Robert Putis

Rain Stories
 

We all have rain stories, and these are mine. The first finds me riding my bicycle to the university one morning last September. "Günther," the half-wit Hamburger Abendblatt weather nerd who either predicts seven hours of wet sunshine or scalding temperatures which give you the goosebumps, forecasted a day of sun and clouds, chances of rain only 10%. It rained all day. That is, it started raining ten minutes after I had hopped onto my bicycle, full of optimism in the face of the overcast sky, and clad in jeans and a light shirt. I was trucking down Maria-Louisen-Straße when I felt the first splats on my face. No need to panic, I thought. "Günther" had to be right sometimes. How else could he keep his job? And after all, 10% was 10%, and what were the chances that the 10% would catch me in the short 17- minute stretch from my home to the university? It was surely only a passing-DOWNPOUR!
It fell in sheets. Solid water. As I pumped those pedals up and down as hard as I could, I imagined I was treading water. The only difference was that instead of a bathing suit, I had all my clothes on. But that didn't keep me any drier.
Up Rothenbaumchaussee, pedaling as fast as my breakfast energy allowed, I gave up trying to stop at pedestrian crosswalks for traffic - my brakes would have revolted with a piercing rubber screech. The rain pelted my face and it felt good. I pedaled harder, finally reaching the end of the long incline, and began to roll faster. I took a masochistic pleasure in the light sting of drops on my skin. My lungs roared and I rejoiced in my own adrenaline. And subconsciously I knew why. Why I was pedaling so hard. Why the stinging rain felt so good. It all led back to a childhood memory I had when I lived in Vermont ...
...it was a gray and early morning and I was wearing a T-shirt, the light, blue one with the surfing dog decal on the back. I was sweating as I laced my sneakers. It would be a hot day, I knew, and it was already so humid it might rain, which would be a blessing really because I was sweating something awful. I went to my bookshelf, slipped my hand behind the framed photo of my grandma Nonna, and removed the deodorant. I lifted up my shirt, rolled it back and forth onto the damp mass of armpit hair, and returning it to the shelf, I galloped out of the room. My dad was already loading the truck with the crowbar, two shovels, the "key", and a large roll of copper tubing. I came outside just in time to help him lift the roll onto the tailgate of the Water Company truck. Today we were going to do a job at Carbonti Circle and it would be hard, a job my dad had been dreading for some reason. A main-break or a complicated tie-in, or something. We were meeting Normie at 9 a.m. at Stewart's for doughnuts and coffee while Chris transported the backhoe to the site. But first my dad and I had to drive to Bennington to rent the jackhammer. That's the part I loved the most - the jackhammering.
And so with everything loaded, I jumped into the bed of the truck and sat on the large white toolbox which lay raised and against the cab. "You sure you don't want to sit inside?" Thunder rumbled far away to the south. Bennington was also south of us. "Naw," I said, "It's too humid." My father raised an eyebrow and gave me the look that meant, "O.K. it's your decision...if you want to get all wet..." He got in, slammed the door shut, turned the engine a few times, and we were off. As we backed up, I looked into the sliding glass doors at my mother, who had suddenly appeared to wave us goodbye. 1 saw my dad's arm reach out his window and wave with a suave side-to-side hand movement. I blew her a kiss.
We lurched toward Bennington, down our dirt road and up Sunderland Hill Road. The maple trees which lined the road stood like soldiers at ease - the dark, green leaves tired and limp in the humid air. From my perch on the tool box, the breeze flapped at my T-shirt with a cool summer clamminess. Any time now. I leaned back against the window of the cab, laid my head on the roof, listened to the air whistle into my ears and gazed into the dark clouds above me. Any time now. The first bit the top of my head with the painful thud of a kamikaze bumblebee. I'd been bit by insects before. I respected them because I knew how much a little housefly could sting at 35 miles per hour. I rubbed my scalp and the spot was wet. Bug guts? Another bit me in the neck. This time I knew it wasn't a bug, but a large raindrop. They started falling now more frequently, so I ducked in the shelter of the cab's wind shadow but the drops were heavy and my dad wasn't driving fast enough. I was getting pelted. One part of me loved the stinging drops, but the other part wanted to be warm and dry in the cab of the truck, sitting beside my dad watching the drops pelt the windshield instead. But he didn't stop immediately. He liked the idea of me getting wet, of regretting my decision to ride in the back. I was cold and miserable.
At the stop sign at the end of South Road, from where you could see the entrance ramp of Super 7, my dad rolled down the window, leaned out and shouted through the rain, "You want to come in?" So, he was giving me a chance. "No, I like it," I answered. I pulled the wrinkles out of my wet T- shirt and tried to laugh. But it was damn chilly and the back of my neck still throbbed from the water bullets. "Are you sure?" he asked. "I'm sure - it's letting up anyway," I said, looking doubtfully in the direction of Bennington. "O.K.-", he replied with a verbal shrug and shake of the head.
