The Only Man in the Park

So, it was raining. Raining really, really hard. It was windy to boot, and the wind wasn’t all peaches and cream either. Water was coming at you sideways, backwards, diagonally, and from below. Puddles were deep enough to submerge your whole shoe, and then you had wet feet. And that really sucks. It was reason alone to stay inside.
I didn’t stay inside though, I had to walk over to my college campus to catch a bus. But I wasn’t worried about the weather. I love the rain. It was unfortunate my headphones were broken, because then I could really make a walk of this. It didn’t matter too much. I had gotten a bit high earlier, and was still feeling it to a degree, so I factored that in and decided this walk might actually be enjoyable. An adventure.
How easily I underestimated the forces of nature. The rain was intense upon intense. I was drenched instantly. Everything, wet. I was glad my laptop case was waterproof, but not glad that my clothing were not. In most typical jaunts in the rain, I would never put my sweatshirt hood up. Half the fun of the rain is getting your head wet and feeling it on your face and trying to stare up at the big grey sky for a couple seconds before a droplet scores a direct hit and you blink. But not this rain. I wore my hood for fear of drowning. People say “torrential” a lot before saying rain, but those people don’t know a God damned thing.
I managed fairly well for the first leg of the trek. It was brick sidewalks, which led me down a steep hill. My shoes maintained their traction very well and I found myself humming the triumphant choruses of my favorite songs to suffice for my lack of music. The road was filled with urgent speeding machines racing by. I humored the thought of everybody using simpler, less dangerous alternatives to automobiles. I accidentally stepped out to cross the street while a light turned green. Two cars stopped hastily, with a perturbed demeanor, but allowed me to pass. I waved them a thanks and was grateful that some humans will let you live. This walk was nice.
Then I had to cut through the park. The park is a nice place, but under these weather conditions it proved harrowing. Harrowing, I tell you. This is where the puddles were. They lied in wait, hidden under floating leaves, in between shards of saturated grass. The open vista of manufactured nature before me led my eyes astray as I stumbled into the puddles’ trap. Wet feet really suck.
At one point of the traverse, it came to my attention that I was the only man in the park. I found The Only Man in the Park to be an excellent title for something. Anything. Short film, short story, poem, verse, song, album, whatever. I hastened my pace a bit, moving over small hills and circumnavigating the treacherous puddles. Moving onto the asphalt path and off again. It flattened out at one point, and I watched the rain fall between the large open spaces between the here and there trees. I could see cars passing in the distance on the road that was my destination, and push on.
I stopped. Something had just echoed, some voice. I looked around and no one was visible. Not sure what it was, I ceased hesitating and decided to put it behind me. I was almost out of the park when I turned and threw a glance behind me. The grey back of some person in a raincoat walked along one of the paths away from me, at some angle. I put this behind me too. He or she or whoever could go on ahead. They could be the Only Man in the Park. Or Woman.
The street was like the others, roaring with cars, puddles splashing and screaming and the water rivering down by the curb. Ahead of me was an overpass, over Route 295. It was caged off, so people wouldn’t throw or drop things I guess. Someone was on it, walking towards me. He was holding a phone to his ear. I instantly thought of every cliche passing-by saying, stinging with sarcasm, I’d ever heard. “Beautiful day, huh?” or “Wet enough for ya?” or “How about this weather?” Nothing I’d ever say to a stranger. But I like talking to strangers. Before I had made up my mind on how this encounter would go, we approached each other. He was a young guy, maybe my age, maybe a bit older. He was holding a cellphone under his hood. He looked straight at me and without a pause...
“This is fuckin’ bullshit,” he spurt in a thick Northern New England dialect.
I couldn’t contain my laughter as we walked beyond each other. I laughed all the way across the overpass without reserve. It was just the perfect expression. I’ve lived in Maine most of my life, and I’ve see terrible weather here. Complaining about rain is nothing. Imagine it’s twenty below zero degrees Fahrenheit, and you need to go outside and dig through snow to get logs to bring inside to fuel your woodstove and keep warm for the night. My gloves were never that warm. It just gets shitty outside sometimes, and this guy knew it.
All the stupid things I’ve ever complained about. Job, girls, money, school. Blah, blah, blah. They washed right away. There are some things you just can’t control. It’s always going to rain, and you’re going to get really wet, no matter who you are. And shit can pile up, and up, and up. You have an essay to write. You have a meeting to make it to. You can’t do your job well. You can’t find a girlfriend. You can’t be lazy without feeling guilty. You can’t get anywhere without working hard. I get pissed off. I get depressed. I feel miserable, and then it’s miserable outside my front door sometimes. And sometimes, it’s fucking bullshit.
And I have to laugh.