Umbrella

Raining now. It’s very likely that I left my umbrella in newbie immigrant Fathey Abdullah’s taxi cab, where he dropped me off at Sixth and 59th. (Abdullah, formerly of Iran, is now a tax-paying resident of Brooklyn, U.S.A.) Oh well. I don’t dwell on it. I’ve missed the rain these last few days. We need some respite in this brick oven that is New York City.


I cross the street and buy a copy of the New York Post. I'm a newspaper junkie. The corner newsstand stays in business because of me. I then duck inside a coffee shop, order an espresso, and flip through the paper. I have some time to kill.

The rain stops on cue twenty minutes later. I discard the empty coffee cup, straw, crinkled napkin and newspaper in the trash bin. A short walk from here to E. 63rd, where I arrive five minutes early. Already, the Man stands in the doorway, squarely, with a brandy in his right hand and a cheap cigar in his left. He greets me with open arms, like we’re old Army buddies.

Once inside, I meet the Wife, who is on her first glass of Bordeaux. She is very beautiful, but also visibly nervous. The Man beckons me to the living room where we sit down on expensive leather sofas. Then we drink, steadily, for almost a half an hour, talking about nothing very important. I try, but I can’t put my finger on the Man. A nebulous character.

Soon he excuses himself politely, kisses the Wife, shakes my hand, and exits out the front door. The Wife and I are left alone. “Shall we?” I ask. Yes. Yes, of course, she says, and then escorts me to the upstairs bedroom, locking the door behind us.

The evening passes quickly. More rain. I walk out into the night and hail another taxi cab. As luck would have it, it’s Abdullah’s. I get my umbrella back.