The rain on the Lower East Side did not fall. The rain arrived. The rain came around the corner of Houston Street like a wall of water walking upright and the wall hit the block and the block was wet and the people were wet and the guitars were wet and the hats were wet and the money in the hats was wet and wet money is still money.

The rain had a sound on every surface and every surface had a different sound. The rain on the fire escape was a tin drum. The rain on the awning was a snare. The rain on the sidewalk was a brush on a cymbal. The rain on the windshield of a parked car was a fingertip on a table. The rain on the leaves of the one tree on the block was applause. The block was an orchestra and the rain was the conductor and the conductor did not care if the musicians were ready. The rain conducted and the block played.

The rain emptied the street in three minutes. Three minutes between the first drop and the last person ducking into a doorway. Three minutes was the Lower East Side's response time to weather. Three minutes and the sidewalk was empty except for the people who did not have a doorway. The people without doorways stood in the rain and the rain did not apologize and the people did not complain because complaining about rain on the Lower East Side was like complaining about gravity. The rain was a fact. The fact was wet.

I played guitar in the rain because I did not have a doorway. The doorways were taken by the people who were faster than me and faster than me was everybody because I was carrying a guitar and a hat and an amplifier that was not waterproof. I stood in the rain and played and the rain changed the sound of the guitar the way the fan changed the sound of the guitar. The rain added a patter to the rhythm and the patter was free and the patter was honest and the patter was the rain's contribution to a song it had not been invited to join.

The rain stopped the way the rain started. All at once. One minute the block was drowning and the next minute the block was dripping and the next minute the block was steaming. The steam rose from the sidewalk the way the steam rose from the manhole cover except the manhole steam was the city exhaling and the rain steam was the block drying itself off. The block shook itself like a dog and the water flew in every direction and the people came out of the doorways and the sidewalk filled up again and the hats went back on the ground and the guitars went back to playing and the rain went wherever rain goes when it is done with a block. Somewhere else. Always somewhere else. The rain was the only visitor to the Lower East Side who never stayed.