The Water Line

There was a youthful magnificence to the way they ran.  Bare feet, flowing hair, and echoes of laughter radiated an elegance unmatched by their parents, who stood, watching from their doorways, as the pair of seven-year-olds left their house for the nearby park.

Their mother called out, reminding them to be back in time for dinner.  She closed the front door to prevent the hot summer air from contaminating their suburban household.  The boy and the girl, however, embraced it.  They hopped and skipped down the sidewalk, eager to arrive at the fence gates guarding their most cherished location in town.

To a calloused pair of eyes, the rusted monkey bars, creaky swings, and balding grass might resemble a playground unfit for such children.  But where others saw the steps leading to a mere plastic slide, they saw the entrance to a pirate ship cruising through the vast ocean.  What they lacked as children in the physical world was overcome with intensely powerful minds that could transform ordinary into thrilling, wood chips into lava.

He was the first to spot the Water Line.  Look, a snake! he mistakenly cried out, pointing at the scaly green material hidden in the grass.  She squealed and ran in the opposite direction, while he, with the reckless curiosity of only a boy his age, approached the foreign object.  Eventually realizing that she was in no immediate danger, she retraced her steps and stood beside him, peering into the grass.  She pointed out that the “snake” was not moving, bravely poking it with a stick to prove her observation.  He agreed.  Upon closer inspection, it was revealed to be a harmless garden hose.

But more curious than the unannounced appearance of the Water Line was, in fact, that water flowed out of it.  And not at a trickle—rather, the rate at which one might use to water plants on the far edge of the lawn.  A single thumb carefully placed over the opening could pressurize the stream to a remarkable strength.  Realizing this, he quickly bent down and grasped the end of the hose, turning it in her direction.  The water lunged at her like an actual snake.  A cry of surprise escaped her lips as she attempted to dodge the attack, but her seven-year-old coordination was no match for the liquid’s trajectory.  A dark splotch appeared in the center of her pale pink shirt as she proceeded to run out of range of the boy’s aim.

The boy stood there clutching the Water Line, overjoyed at his successful prank.  I got you! he giggled in delight, watching her run circles from afar.

Barely! she responded, sticking her tongue out at him.  The girl looked down at the wet patch on her shirt and, though she didn’t mind getting splashed—in fact she enjoyed it—decided it was only fair to get revenge.  In her mind, she devised a plan.  She would charge toward him like a stampede of dinosaurs.  She would tackle him, tickle him, do whatever it took to gain control of the Water Line.

With the battle cry of a boiling tea kettle, the girl made a beeline for the boy, and by the look on his face, he had not expected such a counterattack.  Her fierceness alone caused him to drop the Water Line at his feet and flee.  She swooped it up and, planting her feet, used both hands to aim the flow of water at her former attacker.

The stream traveled no more than a single stride’s length before hitting the ground.

The boy looked back to see what had happened, and he knew immediately.  You have to hold your thumb over the top, he called out.  The girl fiddled with the opening for a few seconds.  He approached her to help, but at that moment she figured it out and aimed the Water Line directly at his head in a playful act of revenge.  The stream hit him squarely in the forehead.  Take that! she yelled in delight, spraying his face and upper body while he threw up both arms in an attempt to block it.

Stop– he sputtered, receiving only a mouthful of water.  Within seconds, the boy was dripping from head to toe, a sensation he actually found quite refreshing on this summer evening.  When she was satisfied with her revenge, the girl let go of the Water Line and let it fall to the ground at her feet.  Now me! she grinned, spreading her arms out.

That night they skipped back home, hand in hand, soaked to the bone.  The setting sun cast a shadow of gold across their bodies.  In that moment, their satisfaction stood unmatched by any possible material or worldly presence imaginable.

The girl felt it first.  The headache.  Upon waking up, she felt a terrible ringing in her ears followed by a strong and sudden urge to throw up.  She rolled out of bed—luckily, she had the bottom bunk that night—and staggered two steps before falling to her knees and letting a stomach’s worth of green slime escape from her mouth.  While she sat there retching, he woke up and heard the same painful ringing.  It made his vision go blurry.  Grasping the edge of the bunk railing—he had the top bunk that night—he made no effort to exit his bed before mimicking her, his vomit traveling over the edge of the bunk bed and splashing onto the ground.  The two of them lay there, crumpled, for what felt like hours before their mother discovered them, shells of the children they once were.

It is far too late to ask what could have avoided this tragedy.  If they had decided to play at home that day.  If they had resisted the temptations of the Water Line.  If they had been anything less than innocent seven-year-olds.  Maybe.  If they had gone back to the park that summer and investigated the mysterious origins of their precious Water Line, they would have discovered a plain old garden hose.  Yes, a harmless garden hose that ran between blades of grass, from under a nearby fence, along an unnamed road, and out of a small, rusted sewage drain.