Assignment Description: Read this +/- 830-word short story and describe the theme in as many words as you need. Then describe the theme in 30 words. Show it to your teacher, or send it in.

There's a Man in the Habit of Hitting Me on the Head with an Umbrella
Fernando Sorrentino Translated by Clark M. Zlotchew.
Adapted slightly by YT for intermediate level students

There's a man in the habit of hitting me on the head with an umbrella. It's exactly five years today that he's been hitting me on the head with his umbrella. At first I couldn't stand it; now I'm used to it.
I don't know his name. I know he's average in appearance, wears a gray suit, has gray hair and a common face. I met him five years ago one hot morning. I was sitting on a bench in a park, reading the paper. Suddenly I felt something touch my head. It was the same man who now keeps whacking me, mechanically and impassively, with an umbrella.
On that occasion I turned around filled with indignation: he just kept on hitting me. I asked him if he was crazy: he didn't even seem to hear me. Then I threatened to call a policeman. Unperturbed, he kept whacking me. After a few moments of indecision, and seeing that he was not going to change his attitude, I stood up and punched him in the nose. The man fell down, got back on his feet (apparently with great effort), and without a word again began hitting me on the head again. His nose was bleeding and, at that moment, I felt sorry for him. I felt remorse for having hit him so hard. After all, the man wasn't exactly beating me; he was just tapping me lightly with his umbrella, not causing any pain at all. It was only extremely annoying, like when a fly lands on your forehead -- you don't feel any pain; you feel annoyed. Well then, that umbrella was like a fly on my forehead.
Convinced that he was mad, I tried to escape. But the man followed me, wordlessly continuing to hit me. So I began to run (I can run very fast). He ran after me, still trying to hit me (in vain)! I slowed down. I looked at him. He kept hitting me! I thought of going to a police station and saying, "Officer, this man is hitting me on the head with an umbrella." The officer would have looked at me suspiciously, would have asked for my papers and begun asking embarrassing questions. And he might even have ended up placing me under arrest.
I thought it best to return home. I took the 67 bus. He, all the while hitting me with his umbrella, got on behind me. I took the first seat. He stood right beside me. He held on to the railing with his left hand and with his right hand, he mercilessly kept whacking me with that umbrella. At first, the passengers exchanged timid smiles. The driver began to observe us in the rearview mirror. Little by little the bus trip turned into a roar of laughter. I was burning with shame.

I got off - we got off - at Pacifico Bridge. We walked along Santa Fe Avenue. Everyone stupidly turned to stare at us. "What are you looking at, you idiots? Haven't you ever seen a man hit another man on the head with an umbrella?" Then five or six little boys began chasing after us, shouting like maniacs.
But I had a plan. Once I reached my house, I tried to slam the door in his face. That didn't happen. He firmly seized the doorknob and pushed his way in with me.
From that time on, he has continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. As far as I can tell, he has never slept or eaten anything. His sole activity consists of hitting me. He is with me in everything I do, even in my most intimate activities. I remember that at first, the blows kept me awake all night. Now I think it would be impossible for me to sleep without them.

In any case, our relations have not always been good. I've asked him, on many occasions, to explain his behavior to me. He never answers. He just hits me on the head with his umbrella. Many times I have punched him, kicked him, and even whacked him with my umbrella. He just accepts it, like if it were part of his job. And this is precisely the most amazing aspect of his personality: his seems to be convinced that he is carrying out some secret mission that has nothing to do with his feelings towards me. Despite his lack of physiological needs, I know that when I hit him, he feels pain. I know he is weak. I also know that I could shoot him. But I would never dare to kill him, or kill myself.
On the other hand, I have recently realized that I couldn't live without those blows. Now, more and more frequently, a new anxiety is eating at my soul: perhaps when I need him most, he will leave and I will no longer feel those umbrella taps that help me sleep so well.