This column originally appeared in The Journal on March 6, 2002.

Beating The High Cost of Water

Last night, I had the strangest dream...

He parked himself on the seat next to me. The barkeep tossed a napkin in front of him.
"A shot of your best and a glass of water to douse the fire," the man said.
"Gotta charge you a buck for the water."
The fellow shrugged with the moves of a man who was used to giving in to the wishes of others. In a flash, two shot glasses appeared. Both were filled with liquids, one amber and the other clear.
"I didn't order this. Where's my water?"
"You got it," the bartender said, turning away.
"There's not enough water here to chase an aspirin," the man grumbled.
I try not to sit next to unhappy people at the bar. It makes for a long night. This was no exception. He groused for a half hour about his thimble-full of water and about what the City of Plymouth charges him for the privilege of daily hydration.
When he drained the last drop from his glass, he got up and said, "Never again." Then, he left.
Two weeks later, I saw him again. He ordered a cup of coffee straight up. He appeared more positive than the last time, but his eyes were bloodshot and framed with dark bags. He looked awful.
"I feel great," he said. He tapped his finger on the polished wood in front of us and said, "There's a lot of money to be made in this water business." He noted my quizzical look, so he filled me in on what happened after the shot-of-water incident.
"After I paid through the nose for that water, I was pretty worked up. I went home and the wife tried to calm me down. Of course, I didn't listen to her, so she threw up her hands and told me that if it bothered me so much, I should bottle my own water." His eyes sparkled as he said it.
"It was a great idea. It was the weekend, so for the next two days, my wife washed out old water bottles and I stood at the tap and filled them up. We made labels on the computer. The hardest part was getting the right name. We whittled it down to two. She wanted "Plymouth Myst," but I held out for "Tonquish Springs."
Within a few days, we sold enough to recoup our costs and right now we're making a good profit." Then he leaned closer to me and said that he just signed a "share the wealth" deal.
"The city has to ratchet up their rates to pay for replacing all those old pipes and stuff, right? And I'm standing at the tap, filling up bottles, thinking that, when it comes to water, Plymouth is missing the boat. So I sold them a franchise. They'll hire a couple of people to wash and fill the bottles and call it "Plymouth Springs." The deal is that they use the profits to keep our residential water rates down."
He could see that I thought he was pulling my leg. He called for the bartender and twirled his index finger, pointing it toward the bar. A moment later, a cold plastic bottle of Tonquish Springs water sat in front of him. His smile lit the room.
"A lot of those bottled waters you buy at the store come straight from municipal water systems," he said, "and Detroit wants to bottle its own brand. Why not beat them to the punch?"

That is when I woke up. I was thirsty. Go figure. So I pulled back the covers, padded into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door, and poured myself a cold glass of water. In the light of the open icebox door, I looked intently into the clear liquid, then took a swig. I wondered if the city was indeed missing an opportunity to make a huge profit.
The clear liquid cooled my parched throat. "Nah." I closed the refrigerator door and went back to bed. Yet, as I pulled the blanket up to my chin and drifted off to sleep, I had my last conscious thought of the evening.
"I've got dibs on Tonquish Springs."