I awoke from a deep slumber and attended my sink and, expecting a cool but concentrated torrent of fluorine infused water, was instead greeted by a dull rumbling. I checked my IPhone 6+, still in its plastic liner. Two texts from two sources.
Water is out.
My palms perspired. I felt dizzy. I hadn’t showered since yesterday’s biathlon; a regatta followed by golfing at the country-club. I found my mother on the couch, watching one of the stations my family owns and snapchatting Barack Obama.
“Mother, our water appears to be out.” I said, dramatically.
Mother looked at me pained, “Yes dear it’s terrible. A pipe from 1889 broke. We may have to pick the garden. There’s peppers, tomatoes, cucumbers, cauliflowers, cantaloupes, cranberries, canterberries, carrots, and Cadence has prepared organic chocolate chip cookies.”
- Would you believe that? And they didn’t replace it? They should tear up every road in the state and fix the infrastructure. And they should do it for free. “But mother.” I said. “Where ever will we shower?”
“We may have to go to the in-laws in Dallas, or the other in-laws in Mountaintop, or dreadfully my parents’ lake house, or their summer home. But don’t burden me with that right now. Dear, you look pale.”
I was. The thought of no water in our home for one day was enough to, well, I don’t care to think about that. Our automatic sprinkler system should be on by now, misting the lawn. Our buffalo grass will be dead by sundown.
I borrowed Mother’s Mercedes and drove to Wegmans for water. I passed the water tanker stations, where I saw the ruddy faces of my people gathered in droves for some icky backup water. I also decided to take a drive to Ground Zero, epicenter of my woes. I saw men face deep in the muck. I saw several vacuums sucking up the stagnant water. I saw heroes and I thought to myself, this must be exactly what 9/11 was like. As I passed, I yelled “Could you hurry it up? I need to shower, like, today-uh.”
I bought 24 bottles of Evian and went to the 15 items or less express aisle. As I rushed home doing 75 in a 55, I saw I had a text from mother.
Water is on.
O Happy day! As I pulled in Cadence, the maid, was leaving.
“Cadence!” I cried. “Our water is back!”
“That’s great.” Cadence replied. “We live too close to the break, so we may be out of water til it’s fixed. It’s a good thing those tankers are out.” She talks the way poor people talk.
“K whatever.” I blew through the door, the vestibule, the foyer, and the home theater/bowling alley, and turned on the sink. Instead of a geyserous flow, it piddles the way a Colored person’s water fountain would.
“Mother why is there no power? Is the sink not plugged in right?” I was on the verge of tears.
“The newsman is saying that we may experience low pressure until Thursday.” Mother sighed.
I galloped up the stairs and into the shower. The cloudy water fell from four showerheads like a springtime drizzle. I curled up in the center and wept. Stress is coming out of me in the form of acne blocking my pores with pus and the ever consistent smell of tub farts. Everything is horrible. Nothing will ever be good again.