The Good Stuff

I’d been trying to ration what I had left, spread it out a little, even though it was an admittedly-foolish strategy. You can’t beat physics, and if you keep consuming without replenishing, eventually you’re going to be left with nothing; it’s just basic math. Plus, eventually it’s not even worth using anymore. Watered down, spread thin, it just doesn’t give the same kick. You’re better off not even teasing yourself with it, and I was now at that point. I was barely even using it once a day.

The problem was that my supplier was hundreds of miles away, and this was the stuff I never had sent to me via the mail. I always brought it back personally, in a bag in the passenger seat of my car. That way I never had to worry about some government stooge accidentally shipping it to the wrong state.

Of course, I could always get some locally. It wouldn’t even be that hard. Take a quick drive into town, find the right people, fork over a little cash, and the deal would be done. However, the local stuff was of inferior quality, and at this point I wasn’t even sure I’d consider it as a last resort. I’d probably rather take a long road trip, regardless of the howling wind and the sheets of snow sweeping across the horizon.

Then I remembered the old cabinet.

Hoping I wasn’t fooling myself—making up memories in exchange for short term hope—I stepped into the small room, swung open the door, and begun to scan the contents of the dusty shelves.

Nothing.

Ignoring the initial wave of despair, I swept some odds and ends over to one side, exposing a back corner, and suddenly my heart skipped a beat. There it was. A brown paper bag, just like I used to bring my lunch to school in.  With fumbling hands, I pulled it out of the shadows. It had a pretty good heft to it, and that was a good sign. The crinkling of the brown paper was loud in the room as I reached in, and a moment later I extracted a brick of the stuff. To say it was a beautiful sight was an understatement, as expressed by the wide smile that blossomed on my face.

Once the initial rush of excitement had passed, I realized I needed to keep track of my stash more closely, so as to avoid this ever happening again. I needed to chart my usage, measure my supply, and replenish early. Never again would I have to rely on finding an overlooked bag in a dark corner of an old cabinet.

I had to fight hard to keep from using it right then and there, and as the hours passed, my anticipation mounted. Finally, I could take it no more. I grabbed one of the bricks and admired it in my hand for a long moment, then stepped into the shower.

Yes, my mom’s homemade soap really was the good stuff.