Tubby Time

 

Everyone in town knows Ian, they recognize him from his pleasant demeanor and chunky, tree trunk legs, and they all know he likes a good tubby on account of what he tells everyone when he gets the chance to.

"Hey," Ian says, "I like a good tubby, but not all the time.  You see, I really like letting the water rinse over me in the shower; it's sort of the best of both worlds.  I can play pretend and act out gunfights I'll never be in from the safety of the bathroom.  I use the shampoo bubbles as entry and exit wounds when I'm getting shot up."

"Wow, aren't you just so clever," the Indian shopkeeper says, "That's so clever!"

"Yeah, it is, isn't it?"

"Your total is $5.30," the Indian shopkeeper says.

"I like baths a lot, though, but I always feel awkward when I'm done."

"That's just great."

"Yeah, because there's like the sound of the water draining, and it's really loud, and it feels like everyone knows that I was laying naked in the tub for thirty minutes."

"Wow, that's a good point, Ian."

"Yeah."

When Ian does work up the nerve to take a tubby, it's also no secret there's absolutely no soap in the bath water because the sudsy bubble bath water might get in his mouth when he dunks his head under, and that would taste like cilantro, and he wouldn't like that.  In fact, Ian might freak out, big time.  Ian isn't one of those new-age guys who eats guacamole and orders avocado toast; he's the kind of new-age guy who doesn't have children and wears Vibram FiveFingers™ everywhere.  The cool kind of new-age guy.  He doesn't light candles for himself, either, like women do on the big screen or on TV.

Partially submerged under perfectly clear hot water is where Ian does his best thinking.  In fact, we find him there now, and he hasn't blinked in ten minutes.  He's staring ahead at the faucet and his hand-like feet, which rise from the still water, considering half-baked get-rich-quick schemes and personal reflections: the salability of greeting cards and the days and years slipping further and further behind him, gone like a fistful of coins whipped from a pedestrian overpass into the speeding tide of traffic.

It is a curious thought you might ask for what purpose does man live, and to this, there is a causal follow-up; for what does that man die for, and must the dilemmas justify one another, or can they exist separately; can he spend his whole life under the banner of one ideology or circumstance only to die on a hill for something else entirely different and sudden.  Does a usurping interest invalidate the life of man and reputation?  What if there is no great usurper or circumstance, to begin with; can we be satisfied in simply living as a dullard instead of clawing desperately for purpose and trying to outmaneuver past the strafing-watching man that is time.

Should Ian experiment with a squirt of Mr. Bubble and stir into the water so he may try to enjoy a bubble bath – he will not enjoy the bubble bath –, consider the following: is it any worse that soapy water gets in his mouth than if clear water that circulated his crotch for fifteen minutes gets in his mouth? At what point and at what scale do actions and happenings cease to matter.  Why not cross the Rubicon and light the candles, too.  Would it be the resignation of principles, or is this an exercise in autonomy by abstaining? Which is the purer expression of the will; to concede or to fight?  In the face of annihilation, when does concession become a virtue, and when does the path of resistance lead only to a pyrrhic victory?

"So I've got this codename, and they pretty much all call me Lunchbox. A few people call me Ian, but anyway, I said that bubble baths are gay," Ian says. As he speaks, his eyes blankly wander beyond the Indian shopkeeper. He may be operating in a fugue state. The Indian shopkeeper is accustomed to this song and dance; it occurs frequently. "And, uh, well… They kept asking why. They were like, 'Why Lunchbox?' and, 'Yeah, why? Tell us, Ian. Why are they gay?' So I said that I don't want to get soap in my mouth." The man from Mumbai smiles politely. There is zero urgency in this story, as the store is completely empty, so he must wait it out in silent prayer that another customer comes into speed things up.

"Wow," he says, "I've never thought of it like that." He is unsure if Ian even remembers the price of his Prime Energy drink.

"Yeah, so like I tell them, and everyone is all confused and starts going like, 'You aren't supposed to eat the water,' and I say I don't, it just gets in my mouth when I dunk my head.  It was real funny. I think everyone was on my side eventually."

"Surely, sir. Your total is $5.30."