The piercing stream of water from the corroded shower head sounded like Indian calls made by young innocently racist boys and girls of the 1940s as they played Cowboys and Indians in the streets of some supposedly Utopian town that hid all of its horrible truths from the collective conscience of anyone with the power to make a difference or the will to care. My body was chilled and pale as I stood in the center of the dimly lit bathroom. As I stepped into the upright shower, I noticed the grout, dirty brown between the small cream tiles. On the rack hanging down from the shower head was a thin bar of marbled green and white soap cracked from non-use. Beside the soap was a brandless bottle of generic watered-down shampoo so thin and mild that I could have poured it in my eyes and felt nothing but a twinge of pain before blinking it away. The water was lukewarm, even after running on hot for ten minutes.
Written from 11:15 pm to 11:35 pm on Monday, August 24, 2009 in my bedroom in Traverse City, Michigan.