Special Soap
On December 17 at approximately 10:37 PM, four letters changed my life. B-U-L-Y. David Sedaris wrote them on a slip of paper and passed it to me.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“The answer to your question.”
I grabbed my signed hardcover from the table and thanked him. As I walked away, he told me to be careful. That it’s a slippery slope if I did choose to go down it.
I’ve never been a believer in crystal balls or tarot cards. But something about this exchange struck me as wizard-like. Other-worldly. Before the encounter, I was a mere mortal. And after, I had the secret to life hidden on a folded piece of paper in my pocket.
Buly.
—
My mom only buys soap from Bath & Body Works when she has a gift card. Usually twice a year. Right after her birthday. And right after Christmas. Growing up, we called it Special Soap. And we were only allowed to use half a pump from the plastic dispenser when Special Soap graced our sinks. Upon the final half pump, we’d fill the dispenser with water and repeat the process.
We still scream “half pump!” at my dad during family gatherings. And dare anyone not instruct “half pump” while he’s at the sink, he will taunt the room by telling us he’s using five pumps. Of course he would never. But in my family, if no one’s stirring the pot, one must take the spoon into one’s own hand.
To my knowledge, not even COVID got in the way of my mother’s half pump policy.
It was called Special Soap because it was two dollars more than regular soap. But it wasn’t about the money. I’m pretty sure we could’ve afforded the slight increase in soap expenses. And yet, it was entirely about the money. The cheapest soap accomplishes the same primary goal of any other soap. Only a fool would pay more than 99 cents for soap. Unless you had a gift card. Like any luxury in life, it’s easier to appreciate on someone else’s dime.
This had been my relationship with soap for my entire life. And I didn’t think it was isolated to the Fuller household. I once stayed with the richest people I personally know, where I was surprised (but also assured) to find familiar soap in their shower. Not the case on their walls, where a Banksy hanged.
—
The morning after the David Sedaris event, I was staring at a 28-dollar bar of soap on the Buly website. At least I think it was around 28 dollars. The website was in euros. I think. And it used commas to separate dollars and cents. Not periods. So at first, I thought they were 28 thousand dollars. Maybe it was a marketing tactic to make the actual cost of 28 dollars for a bar of soap a relief.
I froze while looking at it. My fingers hovered over the trackpad. The mouse hovered over “add to cart.” I just looked at it, wondering how many people David Sedaris has given this note to. Had to be significant. How else could a company demanding this much for soap stay in business?
I finally added it to cart. Then, I deleted it before entering my payment information. I went back to the product page. I’ve never read the product description for soap. Yet I knew this one was unlike any other.
“At 8am or 8pm, the three blows are struck. In the limelight, the lead actor sits on the edge of the washbasin or the rim of the bathtub. An iconic and ergonomic legend, our Savon Superfin simply and efficiently cleanses any skin that enters the stage of the bathroom. With the door shut and the faucet turned on, it unveils its scent on a damp body or hands. Which just goes to show that it is suitable even for the most aristocratic subjects.”
Here’s what’s on Dove’s website.
“For skin that looks soft, smooth and radiant, turn to the Dove Beauty Bar. With ¼ moisturizing cream, it goes beyond cleansing, nourishing skin as it washes away the day…”
Suddenly, the 28 dollars was worth every penny. I ordered two.
They were delivered 10 days later.
You’d think I was disabling a bomb. I’ve unpackaged new laptops with less care. Inside the box were two smaller boxes wrapped in what looked like pages from a free newsletter you’d find in a French café. I removed the golden stickers that secured the wraps. Two bar-of-soap sized boxes presented themselves to me. One had a watercolor print of flowers on the top. The other, a victorian era portrait of a woman. The artwork on the packaging wasn’t ironically fancy, like every other postmodern hipster company I’ve ordered from. It was actually fancy.
Two sample packs of lotion also spilled out of the packaging. I remembered David Sedaris’ words of caution. Slippery slope. I couldn’t afford to slide into other product categories. I considered throwing the sample packs away. But I knew that wouldn’t stop me. I’d eventually dig them out and rub them all over my body. The only solution I could come up with was to drink them. It would turn me off of their lotion forever and get rid of the samples indefinitely.
I opened the flower box first. And for the first time in my life, a scent didn’t stop in my nostrils. Somehow, it made its way throughout the entire inside of my body. I ran to the bathroom in excitement. Another first. I’ve ran to a bathroom before. But never out of excitement. I started the shower.
The instant the soap lathered in my hands, releasing its full potential, my life changed. I felt like a hero on Queer Eye. Jonathan Van Ness had just twirled me around in his chair to reveal a different version of myself to me. I wasn’t just a boy who didn’t smell bad now. I was a man who possessed the scent of desire.
I’m aware how stupid this sounds. And I’m becoming equally aware how difficult it is to describe the sense of smell. So I’ll just say this. Every other scent from every other product now smells synthetic to me.
After I ordered the soap and before it was in my hands, I told myself that I’d only use it on my pits and arms. And not every shower. Every other.
The first shower, I used it all over my body. Every nook and cranny. Even the bottoms of my feet. It was too intoxicating not to. The SEALs could use this bar of soap to test restraint. Anyone who can use it on their pits and arms and not continue rubbing it everywhere has self control bar none. Of course, we’d never be able to raise taxes enough to support my theory. But it would work.
I didn’t use it every other shower either. I used it every shower. And even found excuses to shower twice a day. Unlike other splurges, the novelty didn’t wear off. Every time I used this soap, I was overwhelmed by its pleasantness. It made me feel better about myself. If I was having a good day, it made me a king. If I was having a bad day, it saved me.
It’s gone now.
I used it down until it was thinner than a piece of paper. Until you could pinch it into a cream. Until the last bit of it vanished down the drain.
I immediately grabbed the second box from my shelf. The one with the lady on it. I stared at her. She stared back. What I first clocked as a smirk was actually a look I was even more familiar with. A bland expression of disapproval so subtle only a midwestern mother knows exactly how to flash it. And only a midwestern son knows how to read it.
I wanted to open it so badly. But now I couldn’t. She wouldn’t let me. I had looked her in the eyes and been reminded of reality. A reality where Special Soap isn’t to be binged like the latest true crime docuseries. A reality where most days call for Lever 2000.
I put her back on my shelf.
The past few weeks, I’ve been making pitstops to the shelf while traveling from the living room to the kitchen. Just to take a quick waft. I’m not sure when will be the right time to shower myself in Special Soap again. But I do know I’m looking forward to whenever that day comes. And if my mother taught me anything, it’s to always have something to look forward to.