A pitter-patter of rain began to fall. In the space of only a few min­utes, the sky grew dark and dis­tant rum­blings of thun­der grew louder and more urgent. Light­ning turned from dim flashes to bright strikes directed at tall build­ings. This is highly unusual in Boston, espe­cially on a day when the fore­cast called for light show­ers. For no par­tic­u­lar rea­son, I put on my rain­coat and stepped outside.

The rain and wind had built to an inten­sity which made all attempts to stay dry futile. A hand­ful of peo­ple were scur­ry­ing through the street, use­lessly clutch­ing items over their heads or duck­ing into door­ways which promised only par­tial reprieve from the onslaught of water. Every­one seemed to be scur­ry­ing, except for two hairy men, clad only in swim trunks, stand­ing bare­foot in a pud­dle on the side­walk down the street from my apart­ment. They looked to be in their early twen­ties, and in spite of the com­mo­tion they seemed con­tent to stay exactly where they were.

“Nice day, isn’t it?” I shouted over a roar of thunder.

“Do you have a bar of soap?” one of them asked in an unex­pected Kiwi accent.

“Excuse me?”

“A bar of soap. Our shower is bro­ken, and we’re look­ing for a bar of soap.”