Christopher Allen is obsessed with seeing every inch of the planet. When he's not travelling, he writes. Fiction, creative non-fiction, humor--anything but shopping lists and poetry. He blogs about his travels at www.imustbeoff.blogspot.com, where you can find links to his published works.

The Dirty Parts (January 20, 2011. Issue 24.)

Beth couldn’t stop shaking her head at Jack’s floor plan for the new bathroom. “There’s no tub, Jack. I really want a bathtub. We have room in the new house. Where’s the tub, Jack? What’s a bathroom without a bathtub?”

“Bigger?” said Jack, a confirmed shower person. Since he could remember, he’d always taken showers. He had lots of reasons for not taking a bath—it took an eternity to draw the water, the water was always too hot or too cold, it would generally be boring after a couple of minutes, even with a ducky.

“I want a tub,” said Beth. “I want aromatherapy candles, red wine and classical music.”

“You don’t like classical music.”

“I might if I had a tub!”

“Seems impractical.”

“It’s not a lawnmower. I’m serious, Jack. I want romantic bubble-bath evenings. I want steam. I want that scene from Pretty Woman where Julia dunks her head under the water and comes out with all those teeth, smiling like a horse.”

“I think that had more to do with Richard Gere handing her three thousand dollars than the tub itself. And anyway, what if, instead of that, you get that scene from Fatal Attraction where Glenn pretends to be dead? That was also a tub.”

“You’re not being serious . . . or fair, Jack. I think you need therapy.”

The word shocked him. Maybe he did need therapy. What was so odd about having a bathtub in the bathroom anyway? Except that it filled him with a mild sense of dread and unease—and then there was the nausea and convulsions if he continued to think about it.

“And now you’re not even listening to me. Jack, I want nights of soapy, sudsy sex until we’re both shriveled and buzzing,” said Beth. “Something’s gotta give.”

Jack’s pupils dilated. “Wait. With me? Sex? In the tub?”

“Of course with you in the tub. Jack, you need help. Get some therapy and I don’t mean aroma.”

In the days that followed, You need therapy and I don’t mean aroma mewed around Jack like a hungry cat. He hated cats, but he wasn’t about to talk to a therapist about something as silly as preferring showers to baths. Granted, this was a bit of an understatement. It bothered him, though, enough to plan a little experiment of his own. On his lunch hour one day he rented a motel room.

“Does the room have”—Jack swallowed hard as he handed fifty dollars to the hotel clerk—“a tub?”

“Yup,” the clerk said. “Second hour’s free if you rent a movie. Gay or straight?” He started to reach under the counter.

“Neither,” said Jack.

“Bi, then. Got those too.”

“I mean, I don’t want a movie. Thanks.” Jack took the key. “And I don’t need more than one hour.”

“Takes all kinds.”

The room was standard for a motel where the second hour was free with porn: slightly concave double bed, coin-operated TV and a bathroom. The room smelled like an ashtray sprayed—not cleaned—with Lysol or Pine-Sol.

“Definitely some sort of sol.” Jack sniffed as he pushed open the bathroom door and stared at the body-sized porcelain tub. “Let’s get this over with, Jack old boy.” He upended his supplies on the bed—apricots and cream bubble bath, cinnamon aromatherapy candle and a bar of Dove—and got undressed.

He rinsed out the tub and played with the taps until he got the temperature just right. He then emptied the entire bottle of bubble bath in the water. Finally, he lit the candle and unboxed the Dove.

“What’s the big deal, Jack old boy?” He toed the foamberg growing in the tub and eased himself into the lukewarm water. He took the Dove bar, held it to his nose and faked an “Mmmmmm. That smells fresh!” hoping the combination of Dove and deceit would nip the nausea growing in his gut.

He lathered the hotel’s washcloth and said, “The clean parts first.” He scrubbed his arms and his face and hummed Burt and Ernie’s “Rubber Ducky”—which felt good.

“And then the dirty parts.” His voice bounced off Pine-Soled tiles. “The dirty parts.” But the echo wasn’t his voice; it was the voice of his first grade teacher, Mrs. Florida, a sweet and saggy grandmother with a tight bun of gray hair and false teeth—that weren’t quite as tight. A vision of her was sitting there in the tub with Jack.

“It’s time to talk about taking a bath, boys and girls. Do you like taking a bath?”

Little Jack nodded; Jack old boy was more reserved.

“So do I. When I take a bath, I always wash the clean parts first. Like my face and my arms. Show me your faces? Where are your arms?”

Little Jack and Jack old boy washed their faces and arms.

“And now, boys and girls, this is important, so put on your listening ears. Do you all have your listening ears on? I don’t want you to forget this.”

Little Jack and Jack old boy tugged on their ears and nodded.

“I always want the bath water and my washcloth to stay clean as long as possible, so I wash my dirty parts last. Let’s all wash our dirty parts now.”

The Dove bar fell through the foam and kerplunked in the water between Jack’s legs. He jumped out of the tub, creamy apricot foam sliding down his legs like pyroclastic flows. He pinched his eyes shut and shook his head, but Mrs. Florida’s dirty parts wouldn’t leave it. “You can do this,” he said, steeling himself. But when he opened his eyes, she was still there smiling sweetly and waving for him to come rejoin the circle with the other girls and boys who were having a blast washing their dirty parts.

“No. No. No.” He was pulling his trousers on over his wet legs when his mobile rang. It was Beth.

“Yeah?”

“Hey. Where are you? Your office just called.”

“I’m at therapy.”

“No you’re not.”

“Well, sort of.”

“What kind of therapy?” She was suspicious.

“Beth, I’ve had a breakthrough.” He told her about his trip to the motel, about the cinnamon aromatherapy candle, about saggy Mrs. Florida’s hygiene lessons.

“Oh,” she said.

“What?”

“Jack, how would you feel about a wet sauna?”

“I’ll call the architect right now.”