Combat Zone

My reconnaissance revealed no one else in the combat area, so I let myself relax a little. Better to take time to assess the enemy’s weak points. Accordingly, I studied the assemblage and devised a process of elimination to determine which individual can I would try to take prisoner.

The first line of defense held by “Glacier White,” “Jack Frost,” and “Icicle” left me shivering but my resolve did not waver.

The nature division identified itself with such names as “Blossom White,” “Cloud Mist,” “Snowprint,” “Oyster White,” “Mistletoe,” “White Rock,” “Dover White,” Since I did not plan to pick flowers, gaze at cumulus, make tracks in the snow, go fishing, eat Christmas berries, or jump off any cliffs, I passed by. Besides, I intended to paint an indoor bathroom, not an outhouse.
A detachment from the chow unit occupied the middle shelf, making it easy to assault the caloric consciousness of consumers too lazy to reach higher or bend lower. “White Fudge,” “Creamy White,” “Vanilla Ice,” “Ricetone,” “Macaroon Bisque,” and “Boston Crème.” They fought with only one weapon but that’s all they needed—psychology. Telling myself I wasn’t hungry, I forged on.

The Conflict

The conflict escalated as I braved the international troops: “Swedish Snow” and “Russian White.” Where they allies of “American Snow” or “French White”?  Members of the old guard held court on the upper echelon like stuffy colonels at an officers club. Sporting such monikers as “Ivory,” “Silver White,” “Old Linen,” “Bridal White,” “Antique White,” “Pearl,” and “Alabaster,” it was clear that somewhere in their ancestry, they could trace their pigment to the White House. Knowing my limitations, I hastily retreated. My bathroom does not aspire to such elegance.

Near these patriots, camped “Purity,” taunting my loss of innocence, a casualty of the Madison Avenue advertising industry.

A battalion of “Ceiling Whites” bivouacked nearby, their specialized services apparently in great demand, but not by me. I would not forfeit my allegiance by using it on my bathroom walls. That constituted sabotage. The adjoining platoon consisted of a motley squadron of cans. Some had a thick layer of dust on their lids indicating that they hadn’t seen active duty for a long time. Some were crippled with dents in their sides from a previous skirmish. One was missing a handle. Knowing that a confrontation was inevitable, I reckoned my best chance was to ambush one of these.

Victory at Half Price!

Zeroing in on a target, I began to muster out those noncoms with unlikely names. “Waxen White” challenged me but I fought back with visions of drippy candles. “Chalk” which I guessed was assigned only teachers yielded to unpleasant memories of school. “Platinum” reserved for fans of Jean Harlow, posed no threat whatsoever with Clairol in my arsenal. “Bone White,” notorious for aiming at scalawags with skeletons in their closets, missed me entirely.

And since we cannot fight that which we don’t understand, I dispatched three whose names were just weird—or uncanny. “Off White” (as opposed to “On White?”) was flanked by “Soft White” (Was there a “Hard White?”), and “Warm White” (Was “Cold White” missing in action?)Only two adversaries remained. “Country White” and “Colonial White.”  Temporarily held hostage by my inability to make a decision, I teetered dangerously close to defeat. Was I no better than that man in aisle seven who had long ago surrendered to some higher authority?

Wearily, I considered a new tactic, that of hiring a mercenary, a professional painter, from the Yellow Pages. Obviously, a truce was in order so I decided to withdraw to the next aisle, a no-man’s-land of Women’s Cosmetics, to review my strategy and hopefully return to the fray with renewed vigor.

I rounded the corner and gasped at what I spied on the end counter. Instinctively, I charged and seized the lone sentry stationed there. It was labeled just plain “White”, but more importantly, it was marked, “On Sale–$5.00!”