Naked Shower Panic (Cigar Smoke 6-16-11)

The other day, my son, Mike, said something very nice to me. He said, “Dad, I really love coming to your house.”

I puffed up and got my big, goofy parent grin on and said, “Wow. That makes me feel good. Is it because you think I am a wonderful father and maybe even your role model in life and I am very similar to Gandhi?” He said, “No. That’s not quite it.”

So I said, “Is it because your mother follows Anthony Weiner on Twitter and I don't want to see, um, a member of Congress?" He said, "No, that's not quite it."

“Is it because you can use my washing machine for free and sometimes make me put your washed clothes in the dryer while you’re watching TV?” “No. That’s not quite it.”

“Is it because we go out to dinner every time you come over and you can sponge off me to get meals that you don’t get toys with?” “No. That’s not quite it.”

“Well, what the quite is it?”

And he said, “I love to smell your shampoo.”

I am serious. That is exactly what he said. And you know I would not lie to you. (Unless I had a good reason to.) He said, “Yeah, you always have such cool shampoos. Like the Strawberry Essence of Waterfalls or Ocean Breezes of Lilac in a Thunderstorm.” And he’s right. I do have wonderful-smelling shampoos. A lot better than Gandhi’s, I know that.

So, why am I telling you this? Because while I was in my shower smelling my shampoo the other day, I had a semi-near-almost-kind-of-tragic-death experience.

Yes, I had just finished washing my elderly, yet still incredibly manly body and I put a big gob of Tropical Coconut with a Hint of Mango Guava shampoo on my wet hair. And as I put on the shampoo, I breathed in that wonderful aroma of Hawaiian lushness and I knew exactly what Mike was talking about. God, that shampoo smelled good. (And I think it was probably the reason why Don Ho got laid so often.)

But then, after I finished rinsing off my hair, I tried to slide the shower door and it wouldn’t open. It was stuck. Would not budge. I tried the other side of the door. It was stuck, too. So there I was, stuck in the shower. And even though my hair smelled terrific, I felt a twinge of concern.

I pushed the damn door. And I pulled it. And I talked to it. And I cussed it out. And then I started yelling to Marge, “Marge! Marge! Help me. Your naked, hairy husband is trapped in the shower. Help!” But, after a few yells, I realized that Marge is getting a little hard of hearing and she would not be able to hear me. My concern was now a little closer to panic.

After about 10 minutes of pushing, pulling and shaking the door, I thought about just breaking the damn thing down. And that would have worked. Even I am stronger than a shower door. But I hesitated to take such a destructive path, mainly because we had just put in a brand new shower door. A relatively expensive shower door. A new shower door that did not work as well as the old, piece-of-crap shower door we replaced. God, how I wished I still had the old shower door, the ugly old shower door with stains and cracked, cheap, painted plastic and the one that smelled like caked-on dried shower filth had collected for at least 15 years. Oh, how I missed that smell.

At that point, I was pretty much in a state of panic. Nude panic. Naked jaybird panic. And I was mad because there wasn’t a phone in the shower, like they have in good hotels. And I was going to sue these damn homeowners until I remembered that the damn homeowners were me and Marge. And that pissed me off even more because I couldn’t figure out if I was going to be the plaintiff or the defendant.

Finally, I sort of gave up and sat down on the scummy, wet, cold tile floor and thought to myself, “Is this how I am going to buy it? Is this how this lankly, semi-old cowpoke is going to ride off into the sunset?” I could see the news report: “Altadena Resident Dies in Freak Shower Trapping.” Paramedics were astonished to find that even though the body hadn’t been discovered for four weeks, the deceased’s hair smelled really good. Kind of like a Mai Tai Hurricane of Dolphin Splendor.

But alas, I did not buy the wet, scummy farm of bathroom stuck shower door deadly death. No, I survived. After a full half-hour (Is that logically possible or legal?), yes, after a full half-hour of panic and crying and screaming and thinking I was a goner, I figured out how to get out. Yup, I figured it out, and I did it, and I got out.

How did I do it? I would tell you, but I kind of hope this happens to all of you, and I don’t want to spoil your fun. And, of course, I like to fantasize about other naked bodies trapped in showers.

Hey, from now on, be safe. Bring your cell phone in with you when you shower. If you get stuck, give me a call. I’ll bring the shampoo.

Jim Laris is a former publisher and owner of the Pasadena Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.