Squeaky Clean

I can’t stand to be dirty.

Even if I don’t leave the house at all for the whole day, I will not be able to sleep or do much of anything if I don’t hop in the shower and dry off before hitting the sack.

Back when I was slamming boilermakers by the double-barreled fistful, I was prone to going to bed before taking my shower (aka passing out). On some occasions, being blind-drunk and all, I would bolt upright after falling into the deepest possible RAM sleep pattern.

I had to take a shower.

I am trying to find common ground to reconcile my bathing habits when I was on a nomadic trek across the Southwest. When I was in mountainous terrain, freezing lakes and ice cold rivers and streams provided my water for cleaning up. It didn’t matter if you left it out to warm up.

It never warmed up.

When I came down from the mountains I would always find out where the YMCA was for my daily cleaning regimen. The other method was not always as successful.

I would meet women in bars (not so much in churches) and see if I could talk my way over to their house and slowly build my story to reflect my innocent desperation. Soon I would be singing (hopefully not alone) in the shower. I have no idea to this day why so many girls and women let me into their lives with no stake in the game.

But to all of you (even those of you still alive) thank you.

Your trust allowed me to continue roaming freely across this great country of ours. I always had plenty of money, and I was never hungry. I never ate (and rarely slept) alone. I had a perpetual smile and lust for life that truth be told, has waned a bit over time but served me well in my lifetime.

I even used a steady pounding rainfall in Oregon one day to bathe. I really didn’t have much choice on that one. A lightning bolt struck my camper shell, so I just walked up and around the mountain, getting a bomb shower in the process. I was in the middle of the forest naked, and with my long hair, probably looked like the Missing Link.

I used to get shit from my football teammates because of the 30-minute long, hot showers I took after practice. Unlike most of the starters on the team, I always had a girl to see after practice.

Making love in the shower is money.

Actually, what am I saying?

Making love is money.

When you hear a girl called “squeaky clean,” she might be perceived as straight-laced and a little less adventurous, but if you have a pair of eyes and have lived on this planet for longer than ten years, you already know.

Hope you got a chance to check out my short story Obedience.

It is one that I did not include in the book.

Stay well.