New water rates leave us soaked

'W here are you?" I yelled from the top of the staircase.

"Down here," my son answered from the main floor of the house.

"Get upstairs," I demanded. "Now!"

A few seconds later, he eyed me nervously as he approached the top step. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"I'll tell you what's wrong, Mister!" I said.

I grabbed him by the arm, escorted him into the bathroom and gestured toward the commode. "Take a glance into the toilet."

He leaned over for a view. A puzzled look crossed his face. "I don't see anything," he said.

"Exactly!" I said. "How many times do I have to tell you? With Joliet's new water and sewer rates, unless we want to wind up in the poorhouse, we can only flush the toilet once a day. Get it straight: No flushing till bedtime!"

"I'm really sorry, Dad," he said. "I didn't mean to flush. It's just a habit. I'll remember next time."

"You'd better!" I said. "The choice is simple -- you can either use the city water or attend school at Joliet Catholic Academy. We can't afford both."

"I won't forget again," he pledged. "Hey, Dad, as long as I'm up here, could you excuse me? I'm going to take a shower."

"Whoa! Hold on a minute," I said. "Didn't you just shower the day before yesterday? Where do you think the money to pay for all this water is coming from? Not everybody's making a city hall salary! If you want a shower, grab a bar of soap, stand outside and wait for rain."

"Oh, man," he grumbled, "This stinks! Can I brush my teeth, at least?

"Tuesdays and Saturdays," I said.

"Boy, I sure wish the city water hadn't gotten so expensive," he sighed. "I'd like to take a bath someday."

"Son," I said, putting an arm around his shoulder, "with our current city council, we're taking a bath every day. I'll tell you what, buddy, let me talk to your mom. If we cut back on washing clothes, stop doing the dishes, and let the houseplants die, maybe we can save enough on the city utility bill to spring for a tub- ful of water for your birthday."

"You're the best, Dad," he said.

Just then, an irritated voice called from the kitchen downstairs.

Darn it," my wife yelled. "Who filled up a pitcher of water? Do you think we're made of money?!"

Contact Tim Placher at timplacher@yahoo.com.