SAD ROBOT: an autobiography of my unfortunate existence

50. SOAKING WET

50. SOAKING WET 

At two-twelve a.m. a taxi cab, not unlike the one I have recently made many trips in, pulls up to the curb directly in front of me where the sidewalk up to Bethanyʼs apartment meets the one running alongside the street. Because of the rain, I cannot make out any shapes on the other side of the windows. Finally, the rear passenger door opens and two shapes emerge. And finally I may no longer have to spend the night wallowing in my own melancholia.

Slamming the car door shut, the couple rush towards the steps where I sit, their hands attempting to shield the top of their heads as they hurriedly rush for cover. I can tell they are both female; oneʼs long blonde hair is a wet, tangled mess along the side of her face and the other poor soul has brunette hair caked to her forehead and covering her eyes that she tries to push away as she runs.

The brunette one reaches the steps but not before almost completely crashing to the pavement in a rush of vertigo from her jog from the cab to where I sit several steps up. She grasps on to the railing at the bottom of the steps almost desperately, like it was the only thing saving her from collapsing after running a marathon. She sways a little, her hand on her forehead to calm the rush. The blonde one, Bethany, I recognize (thank you, Universe!), holds her up to keep her from falling. Neither has yet to even notice I am there. I project that there is a large probability that one of them has been drinking.

"You should make better life decisions," I say to the one girl.

They both look in my direction, trying to discern me through the dark and the rain. There is a small light perched near the top of the front door that is providing me with ample backlighting, probably enough to give me a rather foreboding appearance.

"Oh gee, I didnʼt know my faaaather was here," the brunette says sarcastically, hanging off of Bethany. She has her arms curled around the girlʼs neck to keep her balance before she attempts the death-defying stunt of climbing the six steps to the buildingʼs front door.

"Youʼre both soaking wet," I point out.

"Are we?" Bethany laughs. "The weatherʼs great!" She holds out an arm, palm cupped, rain filling her hand and flowing through her fingers. Her coat is practically soaked right through.

"Come in out of the rain."

"Iʼm—yeah, just hold on," she plants her right foot on the first step, arms still wrapped around the brunette girl beside her. She looks up at me again, and she still evidently has not focused her vision enough to recognize me or even see that I am not a fellow building-dweller.

"I can do this," the brunette tries convincing herself moreso than trying to convince either Bethany or I.

All the girl needs is some help back up to her place; I might as well provide that assistance since Iʼm here. I finally stand up from my seat at the top step.

"Need some help with that?"

"Iʼm perfectly fine, thank you very MUCH. A lady doesnʼt need to be hand-held all the time!"

"Itʼs okay, weʼve got this," Bethany says, much more calmly than her friend.

Alright then. "Are you sure I couldnʼt provide some assistance? Iʼm not convinced you are in the proper state to be maneuvering up a staircase."

The other girl looks up, brow furrowed underneath a sling of wet hair that she wipes away from sticking to her face.

"Are you calling me a drunk?" she accuses.

"Iʼm calling you unfit for tasks that require a sober mental state." 

She doesnʼt know quite how to quickly respond to that. 

"Screwwww you, mister."

She tries to bring herself up the stairs with Bethany in a convincing manner to prove me wrong and trips on her own feet before sheʼs even halfway, sprawling on the staircase and banging her knee, scraping her hands, yelling a few cuss words that were particularly un-ladylike, and almost tumbling backwards before I catch her by the coat of her left arm. She quickly grasps Bethanyʼs arm with her other hand once again as if she were her floatation device saving her from drowning in deep water. Bethany pulls her up by the one arm and I yank her up with the other.

"Shit," she says, rubbing her banged knee, "that fucking hurt." 

"Interesting choice of language for a lady."

"Go away, I can do this myself," her mood has turned visibly more dour for obvious reasons and I back away in case she feels the need for a flair of the overdramatic and tosses me down the steps for the sake of revenge.

She hangs there, leaning on Bethany and catching her breath. 

"Pull yourself together and lets get you upstairs," I say with finality.

Confident that she is in no shape to strike me, I fling her left arm over my shoulders and slowly and awkwardly help her up the steps until we are in the light of the small florescent.

"Ugg. Thanks for the help, mister. Sorry for the trouble." Bethany says to me from the other side of the girl. By this point she surely has noticed that I am robotic; weʼre not in that much darkness after all. But I appreciate her courtesy.

We each let go of her and Bethany thrusts her hand into one of her pockets, digging for her keys that hopefully have not been lost back at the bar or somewhere else in her adventures of babysitting this girl.

"Where are my—" she pulls them out, "Gotʼem!"

In the moment that Bethany raises her clenched fist in celebration, she finally sees me illuminated by the yellow-tinged light and an expression of realization comes across her face almost comically.