“I’m not really convinced this is worth it.”

The sound of rain continued all across downtown’s crooked hallways, the downpour soaking all its pecked-open bags of trash. Cars went slowly over the ever frustrating cobblestones, stopping at yellow lights. Headlights mostly illuminated only indiscernible bamboo spires of water, which at just the right moments seemed to fire upwards from the mucky explosions of water that appeared to blossom up like flowers from the street.

No one anywhere in the city would be having a very good time tonight unless safe at home under blankets, or otherwise indoors — able to wait it out late into the night. This storm wasn’t going anywhere.

Down at the west side of the bridge, the streets were flooded in so many directions that traffic coming from it had to be halted. One whole side of the bridge was packed full with stationary cars as the few poor schmucks on traffic duty, hobbling through swimmable ponds in their silly, electric-orange police raincoats, all considered career changes. At least one of them would later die of pneumonia.

Somewhere uptown, a woman caught out on the roof of her building — the star of tomorrow’s daily papers — fell to her demise, right past the windows of several comfortable, mostly sleeping families, and no one could even see her fall through the rain. Not the couple staring straight out their living-room window from right up close, marveling at the apparent nonexistence of the outside world; not the little girls over for Sarah Goldman’s seventh birthday party, now a slumber party (much to their excitement).

A construction crane toppled over in midtown around 1 AM, but amazingly enough, it only hit the next building over and ended up leaning. The Miracle on 49th Street stole a couple of the front pages from Uptown Girl, but she also got a hashtag.

The highways were closed; the tunnels were closed; everything was closed, and everywhere things were falling from the sky.

The only thing downtown that wasn’t closed was a pub that was usually empty by this hour. A decent Saturday-night crowd got trapped there by the storm’s early arrival and had to stay all night. The bar did more business between 11 and 4 than on a typical Monday-to-Thursday.

One man seated at the bar, near the door, slammed down his last shot of many for the night, oblivious to the noise of TVs and all the drunker and drunker men populating the room; the bartender didn’t quite hear what he’d said.

“Huh? Whaddya mean?”

“I’m not really uh…this, uh…never mind, Tommy.”

“You all right, Lenny?” Tommy looked at him with concern. “Was today the day? You miss another one?”

“For…get it, Tommy.”

“She didn’t let you come again this time, huh? Sorry, Len…your kid must be miserable about that. Maybe they cancelled it.”

“They didn’t…cancel it. She’s having…fun. It’s fine. They’re uptown. They’re safe. They’re safe.” He repeated the words under his breath.

Lenny put on his jacket, a little bit light for the winter, and walked outside.