A Hot Shower

   For me anymore, a good hot shower is essential in attempting to melt away all the morning kinks and hitches that encumber my aging frame. Gone are the days of just jumping out of bed and hitting it- I took those days for granted. I take note of my shoulders gradually loosening under the pulsing shower spray and try to imagine how long I can keep my complaining joints and organs passably functional. Turning a lemon grass scented bar of soap in my hands, I rationalize my preoccupation must have something to do with being retired. I lather my head with a slow, circular motion, hoping to massage a few more neurons into firing. 

     

     As hot streams of water run over my shoulders, I wonder if my wife ever contemplates similar thoughts about aging and keeping physically functional or if she figures, it’ll all work out as part of some divine plan. I circle my head on my neck and listen to faint, grinding gristle sounds. While rinsing my hair, I concluded she probably didn’t.  As I’ve gotten older, north of sixty, my eyesight is worse than it ever was. I’ve noticed certain parts of my body have either disappeared or morphed into some version of a five-year-old’s drawing of a human figure. My toes, for instance. Fortunately, I can still see them but unless I’m washing between my toes, I don’t really care if I have any or not. They could just be flesh-colored crayon scribblings for all I care. 

 

     The soap slips from my fumbling fingers and my stiff knees complain as I bend to reach for it. A steaming shower doesn’t reach all the joints as well as it used to. I turn as I rise and adjust the hot water knob hotter. More steam fills the shower and I pretend to become invisible while still trying to manage cognitive thought. In a moment I can’t feel the hotter water. Either my hide has gotten thicker, or my muscles are numb. I wash my face and let my hands linger over my eyes, allowing the warmth to sooth their morning dryness. When I pull my hands away, I make a point to look at them- really look at them like a baby does. Again, my eyesight hampers clarity, but I’m unperturbed. By now, I know everything my hands can do- like the cord of wood they chopped yesterday- and everything they’ve done, like playing trumpet for the last thirty-five years. Long gone is that intense, baby-like fascination for hands or an innocent fascination for the rest of the world. 

 

     I towel off and then shave. I’ve gone back to using a double edge safety razor like my dad used. In college, I used to shave with my grandfather’s pearl handled straight razor. The sound of stropping its keen edge before holding the naked blade to my face often drew a small, morbidly curious crowd of cocky young males just waiting for me to slash my throat. But I rarely did, and soon the novelty wore off for them. Shaving with a weighty, steel handled, double-edged razor as opposed to a plastic, multiple edged, discount store razor just makes more sense now. The old style razor is cheaper and gives just as close a shave, contrary to what advertising hype promises. The bathroom mirror is still a little steamed, but it doesn’t matter, shaving is more by feel than sight these days. I hear my wife grinding coffee beans in the kitchen. The smell of the fresh ground beans charges into the bathroom. Imaging my first sip of coffee makes me hurry, and I give myself a little nick. After swearing at my less than steady hands, I’m thankful I wasn’t using my grandfather’s wicked straight razor. Wiping the steam off the mirror I look into my own eyes and wonder if I’ll ever learn any patience in this life. My wife is already a master at patience�"I know, because she hasn’t asked for a divorce in all our years together.  

 

     After dressing, I walk into the kitchen and just continue my thoughts aloud. My lovely wife frequently informs me I have a habit of suddenly talking aloud in the middle of some silent monologue with myself and expect her to know just what the heck my inner ramblings were about. In response, I usually give her a scrunched-up, quizzical expression. I can’t be as habitually schizophrenic as she says. 

 

     “I dunno Hon, you ever notice how a baby stares all wide-eyed and full of wonder into an adult’s eyes, like they’re seeing something simply spectacular for the very first time?” I reach for my coffee cup and pump the carafe, filling my mug with a strong brew. I stare a moment and watch the steam swirl off the rim. I continue without looking up at my wife. 

     

“Babies look at everything that way, fascinated, hungry like carnivorous sponges. Heck, they’ll stare at their grubby little fingers for hours. Adults are so jaded and bored, they fool themselves they know everything. I think adults have lost that wide-eyed wonder because we don’t actually care if there’s anything new or special left in the world.” 

