Something, something, enjoy water in your face.
As a child, like many before me, and countless more after, I was told that I could grow up to be whatever I wanted to be. You can imagine my surprise when I find myself standing in the rain, at a bus stop at a school, where I have been for seven years, not feeling any more grown up or any closer to knowing what I wanted to be.
I go to a school with an off-campus parking lot. Since there are about nine million commuters and seven parking spaces on campus, and considering the parking permits are much cheaper, parking off-campus and riding the bus to one of the two stops on campus is an attractive option. On the hour as classes end, dozens of students will be waiting at the stop for a bus whose schedule is determined by a slightly challenged baboon rolling a 20-sided die.
It’s really raining today. It’s really the last day before Thanksgiving break and everyone just really wants to get home. However, everyone is really wet because everyone really forgot their umbrellas. Everyone at the stop is huddled together under the covered portion. I have an umbrella. Black, rosewood handle, 54 inches, my God, it even has air vents.
When the bus arrives, everyone turns into third graders really needing to take a piss, bouncing up and down just waiting for everyone to get off the bus, so they can rush the doors and get a seat out of the rain. I quickly count about sixteen people waiting and a few still on the bus, waiting for the next stop, and knowing that there are about twenty-six seats, I knew I would be able to get one of them. So I stand next to the door, fully aware of the panic that could ensue, and hold my umbrella over everyone in line. People are smiling; people are saying thanks. Crisis averted.
Then she comes running down the sidewalk. No umbrella, no hood, no foresight, she locks her eyes on the door and picks up momentum. Surely, you can’t be serious. She isn’t going to stop. She isn’t stopping. She is pushing everyone in line out of the way. She is better than everyone else. She really needs to get on the bus right now. She is Bitch.
Nobody wants to deal with Bitch. Everyone backs up a little and lets her get on. The seats on the bus are arranged against each side so that the two long rows face each other. Bitch grabs one of the first seats; I can see her through the window.
As the last student boards, I carefully collapse my umbrella. I walk up the stairs and make eye contact with her. She was so proud that she finally took the advice of her horoscope and was more assertive today. I see my seat in the back. I walk by Bitch, and as I pass her, I give my umbrella an ever so slight shake. I can’t make it obvious, but I knew that she knew that it was me who flung all that water right in her Bitch face.
I grew up a little, holding my umbrella out for everyone. Perhaps, I don’t feel it, because these little acts of immaturity that keep me sane are also what are preventing me from completely growing up. Or perhaps, realizing the distinction is what growing up means. I think again about the words I heard as a child - whatever you want to be - and smile.
I have become, Umbrella Man.
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