the demon in the pipes

Showers are deceptive.

In a perfect world, there would be no showers. When the urge struck, I would frolic under picturesque cascades of clear water, in a pristine and private pool surrounded by a friendly jungle. The monkeys would be my friends and drop fruit down to me, and the birds would sing like birds do--or something of the sort. And there would be no nasty crawling things under the rocks. (Actually, on second thought, this precise scenario would freak me out. Monkeys are scary little gits.)

In a slightly-less-utopian-but-still-wonderful world where showers are normal, they would adjust to my every whim. Hot would actually mean hot, and cold water would be more than wistful thinking. Some of my friends claim that we're now living in the armpit of hell, here in socal. I don't know about that, but it is not a perfect world or even a semi-perfect world, and therefore, my shower is a deceitful evil deity out to kill me.

There is an approximately 1 inch area on the full circle of adjustment in my shower that qualifies as hot. Everything else ranges from Scalding to These Temperatures May Rival Your Average Volcanic Lava. Want cold water? Sorry. California doesn't know what that is.

I try and keep it adjusted to that particular safe zone, but it's elusive--it wanders like a drunk Gypsy. One morning I may get lukewarm water at a particular place--the next, I'll turn the water on, not having adjusted the temperature from the previous day, and the water sizzles acid-hot as it leaves the pipes.

This morning was a prime example. I'd managed to find the perfect position for optimum "cool" water delivery, and it had worked for several days, lulling me into a false sense of security. The shower brooded in the corner as I stumbled in, still trying to convince myself that I should be vertical so early in the morning. I didn't notice. (Reference the false sense of security above).

I should have known. The water made a weird sound as it kicked on. At the time I ascribed it to air in the pipes, but in retrospect it sounded like a tiny demon wheezing with laughter. But I didn't pay attention until it hit my face.

One moment, I'm standing in a relatively quiet house, dark and sleeping. The next, I'm shrieking like a little girl and dancing around the end of the shower, alternating feet as I try and escape the hellaciously hot deluge that is melting small holes in the plastic matting.

I tried reaching through the water to turn it off. No use. My nervous system kicked in, and my hand jerked back so fast that I hit my chest and nearly broke my collarbone. Injured, I cowered in the corner, cut off from both the exit and the controls as the water finished melting the matting and began to steam its way through the foundations and back to the center of the earth, to join the eternal fires that had spawned it in the first place.

There was no way around it, unless I wanted to end my life at the cruel whim of a sadistic shower...

...

This is the point where I stop typing and look back at what I've written. I'm trying to decide where this story ended off being real, and where the hyperbole started. Unless it's escaped your attention so far, I began making up wild stuff about the time the hypothetical demon entered the picture. My bath matting is very much intact, and there are no bruises or burns on my arms. There might have been some screaming, but it was brief, and while I still think there might be a demon living in the water system, he may or may not be laughing.

I'd continue on with the wild conjecture, but my study break is almost up--so suffice to say, I did actually have to go around the other side of the doors to cut the water off, and the new place I found to adjust it to was 130 degrees from the last one. So the basic premise is still the same.

My shower is evil.