You are walking down the street and it starts to rain and you duck under the awning of a bodega and you are not alone. There are four other people under there. A woman with grocery bags. A kid with a skateboard. An old man with a newspaper. A guy in a suit who was having the worst day of his life until the rain turned it into a comedy. The awning is the great equalizer. Under the awning everybody is the same. Everybody is just a person who does not want to get wet. The awning does not care about your credit score.

You have stood under an awning and had a conversation with a stranger that you would never have had anywhere else. Because the awning creates a temporary room. The walls are rain. The ceiling is canvas. The floor is the sidewalk. And the people inside this room did not choose to be there but they are there and so somebody says something about the weather and somebody laughs and for three minutes you are a community. The awning is the smallest neighborhood in New York. Population five. Duration of one rainstorm.

You know what the awning sounds like in the rain. That drumming. That steady percussion on the canvas. I used to play guitar under the awning of a pizzeria on St. Marks Place when it rained. The rain on the awning was the best drummer I ever had. The rain kept perfect time. The rain never sped up and never slowed down and never asked to be paid. I stood under that awning and played for an audience of raindrops and the occasional customer coming out with a slice and both of them were honest critics.

You notice when a block loses its awnings. The new buildings do not have them. Glass and steel and nothing sticking out. The new building does not offer you shelter. The new building does not care if you get wet. The new building was designed for people who take cars and never walk in the rain. The awning was designed for people who walk. The awning was designed for people who live on the street and need the street to give them something back. A little shade. A little shelter. A little kindness made of canvas and metal poles.

You walk down a block with awnings and you feel like the buildings are reaching out to you. The awning is the building's hand extended over the sidewalk. The building is saying I know it is hot. I know it is raining. I know you are tired. Stand here for a minute. The awning is the most generous thing a building can do. It gives away shade for free. It gives away shelter for free. In a city that charges you for everything the awning charges you nothing. The awning is the last free thing on the block and nobody even notices it is there.