 

     Having not yet put my spectacles on, I fumble around the countertop for the cookie jar full of biscotti. My wife rewards me with this special treat every once in a while. It’s my favorite cookie and the only thing to dunk into a nice hot cup of joe. She doesn’t know it, but I’d re-roof our house for a batch of these suckers. From habit, I know she’s on the other side of the kitchen island turning her java into some kind of sweet concoction involving heavy cream and almond extract and god knows what-all else. 

     

     “You know, I think if we all took the time to notice things in the manner babies do, like it was the first time we ever saw them, we’d be a happier species. I think we’d be more patient and open-minded and less stressed out. What do you think, Sugar?” 

 

     Finishing my question, I take a bite of dunked biscotti and with cookie crumbs around my mouth; I look at my loving wife for the first time since entering the kitchen. She looks up from her barista concoction and stares at me wide-eyed, full of wonderment. 

 

     “You did it again Hon. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

 

     For a while, we stare at each other over the rims of our coffee mugs, not saying a word. Eventually, the fresh aroma of coffee infiltrates our subconscious and I smile. She takes a sip from her cup and raises me a smile back. At that very moment, I’m ‘Texas-Hold’em-all-in.’ A hot shower, a strong cup of coffee and a loving smile from my wife, and all’s right with the world. Now all I have to do is remember where I left my glasses before lunchtime.

 

Author's Note

life, splitting and splashing all over the place. Critiques and comments welcome.

Reviews

[alanwgraham]

Lots of yes's in this for me Roarke. First of all youve written it really well with togue in cheek humour and detail that I relate fully to as a 60 going on - I can't even mention it. What happened to that body? Although Ive kept in good shape bits are falling apart and this aint going to end up well.
Much enjoyed and how about the rest of your day.
Alan

[roarke]

Hello Alan, thank you for the read and your comments. I'm trying to find different ways to write about life, how I perceive it etc so it doesn't come across like a memoir of some sort. Writing well is my first goal, and then entertaining the reader is my second. So glad you enjoyed.

[barleygirl]

This is one of your best stories that I've read. I love your conversational style, yet with high-altitude imaginings drawn from everyday life! This story is the poster child for one of my mantras -- the best writing is based on strong observation. You not only observe the hell out of everyday life, but you put such interesting twists on the things you ponder! Love the "texas hold-em" ending, very clever & affectionate. I forgot to mention, I love the comfortable & affectionate way you depict the longevity & comfort of your relationship (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[roarke]

Thank you Margie, I like this piece too. You've interpreted everything exactly. High altitude imaginings... believe it or not, somewhere, subconsciously or consciously that's how I think/see/understand... but a person can't exactly talk like this in mainstream conversation. lol I also can say the "interesting twists and pondering and observations" express here are maybe my way of appreciating life around me and in writing, taking the time to smell the coffee and roses while hopefully inspiring readers to do the same, whether I'm writing pulp or prose stories. And I'm just trying to be the best diner menu copywriter I can be. Best to you M.

[Samuel Dickens]

I hear ya! So much you say is familiar. Well, you may noticed that I don't burden myself with shaving, so that part is different. Oh, and the wife grinding beans. And smiling. Hey, I think you must have it pretty good. And I almost forgot--bending down to get that bar of soap--while it's difficult on a good day, you at least don't have a wild-eyed boatswain's mate standing behind you.
Seriously--I like this new writing of yours.

[roarke]

Thanks Sam. Although derived from my "real" life, I still call this fiction writing as I can't seem to find a POV for "realistic" writing especially involving me. That's why my other fiction is sometimes described as surrealistic or magical writing... Trying to meld the two hasn't yet worked... lol. And reading my own story, like this one, I say, "man, my life is pretty boring..." lol. BUT, but... given my life, yeah, I'd say where I am today is simple and pretty darn good. Especially with good friends like you Sam.

[Crowley]

Ha!!!! I can identify with so much of this. I am the same way in the morning with the self assessment and I do start talking around about what I am thing=king or start singing whatever song has been tumbling around in my head. That would be a great way to look at things, no doubt about it. I loved the liveliness and reality of this piece, great writing!

[roarke]

wow. Thanks C, I very glad it had that impression on you. I struggle with write about myself and life, whether it's written with the right perspective to be interesting/entertaining to the reader. Your words are music to my ears. Thank you.