The Fountainhead

17 06 2008

Over the weekend, my girlfriend noticed something funny going on the backyard of our apartment complex. The ground, where there should have been solid ground, was actually a free-flowing soup of yard. There was talk of the possible causes: earthquake, busted water main, voodoo. There was also a brief discussion about whether or not the water was flowing uphill. Let us not get into that one right now.

Anyhow, the problem seemed to come from directly beneath the foot of the concrete steps that lead between complexes. From one spot about the size of a softball, hundreds of gallons of water flowed up at a slow but very steady rate for at least twenty-four hours, and flooded the entire back yard. My dog had a blast. He won’t go into the clear, cold river water, but he’ll careen headlong into any available black murky pool or potentially toxic drainage ditch, as long as it’s somewhere familiar.

The girlfriend had slightly less fun than Sal; since I was there, she couldn’t just dive in.

Okay, the moral of the story is: they turned the water off. In less than six months, in homes seventy miles apart, and for completely different reasons, I have been out of water twice.

Also, the greater moral is that I can’t shower, and thus am complaining about it.

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