Scattered Showers
I mouthwashed with tap water and dunked my head into the sink. Hygiene is important. It took me an hour to bite my nails down to an acceptable length. I went too short on the pinky and index on my right hand. Sour blood oozed out from my nail bed. I didn’t have hair to comb, so I pretended in the mirror. I smelled my armpits — they were acceptable. Reached a hand down the front of my pants, gave a loving caress, smelled that — worse, but acceptable also. I was ready for the day.
The sun came up at noon. Well, it might have come out before that, but noon is when it made its way into my window. A long narrow window with anon-functioning windshield wiper. My bedroom. My living room. My office space. Dining room. The kitchen was outside, a coal powered grill with a ten inch diameter. The toilet was twenty paces away, in any direction. For number two’s, the toilet was a conglomeration of battle-torn, fly infested, graffiti plagued stalls. Once in a great while, I’d spoil myself in a single person restroom with a lock. Paper made out of soft material, not reincarnated cardboard shrapnel pressed into perforated strips. I brushed my teeth in public restrooms, at water fountains, or right out in the open — swishing with abottle of sun-warmed water, also derived from the luxurious tap.
Shower’s were special. They had meaning. When I was younger, I didn’t understand that meaning. I took passionless showers with over-hot water, stepped out into a fog, patted myself dry with a towel that smelled like blueberry breeze, or strawberry twinkle, or some variation of fruit and goofy.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, I’ve take more than my share of slut showers. Sponge bathed with three by three inch coffee shop napkins. Lathered myself from head to toe in pitiful, pink antibacterial rest-stop soap and splashed furiously trying to get it off.
The definition of shower has changed greatly since the days of elegant shower curtains and pull-stop bath options. A handful of post-barbecue moist towelettes is a shower. A broken sprinkler shooting skyward is a shower. Oceans, swimming pools, heavy rains — all showers. On the rare occasion I do find myself standing in a private glass enclosure, there’s a certain hesitation these days. It’s impossible to measure time in one of these traditional showering containers. Warm water on the back of my neck might be better than any narcotic you’ve ever snorted. A good shower, skin-reddening hot, pressure variations, a non-slip, non-moldy mat under the feet — that’s special.
I don’t enter normally. I can’t step in and skip to scrubbing. I’d go into an immediate and awful shock. I’ve got to inch my way in. Hands first like a blind person headed toward traffic. I can make it up to my elbows before I pull back and test the lower half. My toes have become sensitive to non-native forms of bathing. What might be hot to the hands could very well be cold to the feet based on basic travel time. I tap dance myself into the stream of water and grimace as if I were blindfolded, searching for landlines. From there, I can splash my way into acclimation.
Once I get in, space-time morphs. Maybe I stand in the same spot for a half-hour without moving, forgetting if I ever bothered washing. Other times, I develop hyper speed. I turn into a tornado. Soap, shampoo, debris scattering like tapioca pudding on a pottery wheel. Out of my peripheral, I can see white tile walls transform in time-lapse mode. From pristine to horror to bubbles and back to porcelain again. I’m out with a towel. Panting and confused. Shivering, not out of terror or cold, but from adrenaline. There’s a euphoric period following the towel drying. It could last anywhere from one to twenty-four hours.
You’d think I’d crave showers the way I live. I don’t. By nature, or focus, or whatever — I hardly think about them. It’s always an earthquaking surprise finding myself in a nice one. But it doesn’t wake me up at night. Whatever void was left when I distanced myself from traditional bathing techniques has been filled. By what? I don’t know. Road signs. Panoramic views. Warm food. Fresh fruit.
You’d be surprised what a good apple can do to a person’s disposition. A bad apple might work equally as well. As long as you cut around the worm hole and suck the thing out before you bite into it.
The view from the front yard is perpetually different. Some days it might be a million miles of desert skies. Other days it could be the back of a tow truck, centered between a filthy-mouthed neanderthal and a vomiting sidewalk tramp. You learn to roll with the punches this way. You learn how to change a flat. How to change it again. What duct tape won’t work for. And you become, at once, the most in command and at the mercy of your own bowls.
To deal with the cold and lonely, you learn directions. South for companionship. North for love. West for warmth and serenity. East for adventure. Material objects lose or gain value several times a year. Breaking points become acceptable, almost in expected intervals.
And when the shiny, silver, public restroom hand-dryer finishes the last of my laundry, I walk back to my house in warm socks. Feeling never-better. Ready to find a new front yard.
