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couch. I wish something truly unusual would happen to me, thought Hobert. I wish something so
spectacular would happen that everyone would turn as I went down the street, and say, There goes
Hobert Krouse; what aman! And they would have awe and wonder in their eyes. I wish it would
happen to me just once. Every man is entitled to fame at least once in his lifetime! He said it with force,
for he believed it. But nothing happened, and Hobert went to bed that night with the wind howling
through the space between the apartment buildings and with the rain beating against his window.
Perhaps it will wash some of that dirt off the outside, he mused, thinking of the window that had not been
clean since he had moved in. But then, it was five floors up and the custodian wouldn t hire a
window-washer and it was too dangerous out there for Hobert to do it. Sleep began to press down on
him, the sure feel of it washing away his worries of the day. Almost as an incantation he repeated the
phrase he had remembered from his childhood, the phrase he had murmured thousands of times since.
Rain, rain, go away, come again another day. He began the phrase again, but sleep cut it off in
mid-thought.
It rained all that week, and by Sunday morning, when Hobert emerged from the brownstone face of his
building, the ground around the one lone tree growing slantwise on the sloping sidewalk of W. 110th
Street was mushy and runny. The gutters were swollen with flowing torrents. Hobert looked up at the
darkened sky which was angry even at eleven in the morning, with no trace of sun.
In annoyance he ran through the Rain, rain, go away, nonsense and trudged up the hill to the corner of
Broadway for breakfast.
In the little restaurant, his spread-bottom drooping over a stool too small for his pear shape, Hobert gave
huge traditional leers to Florence, the redhead behind the counter, and ordered the usual: Two up, ham
steak, coffee, cream, Florence.
As he ate his eggs, Hobert returned again to his wistful dreams of a few evenings previous.
Florence, he said, you ever wish something spectacular would happen to you? He pushed a mouthful
of toast and ham around his tongue to get the sentence out.
Florence looked up from her duty; putting rock-hard butter squares on paper pads. Yeah, I useta wish
somethin d happen ta me. She pushed a string of red hair back into place. But it never did. She
shrugged.
Like what did you wish? inquired Hobert.
Oh,you know. Silly stuff, like whyn t Mahlon Brando come in here an grab me an like that. Or whyn t
I win a millyun bucks in the Irish Sweepstakes and come back here some aftuhnoon wearin a mink stole
and flip the end of it in that stinkin Erma Geller s kisser.You know. She went back to the butter.
Hobert knew. He had made equivalent wishes himself, with particulars slightly changed. It had been Gina
Lollobrigida and a $250 silk shantung suit like Mr. Beigen owned, whenhe had daydreams.
He finished the eggs and ham, wiped up the last little drippings of egg yellow, bolted his coffee, and,
wiping his mouth with his paper napkin, said, Well, see you tomorrow, Florence.
She accepted the exact change he left for the bill, noted the usual fifteen cents under the plate and said,
Ain tcha comin in for dinner tanight?
Hobert assumed an air of bored detachment. No, no, I think I shall go downtown and take in a show
tonight. Or perhaps I shall dine at The Latin Quarter or Lindy s. With pheasant under glass and caviar
and some of that famous Lindy s cheesecake. I shall decide when I get down there. He began to walk
out, joviality in his walk.
Oh, yasuch a character, laughed Florence, behind him.
But the rain continued, and Hobert only went a few streets down Broadway where the storm had driven
everyone off the sidewalks, with the exception of those getting the Sunday editions. Lousy day, he
muttered under his breath. Been like this all week, he observed to himself. That ought to teach that
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