Tracy Beeler

It was a sudden thunderstorm in downtown Cleveland. Rain was falling like an overturned lake. Water was rushing down the sidewalks three inches deep. I reached into my bag to deploy my compact Japanese umbrella. Then I looked around. Not a single American man had opened an umbrella. A construction worker was strolling with his hands in his pockets. A businessman in a tailored suit was sipping coffee while water poured straight off his nose. Nobody was running. Nobody was flinching. In my homeland, when the entire garrison marches into the flood without shields, opening a small nylon canopy is an act of spiritual surrender. I left the umbrella in the bag. I squared my shoulders, raised my chin, and walked straight into the deluge. Within twelve seconds, my shoes were full of water and my shirt was glued to my ribs. I marched forward with the grim discipline of a soldier crossing a misty battlefield. A giant man in a soaked flannel shirt approached from the opposite direction. Water was cascading off his beard like a fountain. He saw that I was not running. He saw that my eyes were locked on the horizon. He gave me a slow, solemn nod of mutual respect. "Nice weather today, brother." I wiped water from my eyelids, maintained absolute composure, and replied: "A delicate summer mist." The man roared with laughter, slapped my dripping shoulder, and yelled: "Hell yeah, man! It’s just water!" He raised his soaked paper cup in a salute and vanished into the storm. I spent four days in bed drinking hot ginger tea. My leather shoes will never fully recover. The sky threw an entire lake at Cleveland that Tuesday. Cleveland did not even put down its coffee. My umbrella sits in the dark closet, bone-dry and completely defeated.