Short Fiction: An Umbrella, a Wish, an Umbrella Factory

Umbrella Factory

Well, we have found umbrellas in literature, but we haven't had much occasion to find umbrellas in our current reading, but now we have. Saïd Sayrafiezadeh has a short story in the March 1, 2010 issue of The New Yorker entitled "Appetite." While the narrator is a waiter, umbrellas figure in one digression in the tale: First, some rain and then his umbrella: "My umbrella was no defense. After two blocks, the material tore away beneath the onslaught, so that I was holding only the frame of an umbrella." Second, his wish: "Why could no umbrella be invented to withstand a downpour?" and then his memory of an umbrella factory:

I was called one June morning to meet with the supervisor of an umbrella factory. It was a small, family-owned place on the outskirts of town, where factories still existed. I had to take three buses to get there. The supervisor was a sweat-stained man in a tie, with one button missing from the center of his shirt. He was looking for an office clerk. ... Afterward, he showed me around the plant. It was old and made of wood, and I assumed there were mice. A group of Mexicans, or people who looked like they might be Mexicans, stood around a long table spray-painting assorted logos onto umbrellas. I was curious about their work, and the supervisor took me closer so I could see. The smell of paint was pleasant and reminded me of my kindergarten days.

So what is it about umbrella factories? Do they hold up metaphorically. We have visited one with the Queen of England, and Charles Dickens wrote about how umbrellas are made, but otherwise, we kn ow very little about them. Just another good, another manufactured good. But, maybe what Sayrafiezadeh captures is it--umbrella factory as small, family owned, with just the hint of bigger marketing with the painted logos. So, let us ponder, as we listen to The Sea's song: Umbrella Factory.

one day we will wake up
wondering where we are
we'll find it all messed up
the rain will wash away
what's left of us
wondering where we are
we'll find it all messed up
the rain will wash away