The torrent of water sounded like the Army Corps of Engineers had just opened a levy in my bathroom. After listening to it flow for almost ten minutes, I finally poked my head around the corner to see who was using the shower, only to find . . . no one. No one at all. Just a shower running all on its lonesome, steam billowing over the curtain, water uninterrupted on its flow from the shower head to the floor of the tub, in much the same way I envisioned money flowing uninterrupted from my wallet to the bank account of the city water department.
Looking around for the culprit, I only saw one lone teenager calmly eating a bowl of cereal—from the size of the bowl, and the remnants of cereal in the bowl, it looked like he had been there for quite some time.
“Do you know who’s taking a shower?” I asked, thinking he might have seen the culprit leaving the bathroom.
“Yeah,” he answered between leisurely mouthfuls. “Me.”
“You’re taking a shower?” I restated, confused. “But you’re right here. Eating a bowl of cereal.”
He looked at me like I was a little slow, and I wondered if I was about to hear some new theory of relativity, one that finally explained how it might be possible for one person to be in two different places at the same time. What I got, though, was not nearly so illuminating. “Yeah. I’m eating this, and then I’m taking a shower. I’m waiting for the water to heat up.”
I looked at the steam that was now billowing out of the bathroom and into the living room, and suddenly I had a vision of dollar bills not just climbing out of my wallet and singing and dancing on their way to the water department, but to the gas company as well. “It’s hot,” I said.
“’kay.” Another slow bite of cereal. Careful chewing. Swallowing. The spoon dipped down again and finally I could take it no longer.
“Either get in the shower or turn off the !@#$ water!” I shouted.
With a look that spoke volumes about the unreasonableness of adults, he put down his spoon and sidled into the bathroom, his whole demeanor clearly conveying his disgust at my effrontery. All of a sudden I experienced a flash of deja vu, followed by the urge to call my mother and ask her how it is that every time she comes to visit me she doesn’t run around my house gleefully turning on all of the faucets in revenge.
I’m not sure exactly when I changed—maybe it’s just the natural result of having to pay for things myself—but lately it seems like everything has a price tag attached to it. It’s like once I became an adult I was issued special glasses that turned the whole world into a gigantic “Price Is Right” soundstage. Left the milk out on the counter? $2.79. Ran the whole dishwasher to clean one plate? $1.50 It’s not that I want to see the world this way—it’s that I can’t not see it that way anymore.
While they just can’t.
I’d like to think that in the future, when they are the ones paying for things, I’ll be as forgiving as my own mother, and just let bygones be bygones. And I will—to a degree. For instance, when one day I have the opportunity to take a shower in their houses, I’ll try not to be too wasteful. In fact, I plan on bringing my own cereal. And the biggest bowl I own.