Standing on the Berne Street Bridge, perched just above his quixotic kingdom of industrial castoffs, Steve Carr points down at his beloved five-foot twins. Painted black to absorb the sun's heat, they are the centerpiece of his vision of self-sufficiency.

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Hyosub Shin/AJC (ENLARGE)

Two 500-gallon stainless steel tanks collect rainwater at Steve Carr's warehouse in Grant Park. From there, the water is pumped through filters before reaching his faucets. Carr has lived in the warehouse for 16 years.

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The twins are two 500-gallon stainless steel tanks that collect rainwater, Carr's sole source for taking daily showers, sating his thirst, washing his dishes and clothes.

Rain rolls off just a tenth of his roof into the twins sitting beside his warehouse/home and hooked into the building's plumbing system. For 16 years he has lived in this corrugated metal-clad warehouse he owns in Grant Park but never connected to the city of Atlanta's water system.

On a recent rainy day the tanks were overflowing, spilling water into his concrete yard beside a rail spur that is part of Atlanta's proposed Beltline.

Carr, a man who hints of being sixtyish, just smiled. He's an aquatic tycoon who chooses to live on a puddle of water a day.

He takes five-gallon showers. When he shaves around the fringes of his thick beard, he does so without water. He washes his clothes, but — as his soiled jeans suggest — not that often. He uses no water to brush his teeth.

"Why should I?" he said. "I've got saliva to make the toothbrush juicy."

Carr figures he consumes about 10 gallons of water daily. That's about one-tenth of what an average Atlantan might go through. At his miserly pace of consumption, he has more than a 100-day supply. And it's replenished after every rain. While the rest of Atlanta worries over a parched future, Carr said, "I've got more water available to me than I can possibly use."

After rain hits his shingled roof and flows into the tanks, water is automatically pumped into the warehouse to fill a 60-gallon container, about the size of a hot-water heater. From there, water is pumped to another, smaller tank near the ceiling's peak to build up pressure as it flows down into his living compartment. He said he designed and installed the system himself, with parts scavenged from across Atlanta.

He likes having control of his own water, though he's not crazy about the hassle of his invention.

The water is cleaned using a series of industrial liquid filters, which he replaces every six months. To further purify the water, he passes it through a conduit that includes ultraviolet light.

He's thought about adding a chlorination system for "extra safety," but hasn't.

With all this effort and only a short pipe between the sky's generosity and his faucet, Carr is obsessed with not wasting a drop.

"Some of it is inconvenient," he said.

About a decade ago he ran out of water during a drought. There had been no rain for 33 days, he said. That was when he had a girlfriend living with him, She was an overly conscientious toilet-flusher, he said. For a week after the tanks went dry, they would head to a local truck stop and luxuriate in long showers. Carr virtually purrs at the memory.

"It was like going on vacation," he said. "It was a guilty pleasure."

The rains eventually returned. The girlfriend eventually moved away.

And Carr has grown more set in his ways. He follows a daily procedure. His tiny hot-water heater sits just above the shower ceiling, but before the warm water hits, he uses the cold water to clean his glasses and gather enough in an old jug to fill the water dishes of his cats and dog.

"Water, if handled right, is an infinite commodity per individual," Carr said.

He has plenty of time to handle it right.

"I'm gainfully unemployed," he said.

He's worked in the past as a mechanical and electrical contractor but there were also times, he said, when he lived out of a station wagon. And another when he hiked a portion of the Appalachian Trail. Both taught him how to get by on just the basics, he said.

Saving all he can is a passion that extends beyond water. Just inside the door to his warehouse, Carr hands a flashlight to a visitor to help survey the contents of the 12,000-square-foot building. It isn't easy. He usually turns on just two 13-watt light bulbs. Narrow paths wend through the vast and odd assortment of industrial material he's archived — motors, tools, industrial-sized light bulbs, fixtures, vents, covers, scientific laboratory equipment, and a library of manuals on the subject of pumps. Some of it he sells, trades or gives away, he said.

"I don't like utilitarian practical stuff going to the landfill," Carr said. "Most of the public has no idea of the value of these things."

"I'm the biggest stuff collector in the city," he said.

The neighbors have noticed.

Outside in his yard, his overflowing collection — some of which spilled into the dead-end street out front — has raised the ire of nearby residents, though they haven't yet managed to rein him in.

"He's alienated most folks," said Amir Carlock, who lives next door. "We just want him to clean it up."

Former owners used the warehouse to store lumber and repair trucks and radios. But Carr acquired the building after all that was gone.

The building has its own septic system, so flushing, he said, is no problem. But hooking up to the city water system and having to pay for the service seemed like a luxury he could do without.

"When I bought this place, I ran out of money so there was no sense in adding debt," he said. And he already had the components to put together a water system.

But after years of frugality, even Grant Park's rain man has ideas of pampering himself with the water he captures.

"I'm thinking," he said, "about a sauna and hot tub."