Rain

This time last year, I was living in London, in a little apartment in Islington with two students from Winnipeg. I wasn't a student, and I worked mainly night shifts at the pub. I didn't see either of them very often. That suited me fine. Why would I come to London to spend all my time with Canadians? I wanted to experience a Londoner's London. I wanted to mingle. I had been cultivating a London accent, which I thought was quite good until the girls at the pub told me that it sounded ridiculous. I dropped the accent after that.

Most days I would go to the Angel's Deli downstairs for a coffee and one of the day-old muffins, which were half-price. The owner's name was actually Angelo, but the sign painter was, according to Angelo, a "Damn foreign Turk." Angelo says that he keeps meaning to change the sign, but he doesn't want to spend the money.  I think he's come to like being called Angel. His son was at the counter most of the time. I think his name was Nardo, but it may just have been short for Bernardo. We never did become great friends.

I always carried a little notebook with me in case a phrase caught my eye or a situation struck me as particularly ripe. I thought of myself as a writer, but to be a writer, one has to write, and my notebook was filled mainly with doodles. Angel's  I was just finishing a rather elaborate ink drawing of Toucan Sam when I realized the rain had started. Huge drops landing with distinguishable pops pummeled the pavement, and gusting winds changed the direction of the rain alternately horizontal and vertical. Suddenly, there was no one in the street. The boy behind the counter was staring out the window as though the apocalypse was upon Cross Street, clicking his tongue and letting out a whistle.

I went back to putting the finishing touches on Toucan Sam, when I heard the boy behind the bar take a quick breath and swear in Italian. When I looked up, he was craning his neck to see something apparently just out of his line of sight. I got up and stuffed my notebook in my pocket.

"What happened?" I asked him.

"I just saw this bloody kid almost get killed on his bike," he answered, nodding towards a boy who was struggling to get up under the weight of a huge waterlogged knapsack. His bike was wedged between a Transit van with its 4-way flashers on and the edge of the sidewalk. The van's passenger's head poked out of the window and asked something. The kid didn't seem to notice. He was shaky on his feet