The display fountain

Water leaves the same reservoir it returns to, lifted by a small submersible pump through a stack of three tiered basins, and falls back through the same eleven inches of air it fell through a moment ago, on a loop that will run, uninterrupted, for as long as the store is open and the pump is plugged in. The sound is engineered, not incidental: garden centers position the display fountain near the entrance specifically for the white noise, a constant low percussion meant to mask the till, the intercom, and the particular hum of a walk-in cooler compressor two aisles over. Algae grows fastest at the rim, where the water moves slowest, and the seasonal staff scrub it with a stiff brush every few days, a task assigned to whoever is nearest the front register when someone finally notices the green. The basins themselves are cast concrete, or resin made to resemble it, sold as a floor model that customers can, in theory, buy and take home, though almost none do, since the sound that makes it worth having depends on a plumbing setup few backyards can replicate exactly. What the fountain produces, more than moving water, is the sense of somewhere put on hold: a loop with no destination, playing the same eleven inches on repeat to a room that mostly walks past without noticing it has never once finished falling.

H. G. Plimsoll