you have failed me, little chinese ladies who sell umbrellas
18 July 2007
I live in Chinatown. I say Little Italy/Chinatown (or, as I prefer, ChiLita), but Little Italy is one street, four blocks long. All around it: Chinatown.
Anything you want in Chinatown you can buy off a little Chinese lady on the street. Fake Prada bag? Check. Hot DVD? Check. Cool sunglasses? Check. Gimpy child from China-type country to do light housework and light your cigarettes? Check. Umbrella during rainstorm? Check.
When it’s raining – and even before it’s raining, when the sky is looking ominous – literally dozens of little Chinese ladies pop up all over my neighborhood with carts selling cheap umbrellas, ranging in price from $3 to $5 (not expensive, but these umbrellas cost about 14¢ to make in the PRC). I live off these umbrellas, precisely because I am bad with umbrellas. Why spend $25 for a decent umbrella when I’m going to lose it when I can buy a cheap one for $3? Sure, the cheap one will break after three or four rainstorms or I’ll lose it in a few weeks, but so what? It’s only $3.
This morning when I woke up, it was very overcast and looked like it was about to rain. When I got out of the shower, I saw that the heavens had opened up and it was now pouring. Naturally, I did not have an umbrella, but was unconcerned – I could just buy one right outside my door from a Chinese lady.
So I left my apartment, stood under the awning of the Italian restaurant I live above, and took stock of the rain. Make no mistake, this was a torrential downpour, with raindrops the size of penises. The large, heavy drops smacked against the pavement and street with a heavy thud that gave me pause; this was a classic, mid-summer, angry NYC rainstorm. Fuckin’ A.
My Chinese neighbors were scurrying about, trying to wield their cumbersome umbrellas against the driving rain. Even with an umbrella this was going to be a difficult walk to the subway.
But there was one problem – I didn’t see any Chinese ladies selling umbrellas. I looked left, I looked right, and nothing. They were not there. I felt a little anxious, but there was nothing I could do. I didn’t have an umbrella and I had to get to work. Perhaps, I thought, a Chinese umbrella lady would be on the next corner. So I took off.
I ran for a block and stopped under another awning. Already, I was drenched. In my mad sprint I tried unsuccessfully to jump a puddle that had formed on the street, almost four feet in length, and landed almost smack in the middle, soaking my one foot through to the skin. My shirt and pants were wet enough to be rung out. I took my iPod off and out of my pocket and buried it deep in my gym bag to protect it from the rain. I looked once more for the Chinese umbrella ladies – any Chinese umbrella lady – and could not find one. I was beginning to lose hope.
Desperate, and with no other recourse, I ran another block under another awning. When I stopped under this awning, a sad realization set in: I was fucked. For whatever reason, the Chinese umbrella ladies, normally a fixture in my neighborhood even under the worst weather conditions, had abandoned me. I felt like a shipwrecked survivor on a raft who went unseen by a barge passing in the distance. I was alone, I was wet, and there was nothing I could do. There were no Chinese umbrella ladies, and they weren’t going to come to save me anytime soon. Standing under the awning, I took a deep breath and felt the droplets of rain slide from my hair down my face. I felt like I was wearing a full body sponge instead of shirts and pants. I closed my eyes. I cried a little.
Then I took action. I ran the rest of the way to the subway, like a magnificent son of a bitch. I am a survivor. Fuckin’ A.
***********
As I write this, I am sitting in my office, one hour after I arrived, still soaked. Worse, I’m not sure what percentage of the moisture on my body is rain versus sweat. Despite the rain, it is still a warm, humid day, and as the rain water dries on my clothes, it seems to seep deeper, onto my skin, causing me to sweat. I’m guessing today is not going to be a very productive workday. Nor would it be a good day to seduce me (just an FYI if you were planning on doing so).
Yet the mystery still remains: where did you go, sweet dependable Chinese umbrella ladies? I realize that this morning’s rainstorm was especially intense, but I’ve seen you hawking your wares in worse conditions. Though I don’t claim to be an expert in the art of street commerce, if anything I’d think you’d make it a point to be out on a day like today – I personally would have paid much more than $3 or $5 for an umbrella in this morning’s storm (I probably would have handed over my debit card, given you my PIN, and said, "Fuck it – go nuts").
But nothing. My only hope is that the reason that none of you were present is that you all are at some sort of convention, possibly in the Midwest, at which you all share stories, compare notes, then eat shrimp cocktail and get drunk off call vodka at a large party on the last night of the conference. This is what I hope, at least. Also, maybe there’s a juggler at the convention. Jugglers are hilarious.
If not, and if you’re planning on no longing servicing the greater Chilita area with inexpensively-priced umbrellas during rainstorms, please have the courtesy to let me know. I don’t want to drop $25 on an umbrella that I’m gonna leave in a cab in three weeks unless I have to, but I can no longer come into work dripping and nearly electrocute myself on my computer. Something’s gotta give here.
