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These are no ordinary umbrellas. These are yellow-slicker umbrellas, the apotheosis of umbrella sun, umbrella light, umbrella brilliance. These umbrellas promise that there will come a day when the rain, having watered us, will slack off, move on to some other province, then spend itself over the salty ocean. And once the rain has moved on, these bright babies will be laid open on living room carpets to dry, filling the rooms with sunny circles.
In the meantime, though, the golden umbrellas, soaking wet, will drip over the feet of people on the subway. No one will mind because the umbrellas are so joyously yellow. Passengers will start to sing, softly at first, perhaps "Singin' in the Rain," or "Rain, Rain Go Away." Soon the whole subway car will join in, harmonizing where appropriate.
Trashy tabloids will lie unopened on the riders' laps. Books will stay tucked into knapsacks or attaché cases. Those who thought they wanted to sleep on the subway ride to work will find themselves joining in, first humming, then opening their hearts and their throats and bellowing forth. The crowded subway cars will pulse with the swell of voices. The riders will be oblivious to the sheep smell of wet wool overcoats. They will sing.
Yellow umbrellas can bring this about, if there are enough of them. We need to create a critical mass of yellow umbrellas. From now on, only yellow umbrellas! Get one! Get two or more! Tell your neighbors.
Yellow umbrellas!
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