Victor Kerlow Dear Diary:
I’m in the bathtub again. I’m not in the bathtub that often, but, when I am, it becomes an event.
I take more time preparing for the bath than I do submerged in water, for goodness sake. I usually bring a beer I won’t drink, a book I won’t read and a phone I won’t touch. All my plans go out the window as I catch myself millions of miles away in outer space with a beard made of suds.
I like opening the window and hearing the sounds of Chinatown downstairs. What a racket. Everybody’s selling something or too busy honking their cars into a wreck to even consider selling something. But there I am, grinning like a dope in my bathtub.
I always watch movies where people are in their tubs with half their bodies submerged. I think it’s a way to show off their anxiety. I don’t know; I make do with my sudsy beard and untouched book. Oh, porcelain chamber, you know me too well. I’m comforted and dismayed all at once as you wash off the grime of the day from my skin.
I’m happy for cleanliness, though remorseful of the memories lost. What if I wanted that old book smell on my hands from that place uptown? I try sticking my head under water, I really do, but my ears get all foggy and I forget where I am. Oh yeah, three floors above Grand Street where people like me have been feeling contemplative for, what, hundreds of years? Maybe there wasn’t much to think about back then. Maybe there was.
This is Mr. Glass, submerged in the bathtub, a bag of tea in boiling water. Drink up my anxiety; I’m only steeping.
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