As I talk to friends and relatives who aren't in New England at the moment, and realize that the sun is shining and temperatures are above sixty-three elsewhere in the world, the rain has started to get to me a little. 

"Bad" weather is like in-laws.  Tolerable enough when it comes for a visit and knows when to leave.  It's when it just loiters and lingers that it becomes oppressive.  If we could just spread out the bad weather — a couple days here, a day or two there — but June was a total wash-out.  According to the Globe, this June was the cloudiest in a century, with the sun breaking through only about a quarter of the time. 

If every cloud really had a silver lining, we might have a new source of funding for the region's hobbled economy.  There are apparently advantages to a month of rain.  The Globe reports: "fatal and nondeadly shootings in Boston have plunged, and police acknowledge the weather has been a key factor."  Hey, it's something.

Of course, when the sun does make a cameo appearance, people get giddy.  Days and days of rain makes everyone stir-crazy.  And then when the sun finally comes out, they go nuts. 

On the one day last week I could actually sit on the front stoop and enjoy watching life pass by outside my door, I was hanging out with my housemate Alden, who had stepped outside for a smoke, and a friend of mine, who was passing time with me.  It was all of ten in the morning — a time of the day you feel relatively safe to sit out on your steps.  We watched the world pass by and chatted a little.  It was a nice respite from the rain. 

Suddenly a bum stumbles down the street from Davis, catches my eye, and as if he'd been hailed by an old friend, makes a bumbling beeline for us. 

He had the wasted, craggy look of a man who had probably been called handsome in his youth — Scotch-Irish, his eyes all the more piercingly blue for the whites being so bloodshot — but whose one passion had left him drained and shriveled twenty or thirty years on.  By now his blood had turned to alcohol and he clearly couldn't survive in the thin nicotineless atmosphere of earth for longer then ten or twelve minutes at a time. 

We were wary from the beginning, of course.  The overly friendly greeting was what's known in advertising as a pitch.  It's the same method the clipboarders (charity muggers, or "chuggers" as the Brits call them) use to rope polite pedestrians in. But don't forget: it's a solicitation and you should feel no obligation to engage them unless you intend to give them money.  And who really wants to give anyone else money? 

This bloke had an elaborate pitch that seemed totally dependent on some concept of charm he may once have actually possessed, but which had dried up with the rest of his personality not devoted to procuring alcohol and cigarettes.  A bum may joke with you, but he will want to be paid before the punchline.  Even with the charmingest bum, I would rather they just cut to the chase.

No one invited him over, so he started right in on his shtick without even introducing himself.

"Didja hear those police sirens?" he asked.

We all shook our heads.

"You'll never guess what happened!"

We just stared at him.

"There was a drunk in Davis Square," he said.

Shocking, I know.

"Using all kinds of language!"

Another shocker.

"Like the 'c' word!"

No one needed to prompt him to clarify.  We knew he would.

"Cunt!" he stage-whispered, and continued: "I said, 'you don't talk to little kids like that!  Somebody should dial nine-eleven!'  And somebody did!  And the police came and took 'em away!"

We all nodded, reflectively. 

He took out a cigarette and joined us on the stoop.  (In case you didn't know: they don't just go away if you ignore them.)

"I don't have anything against drunks," the drunk went on.  "But if you're gonna drink at this time of the day, do it on a side street!"

It was all starting to make sense.

We sat in silence, trying to think of an excuse to split, but not wanting to leave him there on our front stoop.  Maybe it would rain. 

The bum knew what we were thinking of course, so he slipped in his proposal.  It was like a kidnapping or hostage negotiation.

"I was just minding my own business," he said, "trying to come up with two bucks to get a sandwich, you know..."

I stealthily reached into my pocket and fingered a couple of bills, but didn't make a move.  I wasn't so sure I couldn't get out of it without paying him off.  I looked around and could see my friends were all thinking the same thing.  It was every man for himself.

The bum had time.  He had us right where he wanted us.

"Didja hear who died?" he asked, plopping down beside me.

There was pregnant pause, and then:

"Regis and Kelly!" he blurted.

For the first time since he'd shown up we couldn't contain ourselves.  

"Oh my God," my friend said, anguished. "Kelly Ripa?"

"No!"  I screamed. "Is this the rapture, or what?  Farrah, Michael, and now Regis and Kelly?"

"Are you sure???"  my friend implored. 

The bum was surprised by our sudden outburst and recanted.  He wasn't sure, he admitted.  And he certainly didn't want to alienate us.

But it was too late.  I decided to make my move.  I stood up.

"Was that a rain drop I just felt?" I asked my friend. 

"Yeah," he said. "I just felt one too."

"We better get inside quick before it starts raining again!" we said in unison.

"I was thinking about getting lunch," the bum informed us.  "Thinking, if I had two dollars..."

He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a little bottle of vodka and took a swig. 

"Instead of two dollars someone gave me this!" 

That's a tip: if you're going out, carry three or four flasks of grain alcohol around to hand out to the vagrants and bums.  It saves them a trip!

"Well, it was great meeting you!" I said, making to shake his hand.

"Um, yeah," he stammered.  "I was just passing by, thinking about lunch, you know.  Thinking if I had two dollars for lunch..."

I nodded sympathetically, but as if I understood nothing.

I beckoned my friend, who wished the bum good luck, and we beat a hasty retreat, leaving my housemate, Alden, who, in all fairness, had not finished his cigarette — what? were we supposed to wait for him? — to the hard sell.  When I saw Alden later, he told me he'd given the guy a couple bucks, at which point the bum had adjusted his initial estimate for inflation: times were hard — wouldn't five be more appropriate? Alden was like: two, final offer.

The lesson: rain — even the threat of it — can be a great excuse for escape.  See, there's always a silver lining!