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It rained all night. The next morning, Earnest stepped out for the paper and found a shampoo bottle on his porch. It was white with green on it, some crazy writing up one side, maybe Japanese, maybe Spanish. A night spent inside getting wet when outside was more wet was not a night that gave way to a bright-eyed morning. Least of all to wake up and read shampoo bottles on front porches. Nor newspapers, but that was habit. Earnest eyed the bottle and thought about hair. His own hair was long gone, long before it had been gone, but migrated in shifts and drifts through shower drains and sewer pipes. It had been black once, had luster, and if this shampoo bottle was up to snuff, the Japanese or maybe Italian on the side promised such luster. Lustre, if you’re British, or Indian. Same thing, if you’re not. Earnest eyed the bottle some more then stepped around it to find the paper. There it was. If the paper was a woman it would be dressed in shorts, inappropriate for this neighborhood but appropriate for this time of year, a khaki blouse like they wear on safaris, smoking a lipstick-stained cigarette. Earnest would pick up the woman like he did the paper, bodily, throwing her over his shoulder, playing caveman. Later, she’d hit him over the head with a 12:01 martini and he’d call it a good day, only half over. Before he could go back inside to read about things that happened in other places, like Japan, or maybe Russia, the bottle was still there. Bottles can’t smirk, don’t have eyes, can’t watch someone like Earnest standing on the sidewalk below the porch, can’t subtly vibrate in cold silence like a fat dog in pre-attack pre-snarl. And yet Earnest maintained immobility. It made him think of inertia. Harry’s American Bar and Grill, a bottle of something German, or maybe Belgian, a clock on the wall spinning itself dizzy juxtaposed to the solid stolid way Earnest sat still. A stillness hard to overcome. Newton was an asshole. This is ridiculous Earnest said out loud, feeling ridiculous for speaking out loud. He took a step towards the bottle, trying to make out what it said, in Chinese or perhaps Australian. If I can read what it says, Earnest thought, I can walk past it. And forget it. Because as signs go it was a pretty dull one. The joker who decided to prank poor old Earnest with a bottle of shampoo was probably not having a good day, himself. If the best you can do is make fun of an old man’s hair gone now for some ten-odd years, you’re probably not too bright to begin with, and apt to be the victim of all manner of shenanigans. His heart skipped a beat, the door opened in his peripheral vision, and Earnest had time to realize he’d been startled before his was even aware of it when a voice said What are you doing? The voice sounded suspiciously like his wife, and chuckled. That’s where that went. A blur made the bottle go away, and the voice said something about coffee. Earnest inhaled, deeply. He always loved the way the air smelled after a good rain.
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