The Human Condition - Chapter 1

It rains a lot in New York these days. Rain instead of snow. Rain instead of sunshine. Rain instead of drizzle. It rains more than it did when I was a little girl growing up these streets. So an umbrella has taken a permanent spot in my bag, alongside my keys and a notebook.

It had been yet another spirit-crushing day at work in the financial district. I worked alongside cokeheads who were earning their living through scamming hard-working individuals out of their hard-earned money; I believe you call them businessmen. And it was always business with them, from phone call to phone call, empty promises, and a gong to chime for every deal made. They told me I’d be a rock star because my voice was seductive, and who wouldn’t give seventeen thousand dollars for an inside cover spot if I was asking?

I never made a deal though. I couldn’t. But they didn’t fire me. They wouldn’t fire me. They believed in me so. They fired people around me everyday for not pulling in the contracts, but never said anything to me, except that I’d be a rock star.

Three months went by like this. Monday through Friday, phone call after phone call, no thank you after no thank you, and all I ever did was thank people for their time. Mondays at the office were rallydays with announcements of who made the biggest deals of the previous week, with bottles of champagne to congratulate them. Wednesdays were snack days where the boss would treat us to muffins and doughnuts for breakfast. Fridays ended a little early so that the mandatory team-building beer-drinking could commence at the nearest bar before the crowds set in. And let’s not leave out the scheduled smoke breaks in between it all.

They had me believe that I was special, and that I was going to be successful. But at what price?

It was a price that I was not willing to pay.

It was raining, and I left work with the feeling that I might never return. There was no face I ever wanted to see again; there was no voice that I would miss. Only a paycheck.

I stood in the rain and waited for my bus to come, but it never did. Other buses came, but never the one I needed. It was only a matter of time, and wet feet, before I loaded the next bus that came my way. I rode it north along Pearl Street, and then east along East Broadway, and then north again along Allen Street, where I decided to get off, because my apartment was not far from there.

I turned a corner and found a little umbrella-less girl standing in a doorway, almost blocked by the scaffolding that lined the sidewalk. I walked past her, hardly noticing her at first, my umbrella held tight to my head so that the raindrops couldn’t dampen my hair. But then I stopped walking, not ten paces from where she stood.

I turned around and approached her, asking if she was waiting for it to stop raining. She nodded her head yes. I started to walk again. I walked several steps. But again, I stopped. Without thought, I returned to her and handed her my umbrella, and told her that it wasn’t going to stop raining anytime soon. I told her that she could go home now.

I watched from beneath the scaffolding as she darted out into the rain and crossed the street just ahead of the traffic. She couldn’t have been older than nine or ten. I wondered if she’d tell her mom that she had gotten the umbrella from a stranger.

I wrapped my black shawl around my head and headed home. I no longer avoided the puddles. I no longer sought brief refuge under the awnings. At this point I was wet, and there was nothing to do but accept it.

Eventually I made my way home and took a hot shower to wash away the cold rain that had seeped into my skin. I thought not about my long day, but about the little girl, and hoped that she herself was now home and warm too. I hoped that the umbrella was sitting in a corner, dripping itself dry, waiting to be used again.

The next morning I woke up in a state I still cannot explain. Only my actions could reveal this new me. Within moments of rising, my laptop was atop my lap, and I was writing an email to my boss:

Dear (boss),
For personal reasons, I can no longer come in to your office to work.

And then I hit send.

Two weeks later I received my last paycheck.

I don’t remember a single name of the people I spent three months of my life working alongside, and I don’t even remember what floor we were on, but I do remember that last day, and the look on the girl’s face when I handed her my umbrella.

It was all worth it.