Sep. 2020; Umbrella Man
It was approaching midnight, but the streets and alleyways of this small town were still surprisingly bustling. Street vendors selling combs, clothes, bags, a hundred types of food. Neon lighting from the towns historical gateway lit up the rough stone road like an inexplicable medieval bladerunner. It was rainy season. Each day there you were never sure what the elements may serve you. Too hot for a jacket, too cool for shorts. We meandered around the small town more out of boredom than adventure. The discussion turned to how we would get back to her mums place, find a taxi or to walk it, when without warning the heavens opened and the rain lashed down like javelins. Everyone noisily ran for cover, darting under shop awnings and into doorways, anything to find shelter. The previously busy street seemed to empty in moments. We huddled together and thought to wait it out, this downpour was just too heavy to brave.
10 minutes passed, 15, more, and gradually it eased down to a persistent drizzle. It was then from the corner of my eye I saw it. The moving black silhouette, shuffling more than walking, and in the dead centre of the sodden road. Slowly, slowly the shape grew closer, it was a man, making his way to wherever his destination may have been. The shining floor reflecting the bright lights, the old shop doorways and city gate in the background, and the man dead centre, I knew this would make a photo. I bent over and grabbed my camera from her bag but she stopped me, tightly held my arm and said “don’t, he might be drunk, or crazy…” I pulled away from her without answer and took a few steps out, if he was a drunk I hoped he at least wasn’t an angry one. I could feel the raindrops on my hand as I raised the camera to my eye, and it was then, as he drew closer, I heard the tap tap tap sound from his direction. I hastily snapped off one frame, and as I lowered my camera it was then the source of the tap tap tap sound became apparent. It was his stick.
I was back with her under the shop awning in a heartbeat, I gave her the camera and took from her other hand the raggedy old umbrella we had borrowed from her mums place earlier. “What the hell are you doing?!” she said with her familiar scornful tone. “He’s not drunk, or crazy,” I hissed back, “he’s blind.” As the silhouette was about to pass us I strode out, opening the umbrella and tapped him gently as I could on the shoulder. He was clearly startled, his mouth opened but he remained silent. I took his arm and in my broken mandarin tried to talk to him, failing quite miserably. I could feel he was soaked to the skin, water fell from his clothes like he had just walked out of the ocean. I pressed the umbrella into his hand, and out of desperation said in English “it’s still raining, please take this.” His face was closely pointing at mine, but his eyes were a distant milky grey. He tried to say something yet the sound wasn’t a word, but his smile spoke more than enough. He shuffled away, disappearing around a corner, stick in one hand, and raggedy umbrella in the other.
The umbrella man