her as it is.
Just as that thought worked its way from my brain to my jaw muscles--keeping them clenched--I saw in my peripheral vision a small black umbrella moving toward me at a pretty good clip. By this time, the train was in sight down the tracks and the commuters who like to time their arrival so they have to wait exactly zero seconds on the platform were scurrying down the length of the platform like roaches under a floodlight. As the little black umbrella approached I noticed that instead of making a straight line down the center of the platform, its carrier was veering dangerously close to the back wall where I was standing. I tried to make eye contact with the carrier to avert a collision but her head was burrowed so far up under the canopy of the umbrella it's a surprise that the stem didn't originate from somewhere down her throat.
I shuffled along the wall toward her in the hope that I might slide just out of her trajectory. I met an abutment 3 feet to my right. I was stuck. The little black umbrella continued its beeline right at me. Finally I said "hey, watch yourself!" No response, she was listening to her iPod. She was right on me and was looking her little black umbrella square in the eye. I had no other options. I reached back into my memory bank, called up the Reggie White career sacks highlight reel and in one fluid motion gave the umbrella the swim move with my left arm followed immediately by the shepherds crook--ripping the umbrella out of the woman's hand and sending it over the back wall of the platform down the 30 feet to the cabstand below.
This got her attention. Don't misunderstand, while I am not sad that the angry Italian woman lost her umbrella, I did not intend to send it flipping end over end onto the street below. I just wanted to direct its heat-seeking prongs away from my beautiful blue eyes. The best part, though, was watching her internal conflict play itself out on the BART platform as I boarded the now waiting train.
Do I go get the umbrella? But, I'll miss my train. Do I get on the train? But I'll lose my $5 umbrella. Umbrella, train. Train, umbrella. As I sat there with a view of the platform, I could not help but chuckle as she stopped and started several times while vacillating between her two options. After a good 45 seconds, she decided to get on the train. She hustled her way over to the nearest set of open doors just in time to watch them close in her face.
I'm pretty sure I could hear her spewing profanities in my general direction as the train began to pull away. I almost felt bad, but then I realized that to feel bad you have to give a shit first.
Posted by nils at 8:37 PM