The ride to Bennington took longer than normal. Actually, it was the longest ride I'd ever taken. The rain at 55 miles per hour pounded me mercilessly. The back of my head was numb to the pain now and my shoulders felt like raw meat. But even so, I was incensed by this attack and refused to crouch down in the bed of the truck. Instead, I turned around and knelt atop the toolbox, closed my eyes and faced the fury. The wind dragged my wet hair back and pulled it straight behind me. My shirt meshed to my skin and my chest heaved in and out under the weight of thousands of whizzing raindrops. Gusts of wind battered my face, prying my eyelids open, pressing my lips apart and flaring out my nostrils. It was a daunting force, but I was winning. It was a duel between me and the wind - a duel which seemed unfair. The wind had the rain, and I was weaponless. That only made the battle more heroic. And in the end, there would only be me. The rain would drip off and evaporate and the wind would lose its rage and vanish. But I would not. I would live forever. I would be almighty if only I could face the rain all the way to Bennington, if I could still laugh at it after our 20-minute battle.
The truck pulled in to E-Z Rental. I wobbled to the tailgate and dropped to the ground like a wet sock. But I was happy. I must have looked like the happiest drowned rat alive and...
...now I leaned my bike against a parking meter, locked it, and slushed to the university "Philturm," soggy through and through. But I was happy. I had beaten the rain again, and for 7 minutes I bad been immortal. That was long enough, and now all I wanted to do was dry off and gloat.
My other rain story isn't really a story at all, but rather an epilog. This morning I left my apartment, a little less optimistic in the face of the overcast sky. My umbrella was snugly packed inside my backpack, because "Günther" had predicted sunshine again. Leaving my bicycle in the dry cellar, I began hoofing it to the subway station. The trees were wet and once in a while a tiny drop of water glided from a leaf high above, and fell, tumbled, and rolled off its neighbors, collecting their drops which became one giant drop, that ended up plopping down my collar, over my warm skin, and gliding all the way down my spine. Very unpleasant. The sky grew darker. I was entertaining the thought of pulling out my umbrella when suddenly I felt the mist. It was the same mist my roommate Chad had called "ithacation" while we were at Cornell University in Ithaca, New York. "It's ithacating," he'd say disgusted, while we walked umbrella-less to our morning class at Goldwyn Smith. The walk from North Campus to Central Campus was more like a trek, and by the time we reached the marbled entrance of Goldwyn Smith, we were slimy-wet. Slimy-wet is worse than soggy wet. Slimy-wet is in-between dry and wet, when your skin feels greasy, your clothes damp, and your hair clumpy. That was the dreaded ithacation.
"It's ithacating," I thought grimly. This was bad. I wrestled with myself - the station was only five minutes away. Did I really need an umbrella? Yes, because, but, on the other hand - no, I didn't need it. I refused to use it. If I could beat a downpour, then I could triumph over five minutes of slimy-wet ithacation.
As I entered the confines of the subway station, I wiped my moist face with the sleeve of my sweater. The U-bahn arrived, I didn't bother sitting down, and in two minutes I was at the Barmbek station. The platform was only partly roofed, under which 20 to 30 passengers huddled together glumly, noses buried in Morgenposts, or eyes staring catatonically at the billboard of the sexy nymph sucking at an icecream bar.
I wanted to get out of the ithacation. More importantly, I wanted to continue reading The Sun Also Rises in a dry place. But under the roof it was crowded and dark. Immediately I felt Hemingway glare at me from the grave, saying, "You aren't really considering..." But I pulled the book out of its plastic sheath, opened it to the bookmark, and began reading in the rain. If I could take it, so could Hemingway. Little, gray specks peppered the page, and all over Pamplona where Jake, Brett, Robert Cohn and Michael were watching the bulls gore the steers under a hot Spanish sun. I bent my head over the page to protect Pamplona from Hamburg's ithacation. But ithacation doesn't fall - it floats. And it floated around my head and down onto the pages.
My ears tickled. I scratched my left ear, then hunched farther forward and pulled the book close to my stomach. It was useless, of course, and now my right ear itched. I scratched the slimy-wet rim and then rubbed the moist lobe. Then something tickled my left ear. I was finding it difficult to concentrate on Montoya's conversation with Jake about the upcoming bullfight. The tickling was driving me crazy. I gave my ears a good rub-down. Finally, I realized the misty rain was the culprit, as it glided past my closely shorn hair and landed lightly on my ears. I pulled my head far back and looked up into the gray mist above, letting the slimy-wet coat my face. I smiled. The cruel rain which had once pelted me was calling a truce to our hostilities. And I accepted. Hemingway gave a sigh of relief as I slipped him back into his plastic sheath. There I stood solitary, the only person on the whole platform without an umbrella, and let the rain tickle my ears.

 
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