Let Me Get A Waterfall
Waterfalls are beautiful. My favorite is Multnomah Falls in Oregon’s Columbia River Gorge. I think most folks love waterfalls. They are a wonder of nature.
And so are the waterfalls at the desert middle school where I work doing campus security. How did they get that kind of aquatic feature on campus? It’s not like they had the budget to build one.
Right now, I’m standing in the middle of what they call the quad. We have an open-air campus. The students go from building to building when they change classes. There are hundreds of kids about.
I hear a boy named Oscar call out to Diego, who is always late for class.
“Hey man, let me get a waterfall.”
I have no idea what they’re talking about. We’re in the middle of the Mojave Desert.
“Hey Diego,” I ask. “What’s a waterfall.”
“You mean you don’t know Mr. Al?”
“No idea.”
“Wow, Mr. Al you’re really out of it.”
Diego shouts at his friend Frankie, who happens to be passing by.
“Hey Frankie, Mr. Al don’t know what a waterfall is.”
“He ignorant,” Frankie says.
I never thought of myself as a doofus, but apparently, I am.
“I thought a waterfall was something you go over in a barrel like at Niagara Falls.”
“Niagara Falls, what’s that. Frankie says. “Never heard of it.”
“You never heard of Niagara Falls,” I ask.
“Nope.”
“And I’m ignorant.”
“Yup.”
“So, what are they teaching you in 7th Grade History and Geography,” I ask.
“I have no idea. I have an F in history and geography. I hardly ever go. The teacher is boring.”
“Keep up the good work,” I tell Frankie.
I always try to encourage the kids.
Oscar decides to jump in the conversation.
“Mr. Al, I’m dying of thirst here. Let me show you what a waterfall is.”
Diego hands Oscar a bottle of Gatorade. It’s Oscar’s favorite flavor, Frost Glacier Freeze. No way Oscar’s going to miss out.
Oscar holds the Gatorade bottle with his right hand and pours a huge gulp into his mouth without letting the bottle touch his lips, tongue or any part of his big-bad-breath-XXXtra-Flamin’-Hot-Crunchy-Cheetos-chewing-mouth.
“And that Mr. Al is a waterfall.”
“I’m impressed Oscar. You didn’t spill a drop. So that’s a waterfall. I get it now.”
Oscar goes to take a second waterfall, but before he can get another drop down, Diego grabs the bottle from him.
“Man don’t drink all my Gatorade. That’s all you get. Don’t be greedy.”
It’s hot outside and Oscar is grateful for the precious swallow he got.
“My, my, you must have a prodigious thirst,” I comment.
“Whatever prodigious means. If it’s good, I’m that,” Oscar responds.
Now with due respect to Pope Leo, forgive me Holy Father for I have sinned and am using A.I., to look up the definition of waterfall. It says here that waterfalling may have originated from a germophobic dude who was camping in the wilderness and didn’t want to catch his best buddy’s cold. Maybe the guy had a cold sore or herpes. I don’t know. It was like when early man discovered fire. Pretty soon the practice of waterfalling spread like wildfire.
Waterfalling, sure is a great way to make sure you’re not swapping germs or spit when you share a drink. There’s no washback either.
Young Millennials are really proficient at waterfalling. They are as good at waterfalling as they are at texting and TikTok.
I’ve left campus now. School is out for the day. I’m sitting down at Timbers, the bar down the street. I’ve just ordered a bottle of Budweiser.
The guy next to me one seat over has no teeth and smells. He has the crazed gaze I've seen in old black and white photos of the Russian mystic Rasputin, who died in 1916. He asks me a question.
“Hey buddy, can I get a waterfall?”
Fuck off I tell him.
You're right Mr. Al. I just caught a beer waterfall at the bar and there was no washback.
I need something to quench my thirst. Can I get a waterfall?
I bathed in that waterfall.
What a story. Good one.
I remnembervthe seventies. I think I'm the only person who does.