My Neighbor, the Umbrella Stand

I stood in rain so heavy I could hardly see a few feet ahead of me. Crying added an extra impediment; I had just walked through my apartment for the last time, leaving the key in an empty kitchen drawer before my final descent down the nine flights of century-old stairs. I didn’t need my sight, however, to know who was sitting in a huge red Toyota in front of my broken couch and miscellaneous broken housewares. It was clearly, agonizingly, George. He rolled down his window and stared blankly at the mess of splintered planks and bloated foam cushions. “Well”, he finally said, “Look’s like you got a little mess here, huh?”. George lived across the street from my building. He was old and aloof, and when he wasn't lecturing us about where we parked or when to move our recycling, he and his ancient dalmatian would sit on the porch as still and arbitrary as an empty umbrella stand. “You know, you’re gonna have to call the city for—“ “I already did, thank you”, I replied. And, surprisingly, I had. I usually put time-sensitive errands off until time wasn't the only issue, but since I was about to move back in with my mother, I figured there was no better time than now to start dabbling in responsibility. “Yeeap, ‘cept they aren’t gonna take it looking like that. And they won’t be able take if it’s all sittin’ on the curb, they gotta be able to get it from the street. And they won’t take it if it’s under wires like that, you see there?” I looked down at the pile. It really was embarrassing. The Baroque-looking couch my roommate had found soon after we moved in turned out to be too big to fit through our doorframe, but, magically, somehow, we crammed it in. Three years later I was left with its removal, and the only way out was destruction. It sat in sad shambles next to the sidewalk, its ripped gold threading now oily brown in the rain. “Wait, the wires?”, I asked. Looking up to investigate, I felt the heavy bubble of a sob

roll up my windpipe. How had I not seen? The wires criss-crossed over our heads in every direction, like a safety net for a skydiver. This was it, I realized. The final defeat. My exboyfriend didn’t defeat me. Having the utilities in my name didn’t, my bosses didn’t, and neither did moving out of my home, alone. I had stayed positive, covered all of my bases, and I was free, except— “THIS STUPID CITY”, I yelled. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I watched the screen light up as it slipped from my wet hand into a rainbow-slicked puddle. In a matter of seconds, George ran inside, his truck left idling in the street, and ran back out with a plastic baggie full of brown rice. After placing the phone in the bag he began gathering up scattered pieces of broken wood. “Don’t worry ‘bout this crazy city ordinance stuff”, he said. “I know how it is.” He threw the wood on top of the couch and began pulling the right side down from the curb. I stuck the baggie in my jeans pocket and helped. “I really appreciate this, George. I’m sorry I yelled.” He told me again that he understood; he said he owned a building of apartments down the street and dealt with the bulk trash department often. Tossing the last plank over the pile he said, “Well, I’m sad to see you go. It’s been real nice bein’ neighbors, though, and good luck with everything”. He smiled wide and genuinely. “I’ll keep an eye on this stuff for ya”, he added, “and here—take this”. Handing me an umbrella, he climbed back into his red Toyota and drove away.