The door swung open, and Bobby saw his Dad with his eyes closed, shampoo in his hair and a towel around his waist.
"Is that you, Bobby? Did your mom send you up with the hair dye?"
He squints as the lather runs down his face. He reaches out and grabs the bottle from Bobby, and closes the door.
"Thanks, kid. I got rinse this shampoo out of my eyes," his dad said stepping back into the shower and turning the spray back on.
"No, dad! That's not hair dye!" Bobby whisper shouted over roar of the shower.
But his father was singing in the shower now, and when he's booming opera he can't hear anything else. In fact, he sang through the cacophonous train wreck a year ago that had all the neighbors out in their yards moments after the loud collission of the stalled tractor trailer and the freight train a block from Bobby's house.
Thirty minutes later, Bobby heard the shower stop. The whole time he'd been standing there in his robe staring alternately at the door and at his huge hairy feet.
"Yeow! I stubbed my toe!" complained Bobby's dad from inside the bathroom. "Feels like I need another shave too," he added. The sound of his hand squeaking against the glass mirror to wipe away the steam covering it stopped abruptly, "What in heavens?" he whispered. Then there was silence.