Last impressions

Last impressions.

For “umbrella man”, whoever you are.


He was standing on the down escalator. If this weren’t enough, he was carrying an umbrella.

Someone was already waiting impatiently behind him when I arrived, so I stepped in line and wondered if I should say anything.

It was rush hour. I was hurrying to get to work, three or four tasks needing to get done upon arrival filling my mind. The escalator was the long, single file connection between the street and the LaSalle street stop of the Blue Line. It was slow. And this man, this twenty-five or twenty-six year old asshole with an umbrella and long stringy hair and one of those messenger style bags instead of a briefcase, was standing on the escalator when you could clearly hear a train entering the station.

I sighed, loud enough for the umbrella man to hear. He, of course, was oblivious.

Now there were two people behind me. The first was a woman, somewhat round and dressed in street clothes. Behind her was a man in corporate attire and, as he caught my glance, glaring. He was glaring at me! I was clearly not doing my job. It was my responsibility to prod the person in front of me, whether by physical or verbal action, to, in turn, press the umbrella man, the asshole, to hurry down the escalator so we can make the next train.

We did nothing. I mumbled a too soft and lame, “Must be nice be not be in a hurry.” The woman in front of me, close to a bookend for the woman directly behind me, said nothing. She was slightly agitated as the train, which had entered the station already, emitted the harsh whoosh signifying that the doors were opening. There pressure against my back, no doubt from the business suit man pressing against the nondescript woman.

I looked back and was rewarded with another glare from the harsh, but correct, corporate warrior. I shrugged as if to explain, ‘No use now. Even if we breakneck it down the escalator, we will come up short.’

All the way up the elevator behind us was now a tight line of people. The umbrella man, who, in my mind was suddenly and interminably the asshole, was holding up an entire rivulet of the business world. By his inaction, his carelessness, he was selfishly slowing an on-ramp to industry.

With a ‘bing bong’, the doors to the train indicated that they were closing. The line of people relaxed; the pressure against my back slackened. There was no longer a need to hurry. We all just had to wait the three to five to ten minutes for the next train.

The man with the business suit exhaled a loud torrent of swears that ran together, including phrases such as ‘fucking asshole,’ ‘selfish cunt,’ and ‘piece of shit.’ Umbrella man, at the front of the line with no one on the escalator in front of him, didn’t seem to hear the tirade. The torrent continued until umbrella man reached the bottom of the escalator.

Finally on the platform, we sadly watched the majority of our train pull away and then most of us furtively glanced down the track, hoping to see the lights from another train. There were none. Many heads turned towards umbrella man, getting the first good look of this asshole. I expected that business suit man would do more than glare, but he walked to the far end of the platform, looking back to glare and mutter every few steps.

Umbrella man was oblivious to our stares and insipidly grinned as he leafed through something hidden in his bag, a bag that reminded me of when I used to deliver newspapers as a child. As I waited for the train, I removed Prague from my own bag, a proper computer case, and began to read.

Seconds later a southbound train pulled into the station and I was surprised that umbrella man didn’t get on. If he were going north, even without having a job to scurry towards, why didn’t he hurry for the train? Did he enjoy waiting on the platform? Nothing to gain from any more thought on the matter, I returned to Prague .

It was eight minutes until the next northbound train arrives and opened its doors, making it a total of nine minutes wasted by umbrella man. Not a record. Far from it. But more than enough to forever label him an asshole.

I did not notice that the asshole got on the same car as I did (he went through the other door I suppose) until I saw him sitting one set of seats from the far end. He had placed his bag on the inside seat and was slumped on the other one. The seats weren’t all taken yet, but since the next three stops were Loop stations, the train would fill up quickly. I had already deemed him an asshole, so I wasn’t surprised that he hoarded two seats.

At the next stop, a little old lady, shopping bag and all, entered with a fairly large crowd. I stood up to offer her my seat but she turned the other way, towards our asshole. Another woman took my empty seat, so I smiled at her and looked towards the asshole, hoping he had seen my small act of kindness. Too many people were settling in for me to even see him at this point.

When most of everyone had found seats, my view of the other end of the car opened. The little old lady was slowly shuffling towards the asshole, who half watched her come forward, yet made no move to offer her a seat or even slide over. True, the seat behind him was still empty, but I didn’t see him look back to make sure.

The doors closed and the train began to slowly roll forward. The little old lady was directly next to the asshole at this point. He was looking into his bag again, not even considering offering her his seat, I was sure.

Then, suddenly, the train stopped, jarring the passengers forward. The asshole’s left arm, in reflex, shot up to brace the old lady standing next to him. His right arm was instantly behind her. She needed them both.

There was no time to think. The stop was too unexpected, too sudden. The asshole simply reacted and, no doubt, saved the old lady from falling.

She turned her head gently towards her rescuer and smiled. Warmly, he smiled back. It was a moment straight from Mayberry: a kindly old lady showing appreciation for the efforts of a caring young person.

His hand remained on her near shoulder until she was seated behind him. They shared another smile, then he turned back to shuffling in his messenger bag and that vapid expression.

As far as I could tell, I was the only witness. He did not look up to see if anyone else noticed. He never caught my eye or anyone else’s but the old woman’s after the event.

Four stations later, I departed the train. Umbrella man had settled in to reading what looked to be a personal letter, still hogging two seats. The old lady was staring out the window, no doubt at something in the near or far past. I could see her soft, wistful smile in the reflection of the dirty train window before I stepped onto the platform.

As I rode the escalator up the stairs, I realized that, perhaps, being a few minutes late just wasn’t all that important.

The End.