The Umbrella Man

A short story

Photo by Bill Adler

Sydney Larson sat on the dining room chair she had moved to the front hallway, her arms crossed in front of her chest, her disposition like a swamp of agitated alligators. 

It took twenty minutes to transport the chair from the dining room to the front hallway because two-hundred-sixty-eight open umbrellas turned her apartment into a maddening obstacle course.

Sydney waited for her husband, Sidney Larson, by the front door because it was the least congested part of their apartment. 

“Grrr,” she grumbled. Sidney insisted that the umbrellas remain perpetually open because “A closed umbrella mildews. Mildew is bad for my allergies.”

Sidney was allergic to mildew, pollen, asparagus, maraschino cherries, WD-40, and lizards. 

As she sat on the chair waiting for her husband to return from the office where he worked as an assistant data entry specialist, she kicked away eight umbrellas that had wriggled to the front door. 

Black, collapsible umbrellas dominated, giving their apartment a Darth Vader vibe, but there were also transparent, red, blue, green, yellow, and white umbrellas. Tropical birds adorned one, and elephant art covered another. 

Do elephants even care if it rains? Sydney thought.

Another had a starscape on the underside, while others displayed famous artworks. 

“Van Gogh would have hated having his art on an umbrella, but Dali might have liked it,” Sydney admitted. But she hated them all because everywhere she walked, an umbrella tip stabbed her, and an umbrella shaft tripped her. 

Eventually, she’d break a leg—or worse. 

They’re a menace.

Umbrellas covered the sofa, dining room table, and kitchen counter. They perched atop their living room bureau and toilet seat. Sidney hung a few upside down from the living room and bedroom ceiling light fixtures. 

Umbrellas filled their closets, and those umbrellas stayed splayed, too. 

Angry steam burbled in Sydney’s belly.

Sydney couldn’t open a window because the slightest breeze would set the umbrellas in motion as if possessed by ghosts. In the daytime, that would be unpleasant; at night, terrifying. 

“Read the weather forecast,” Sydney repeated every morning to Sidney as she tapped his phone. “Read it. If it says it might rain, take an umbrella so you don’t have to buy one at the 7-Eleven on the way home. Do you get that? Does that make sense to you? Let’s make a deal: If there’s a fifty percent chance of rain, you’ll take an umbrella with you to the office. Sound good?”

“Weather forecasts are notoriously unreliable. I don’t want to carry an umbrella if I don’t have to. It’s easier to pick one up when I need it. I require free hands.”

“Free hands for what?”

Sidney waved his hands wildly and said, “Shoo, shoo,” and then again, “Shoo, shoo.” He locked eyes firmly with Sydney. “Pigeons. They’re all over and a menace.”

Today, as she waited for Sidney to return, annoyance boiled her blood because although the forecast reported a ninety-nine percent chance of rain, Sidney refused to take one of their umbrellas with him. Again. 

“Weather forecasts are notoriously unreliable.” Sidney’s words rang in her head repeatedly, like cymbals clanging an inch from her ears. 

At six-forty-three, Sydney heard the murmur of a key against the outer lock. The door opened. 

Sydney grimaced. 

“I picked this umbrella up at the 7-Eleven because it was raining. I think there’s room at the foot of the bed for it.”

There wasn’t room.

Sydney gritted her teeth. “You must be the 7-Eleven’s most profitable customer.”

“They do like me.”

Just then, their apartment shook violently. Sydney’s chair toppled over, and Sidney fell. The dining room bureau crashed to the floor, the plates and glasses breaking and silverware scattering.

Earthquake!

As the shaking continued, explosions rocked their apartment. Sydney and Sidney turned toward the living room window, where New York City was ablaze. Buildings burned everywhere, orange, red, and yellow flames singeing the sky, the city an inferno. 

The quake buckled the sidewalks and streets, hurtling cars and pedestrians into the air. Windows shattered, and bricks popped off buildings. 

“Quick,” Sidney shouted. “Grab as many umbrellas as you can.”

“How many? What? Why?”

“All of them. Hurry!”

Sidney gathered half the umbrellas in the apartment—they snapped together as if magnetized, forming a giant, swirling kaleidoscopic canopy—ran to the window and thrust it open. He stepped onto the ledge, extended his arms, umbrellas wide, and leaped.

Sydney followed and leaped, too, her hands brimming with umbrellas. 

A roiling south wind lifted Sydney and Sidney high above their fourteen-story apartment on Second Avenue and 33rd Street, then higher than the new glass and steel tower two blocks to the west and higher than the Empire State Building. They sailed across Connecticut and Massachusetts, finally landing in Burlington, Vermont, where the weather forecast predicted sunny skies for the next week.

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If you enjoyed The Umbrella Man, I think you’ll also like my short story, The Ferris Wheel.

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