Not Under My Umbrella

Umbrellas and I have a shared history of mutual disdain. I prefer not to carry one and umbrellas prefer that I leave them in their store and refrain from donating them to the public.

On one particularly windy evening, I was walking with a friend who carried one of those (piece of) cheap retractable models, that spends the majority of its existence turning itself inside out, spines hailing toward the sky.  We stopped at a pedestrian crosswalk, waited for the signal to tell us that it was highly probable that we would survive crossing the road, when aforementioned umbrella decided to make its dream come true and become an untethered kite.

With a sigh of relief it tore its way free from cheap thread, taking a few spines with it and flew into the open sky at last. We watched wistfully as it fluttered away, carried by wind and weather on its erratic maiden flightpath.  After an exceptionally short run at flight and freedom it landed in a spread out heap of black nylon wings on the windshield of a car.

Not just any car.

A police car. A police car with two startled officers of the law, whose visibility was now reduced to zero thanks to us.

Time stops during these magical moments and my mind began its visual story:

Officer Bellefleur: HQ, we're under attack.
HQ: Are you hurt?
Officer Bellefleur: Unable to assess the situation, complete blackout. We are blind.
HQ: What is the nature of the attack?
Officer Bellefleur: At 19:25 hours a UFO landed on our vehicle. I repeat, we are blind, please send backup.

By this point my law abiding friend had turned a lighter shade of pale, deciding how fast he could run in leather soled shoes. In support, I had already started producing the strange sounds of suppressed laughter until I became incapacitated.

"Stop laughing," he hissed, frightened at the prospect that these particular victims might not appreciate being laughed at.  Sobered by the fact that the cruiser was holding up traffic and no one dared to honk, I composed myself. Briefly. Until I made eye-contact with officer Bellefleur's partner and noticed that he was definitely not getting out to remove what was left of the wayward umbrella since it was quite apparent that this was the best thing that had happened to him all day.

A strong gust of wind lifted the umbrella back into the air. "Sorry," I mouthed insincerely, while trying to breathe.

Lost: One joyful, liberated umbrella. If found, please keep.