ETHNIC RINSING

One day several summers ago I noticed a box approaching, diagonally, from across the street.  It was tall and slim, the kind of box a water heater might have come in but smaller.   I eyed it suspiciously.  Wavering not so much in its mission as in its course, it came nonetheless, unmistakably, at me.   This was no ordinary box and as it got closer, I could see it had tiny legs and feet, fashionably attired in understated black pumps.  Thin white arms hung from corresponding holes in the sides of the box.  Female, I concluded.  A couple of little holes at eye level allowed her to maneuver.  While I didn’t know who was inside, the color of the weaponry, one dangling from each hand, didn’t escape me.  My own squirt gun was in my truck, too far away to reach in time to defend me and the two motel guests with whom I was chatting.  One would have thought that by now I’d have learned to keep it with me at all times. 

The box was halfway across the street and traffic had stopped in each direction as it might for a meandering duck or a turtle.  Island drivers, familiar by now with Vinalhaven’s Main Street water wars, laughed and hooted encouragement to the box.  Big compared to its occupant, its bottom had been cut out entirely so nothing impeded her legs from moving and the holes for her arms were fairly large so there was no friction there either.   The thing hung from her shoulders and swayed back and forth as she advanced like a corrugated prom dress gone berserk.   

“Brace yourselves,” I advised my companions.

“Who, what--,” began one of them as the box, standing now right in my doorway, raised both squirt guns and let us have it.  I went out to face my adversary and closed the door behind me, my guest’s fears dampened.  The box kept shooting and, turning as I strode by, it following me to my truck.  She aimed both guns at my back and the ice-cold water sent that ‘short of breath’ shock through me with each hit.  By the time I’d reached the van, though, she was nearly out of ammo.  I reached under the seat and pulled out my big pump ‘two hands required’ squirt gun and a roll of duct tape.   She stood there with both empty guns hanging down by her side and began to laugh nervously.  That this hapless and unsuspecting passerby had been enticed to play the role of combatant was contemptuous, a new low in the escalating Main Street water wars.  I didn’t relish the prospect of dealing with this innocent harshly, but I had to send a message across the street.  The box began to quiver as her laughter subsided.   I moved around, corralling her until she was backed up against the hood and then, wrapping one end of the roll around a side mirror, I duct taped her to the van.   I savored my moment for a moment, then discharged the gun’s one gallon reservoir selectively, into each armpit while holding the little emerging arm horizontally, then into a quarter sized naturally occurring manufacturer’s hole just at tummy level, finally up into the box from underneath.  My water wasn’t as cold as hers had been, but it was cold enough.  Her shrieks and bawls filled Main Street.  I let her go and she ran, back across the street to those who’d foolishly put her up to it.