Cold War Heats Up
The enemy had achieved complete surprise.
His opponent was caught with his pants down.
Literally.
The battlefield?
Two adjoining apartment-complex bathrooms.
The weapons?
Showers at 10 paces.
The objective? Control of the strategically vital community hot-water supply.
It was about 2100 hours. I had just climbed into my shower stall for my customary 20-minute soak, when I heard the ominous "clonk!" of a shower valve on the other side of the thin wall, followed by the rush of hot water through the pipes.
MY hot water, I fumed indignantly, as my blissfully steaming Nirvana suddenly turned into Siberia.
As I stood there, shivering, I wondered why Miss Manners had never addressed this most pressing problem of today's sardine-can apartment lifestyle -- shower etiquette.
I mean, the anonymous hot-water thief next door could certainly hear my shower running if I could hear his -- and only a dead man could miss my woefully off-key bawling of "Blow the Man Down" as I scrub-a-dub-dubbed. Apartment walls are awfully thin, these days.
Shouldn't some maven of all that is proper and mannerly write a few rules to the effect that if one neighbor hears the shower running next door, he should refrain from entering his own shower until his next-door neighbor has finished?
Or, if your next-door neighbor is, like me, given to prodigiously long showers, maybe proper etiquette would call for you to turn your hot-water tap on and off three times, to gently announce to him your desire to take your own shower. You know, like at the opera, where they blink the lobby lights on and off three times to announce the end of intermission.
Perhaps we should send out engraved announcements: "Max D. Rizley, Jr., Esq., takes great pleasure in announcing that he will be taking a shower between nine o'clock and nine-thirty o'clock this evening. Your kind indulgence concerning the use of hot water at that time will be most appreciated."
Unfortunately, our current state of civilization has not yet addressed this most vexing problem.
Perhaps, I mused as I stood plastered against the wall of the shower stall, dodging the sleet that was now pelting me from the shower head, perhaps in a better, future time, there will be civilized ways to work these things out -- negotiations, treaties, great documents signed in opulent halls and hailed by world leaders as the start of a safer, saner, cleaner, world.
But today, the only answer to brute force is brute force. I knew what I had to do, distasteful as it was.
Modern warfare is so impersonal, I mused, ruefully. You never actually see the enemy; he's just an invisible "target" on the other side of the wall.
But a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.
Especially when he's naked and freezing and soapy.
Dodging the blizzard coming out of my own shower, I tiptoed to the front of the little cubicle and gripped -- The Handle.
These single-control mixing faucets make this disgustingly easy, I thought, as I tightened my grip, counted "three .. two ... one ... BOMBS AWAY!" and slammed it down -- Off -- in one swift motion.
Yes, I mused, a distasteful way to win a war -- yet the shriek from the other side as the enemy suddenly got more hot water than he had ever hoped for, made me smile, just a little.
