Act 3, Scene 9: “Mine’s from Tahiti”

The in-laws get the kids a water table for their birthday. A water table allows them to play God. There is a section of the plastic table which holds, well, water. And there is a system of chutes and channels and boats to bring this water world to rich life. Throw in Kevin Costner and you have some serious fun on your hands.

The other side of the table is partitioned off to hold sand. It’s the beach part of the whole water tableau. Now, this table does not come with sand, so S sends TRL to Lowe’s to get sand. And for efficiencies sake he takes the propane gas barbeque canisters with him for a refill. Well, TRL learns two things on his trip: people get panicky when propane gas canisters are brought inside a store, and the cement bags, in his opinion, should never, ever, be right next to the bags of sand.

When TRL wheels his cart filled with propane canisters to the information desk, the person behind the counter tells him he needs to go to the garden section. Fair enough.

TRL pushes the cart past a long line at the garden section cash register and goes to ask the cashier what to do next.

“Whoa, no, no,” she says, bugged eyed, staring back and forth between TRL and his canisters. “No, no, no. Those can’t be in here. It’s illegal.”

“OK,” responds TRL. “But what should I do with them?”

“Take them outside to the front, and then go inside and ask for an exchange.”

“Right,” TRL mutters, having already come from the front entrance. He wheels his cart around to the front, but after years of living in a city, he just can’t leave his property sitting outside for someone to walk off with. So he wheels it back to the information desk.

“Hi, I need to exchange these gas canisters,” TRL repeats, an edge to his voice.

“Oh, those can’t be in here,” the woman says.

“Well,” begins TRL.

“Those can’t be in here,” the woman repeats, more urgency to her voice.

“OK, what should I do? I need new canisters. I also need sand,” he adds.

The woman rushes from around the desk and points to the end of the warehouse. “Sand is down there. I’ll take these outside. Just tell the cashier you have two canisters to exchange, and you pick them up outside.”

“Check,” replies TRL, happy to be relieved of the canisters.

“Sand, sand, sand,” TRL mutters to himself as he makes his way down a cavernous isle, surveying the hundreds of same-looking bags.

“Grout, grout, grout mixture, filler, gravel, gravel, cement, quick hardening cement, sand,” chimes TRL.

He looks back and forth between the 50 pound bags of sand and the 50 pound bags of quick hardening cement. ‘Just add water, hardens instantly’ it reads.

There was no appreciable difference between the bags except, of course, the small-print written description. TRL imagines getting the wrong bags, solidify C&E’s hands instantly the first time they have a go at their water table. They would have to be brought to the emergency room with the table attached to their little bodies. TRL wonders how they would fit them and the table in the car. S would not be happy.

TRL loads up on three bags, the act of paying for sand somehow sticking in his throat. He had spent summers trying to keep sand from following him off beaches and into shoes, bags, cars and houses. And now he was paying $3.95 a bag for the stuff. And then he wonders where it comes from. Some exotic beach? Deal, NJ? Perhaps the middle of a desert? TRL decides he would pay a premium for premium sand. Some from Tahiti or the French Riviera. Or maybe Santorini. Then, when other parents came over with their kids, he could say “C&E’s sand is imported from Fiji. It’s soft and lovely and the same stuff Gwyneth Paltrow’s little Moses thrusts his hands in at his water table. Costs a little more, sure, but my kids are worth it. What’s in your water table?”