• • • •
STEAM FOGGED THE tiny window, obscuring the rooftops below the six-story building. Pablo tried adjusting the shower, but the pipes had only hot on their mind. The water cascaded in a wide spray, enveloping the glass-enclosed stall.
He sat back down on the tiny wooden stool, his bony knees up to his chin. In the fifteen minutes since he’d found the note, Shower, attached to the bland front door, he’d only taken off his pants, which he’d folded and used as a cushion to keep them pressed. Obey directions and not look wrinkled. All six feet of Pablo curled up, heels of the black socks skimming his thighs.
Do it. Just a damn shower. Obviously the thirty-minute one you took this morning, swallowing up the weekly water allotment, didn’t cut it.
Pablo scanned the ceiling and corners for the cameras, hoping no one noticed, before slipping off his socks and neatly folding them on top of his gray suit pants. He slid off the red tie, jacket and white shirt, tucking the cuff links into the pocket, one in each. He squished down the pile one last time.
He looked around again but the steam had crawled out of the stall, surrounding him like a tent. This all couldn’t be from the shower, he was convinced. There wasn’t that much hot water in the Bronx. He rubbed his bare feet along the slippery tiles, searching for an underground spring, which made no sense since they were on the top floor of an old building off Moshulu Parkway. If there had been an underground spring, it would’ve scalded the residents on the floor below.
What residents?
He placed his boxer shorts on the pile and stepped gingerly into the shower and then right back out, swearing at the heat. No wonder no one talked about becoming a Cousin. Pablo fortified himself and eased inside. Water pelted his face. He grew accustomed to the slight pain and reached for soap or shampoo, but found nothing.
Okay, he steadied himself. I’ll wash with plain water if that’s what you want. He turned three hundred and sixty degrees several times, discarding songs to sing because he didn’t know how happy he should be.
He was not happy at all, just puzzled. How long do I stay in? Until the water goes off, he decided grimly. If you want to wither my skin into wrinkled red puffs, then go ahead.
The door opened and an absolutely beautiful woman with red-hued skin and straight black hair falling to her navel slipped inside as if he’d been expecting her.
“Good morning, Dr. Diaz.” She kissed his cheek.
“Morning.”
“The water’s very hot.” Her black eyes twinkled. “Does that bother you?”
“I thought it’s supposed to be this hot.”
“Why?” she asked in genuine curiosity.
“Because it’s a test.”
She laughed merrily and he chanced a look at her full breasts and flat, muscled stomach. “To see if you can suffer third degree burns?” The woman adjusted the knob and the temperature decreased slightly from the inside of a volcano. “Better?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Her firm arm groped past his shoulder. “No soap?”
He shrugged sheepishly.
“You were going to suffer third degree burns and not even get clean for your efforts?”
“I didn’t know where they kept the soap.”
She smiled skeptically. “Will you wash my chest?”
“Why can’t you do it?”
“It’d be more fun if you did.”
“There’s no soap.”
“Your wet hands will do.”
He pressed back against the tiled wall. “I prefer to focus on just washing myself, thank you.”
“You’re so polite.”
“Thank you.”
The woman grinned. “I guess there’s no shampoo, either?”
“Probably in some cabinet,” he answered.
“Which you didn’t ask about.”
“Ask who?”
“There’s always someone to ask, Dr. Diaz.”
“So I screwed that up?”
“You mean by not washing your hair?”
He bristled. “I washed it already. Twice. Probably dried out the scalp for a month along with wilting in this steam.”
She glanced down. “Not entirely wilted.”
Pablo covered his erection. “Sorry.”
“I’m flattered.” The woman raised her face to the spray. “Should we have sex?”
Pablo tensed, quickly juggling a variety of answers which all included a direct quote or partial quote from one of Grandma’s Insights about random promiscuity, though nothing about showers with naked gorgeous women came to mind. “Probably not.”
“That’s fairly non-committal.”
“Under the circumstances.”
“Which are?”
“My first meeting. Not you. Here. This interview.”
“With who? I’m the only one here.”
“Test.” He said, frustrated she didn’t get it. “This is part of the test.”
“Everything is part of a test, Dr. Diaz. Pass one and on to the next.”
“Did I pass this?”
She frowned. “What was it?”
“I don’t know,” he snapped. “Getting a hard-on. Losing it.” His hands fell away. “Showering for ten minutes with a beautiful naked woman without using soap. And you’re probably not even real.”
“Do you think I’m real?”
His jaw jutted out. “Does it goddamn matter?”
She turned off the water. “Does losing your temper?”
Pablo sighed. “Yes.”
“Which you think was wrong.” The woman opened the glass door. “Do you think it was wrong, Dr. Diaz?” She bent over and handed him a bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo left outside.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “What do I do now?”
“What do you think you should do, Dr. Diaz? I have plans. Not everyone can spend all day washing their hair.”
The woman slipped into a purple bathrobe, leaving his robe hanging on a hook. He slowly dressed. His black socks were wet.
Pablo hurried out of the silent building and actually walked two blocks toward the subway before admitting that he didn’t want to rush back to work. He didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but he was hungry and his skin tingled as if he was a second course at a barbecue, and he was perplexed. Besides, he didn’t want to imagine the woman’s breasts dancing among molars.
Usually when he was this bewildered, he would hide. Not physically, but crawl into the Pablo part of himself that disconnected into a calm parallel universe, which he’d first discovered, powered