Anything you want in Chinatown you can buy off a little Chinese lady on the street. Fake Prada bag? Check. Hot DVD? Check. Cool sunglasses? Check. Gimpy child from China-type country to do light housework and light your cigarettes? Check. Umbrella during rainstorm? Check.
When it’s raining – and even before it’s raining, when the sky is looking ominous – literally dozens of little Chinese ladies pop up all over my neighborhood with carts selling cheap umbrellas, ranging in price from $3 to $5 (not expensive, but these umbrellas cost about 14¢ to make in the PRC). I live off these umbrellas, precisely because I am bad with umbrellas. Why spend $25 for a decent umbrella when I’m going to lose it when I can buy a cheap one for $3? Sure, the cheap one will break after three or four rainstorms or I’ll lose it in a few weeks, but so what? It’s only $3.
This morning when I woke up, it was very overcast and looked like it was about to rain. When I got out of the shower, I saw that the heavens had opened up and it was now pouring. Naturally, I did not have an umbrella, but was unconcerned – I could just buy one right outside my door from a Chinese lady.
So I left my apartment, stood under the awning of the Italian restaurant I live above, and took stock of the rain. Make no mistake, this was a torrential downpour, with raindrops the size of penises. The large, heavy drops smacked against the pavement and street with a heavy thud that gave me pause; this was a classic, mid-summer, angry NYC rainstorm. Fuckin’ A.
My Chinese neighbors were scurrying about, trying to wield their cumbersome umbrellas against the driving rain. Even with an umbrella this was going to be a difficult walk to the subway.
But there was one problem – I didn’t see any Chinese ladies selling umbrellas. I looked left, I looked right, and nothing. They were not there. I felt a little anxious, but there was nothing I could do. I didn’t have an umbrella and I had to get to work. Perhaps, I thought, a Chinese umbrella lady would be on the next corner. So I took off.
I ran for a block and stopped under another awning. Already, I was drenched. In my mad sprint I tried unsuccessfully to jump a puddle that had formed on the street, almost four feet in length, and landed almost smack in the middle, soaking my one foot through to the skin. My shirt and pants were wet enough to be rung out. I took my iPod off and out of my pocket and buried it deep in my gym bag to protect it from the rain. I looked once more for the Chinese umbrella ladies – any Chinese umbrella lady – and could not find one. I was beginning to lose hope.
Desperate, and with no other recourse, I ran another block under another awning. When I stopped under this awning, a sad realization set in: I was fucked. For whatever reason, the Chinese umbrella ladies, normally a fixture in my neighborhood even under the worst weather conditions, had abandoned me. I felt like a shipwrecked survivor on a raft who went unseen by a barge passing in the distance. I was alone, I was wet, and there was nothing I could do. There were no Chinese umbrella ladies, and they weren’t going to come to save me anytime soon. Standing under the awning, I took a deep breath and felt the droplets of rain slide from my hair down my face. I felt like I was wearing a full body sponge instead of shirts and pants. I closed my eyes. I cried a little.
Then I took action. I ran the rest of the way to the subway, like a magnificent son of a bitch. I am a survivor. Fuckin’ A.
***********
As I write this, I am sitting in my office, one hour after I arrived, still soaked. Worse, I’m not sure what percentage of the moisture on my body is rain versus sweat. Despite the rain, it is still a warm, humid day, and as the rain water dries on my clothes, it seems to seep deeper, onto my skin, causing me to sweat. I’m guessing today is not going to be a very productive workday. Nor would it be a good day to seduce me (just an FYI if you were planning on doing so).
Yet the mystery still remains: where did you go, sweet dependable Chinese umbrella ladies? I realize that this morning’s rainstorm was especially intense, but I’ve seen you hawking your wares in worse conditions. Though I don’t claim to be an expert in the art of street commerce, if anything I’d think you’d make it a point to be out on a day like today – I personally would have paid much more than $3 or $5 for an umbrella in this morning’s storm (I probably would have handed over my debit card, given you my PIN, and said, "Fuck it – go nuts").
But nothing. My only hope is that the reason that none of you were present is that you all are at some sort of convention, possibly in the Midwest, at which you all share stories, compare notes, then eat shrimp cocktail and get drunk off call vodka at a large party on the last night of the conference. This is what I hope, at least. Also, maybe there’s a juggler at the convention. Jugglers are hilarious.
If not, and if you’re planning on no longing servicing the greater Chilita area with inexpensively-priced umbrellas during rainstorms, please have the courtesy to let me know. I don’t want to drop $25 on an umbrella that I’m gonna leave in a cab in three weeks unless I have to, but I can no longer come into work dripping and nearly electrocute myself on my computer. Something’s gotta give here.
