Took my first shower today.
On the side of the road, surrounded by yellow and purple wildflowers, the sun beating down. Dust made to mud by my 3-gallon jet-black camping shower. Tied to the roof of my van like an oil-slicked Gulf-bird seeking refuge from the spill — it pisses an endless stream of refreshing 105° water that is my baptism into this newest chapter.
It takes 3 hours for the shower bag to reach 105°, that is, if it’s in direct sunlight. Today was an in-&-out Sun Day. It took 4.
I tried to park the van so that my bathing spot was only barely visible to the cars passing by, but there’s really no way to completely block the view.
3 gallons doesn’t sound like much. I figure 2… maybe 3 minutes of exposure at most. I was wrong. This contraption is amazing. 8 full minutes of free-flowing, wonderful, lukewarm water, by my estimation . Blasting Bon Iver from the one working speaker, I undressed, hopped out the side door — and panicked, realizing I had left the soap behind.
Fuck.
Crawl back in, grab the Old Spice body wash that was a giveaway, along with a loofah that came with the deodorant I picked up on sale at Target last week.
Hop back out and— HOOOOOONK. Honk honk. HONK.
I’d been spotted. I must be a sight. Fellow street photographers would kill to come across this scene. Okay. It’s a rarely traveled side road. No worries. Soap up, twist the plastic lever that delivers the water and it’s on. All the comforts of home. Really.
Minutes feel like, well, long minutes as I try and rinse, lather. Rinse, lather. Just me and the bees and the flowers, communing with natu— HOOONK. Honk. HONK.
Alright, I better wrap it up. Summer is just here in Southern California and by the reactions I’m getting my pale white ass must be gleaming — glowing like a beacon of hope to those on this road I’ve begun traveling.