Earthquake?

 

The blast of the whistle screams at me from above. Initially, I ignore it. They’ve been having lifeguard training at Kennedy High Pool for weeks now. Always blowing the whistle. Throwing bricks in the water. Lifeguards in training jumping in to save the brick.

            It’s alarming and distracting. And meaningless as far as what a whistle should mean: someone is in trouble and get in and save them. Or danger danger! There’s a shark in the pool!

            So, today, a calm and blissful Saturday morning with no screaming kids in swim lessons and my own quiet lane, when I hear the whistle blast, I don’t stop swimming.

            It screams again. This time accompanied by Juan’s yelling: “EVERYONE OUT OF THE POOL! NOW!!!! OUT OF THE POOL!”

            I stop swimming, stand in the shallow sun glittering water and stare up at him. I’d just gotten in 3 minutes ago. There was still a little less than an hour left to swim. What gives?

            “What’s going on?” I ask now, shaking my head. I do NOT want to get out. I can’t see what the reason would be, but the other few people that are swimming are heaving themselves out of the pool and onto the deck.

            “Earthquake,” Juan announces.

            “Are you serious?” I ask.

            “Yeah, everyone has to get out of the pool for 30 minutes.”

            “I didn’t feel anything,” I start to argue. I really need to swim. I had missed the day before. There were no kids in the pool today. I had my own lane. Besides! I had just gotten in! What good does swimming for 3 minutes do?

            Nothing. Except for extreme frustration!

            “Yeah, well, trust me,” Juan says in answer to my not feeling anything, “it happened. We all felt it here on the deck.”

            I climb out of the pool, using the ladder, shaking in anger. I can’t yell at anyone. I can’t blame the lifeguard. If there really was an earthquake? Maybe if you’re swimming you can’t feel it? Evidently.

            But as I glance back at the beautiful empty pool, I’m livid. Why oh why? What are the chances of being in the pool when an earthquake happens? And to not even feel it?

            It feels so WRONG!

            “Why 30 minutes?” I ask another guard whom I don’t know. He’s young (they mostly all are) and cute—(again, they mostly all are) with a blonde streak through his shiny hair. “Is there some sort of evidence around this time limit to stay out?”

            He looks at me like I’m insane. “There must be….” he says softly, walking away from me.

            “You guys can come back and swim in 30 minutes,” Juan is announcing now, “but by then the pool will only be open for 15 more minutes. So, we can give you a FREE swim today and sorry about that.”

            “A free swim tomorrow doesn’t do me any good today,” I mutter under my breath, but probably a little too loudly.

            “We can have a pool party! We can go take showers for 30 minutes. Wash our hair. Sing and dance!” Wendy giggles, shaking her thick dark mass of hair in wild anticipation of the pool party.

            I can’t help but laugh. She isn’t fazed by being kicked out of the pool by a non-felt earthquake.

            And what would happen to us anyway if we stayed in the pool? It’s not like a tsunami is gonna sweep us away. Or a huge crack is going to appear in the bottom of the pool and we’ll be sucked under the concrete earth into a huge chasm of molten lava!

            I head into the locker room, behind Wendy, who’s still going on about the pool party to LS, who has given me a sweet look of empathy about being kicked out of the pool.

            “Aren’t you frustrated?” I ask her as we head into the showers.

            “I can’t complain,” she admitted. “I did swim for 3 hours at the Plunge yesterday!”

            “3 hours!” I can’t wrap my head around this right now. I just know that today I only got 3 minutes in the pool.

            And damn! I sure can complain!

            There’s nothing more frustrating than a Thwarted Swim. Esp if it’s thwarted by an imaginary earthquake.

            I still don’t believe it.

            I hear the whistle again. Or is it just my imagination?

            As I dry off after my shower, I sigh VERY loudly. I’ll just have to go for a walk. At least there won’t be any whistles blaring at me in my neighborhood.

            Unless, of course, there’s another earthquake?

Logorrhea

 

“Are you afraid of catching something?” I’m in the locker room, desperately trying to get out before the 15-minute deadline. I’ve got my black mask on, as usual, and guessing this is what this woman is asking me about.

            She’s not wearing a mask. Obviously. I’ve talked to her before, but she doesn’t remember me. She likes to talk. A lot! Older white woman with scrawny legs and pot belly. You know the body type, right? And, she’s got logorrhea. Diarrhea of the mouth. I learned this word in a Netflix film called, Wedding Season, where the protagonist won spelling bees in his youth and his prospective love interest quizzed him with the word, Logorrhea.

            “Logorrhea. L….O…..G….O….R….R…..H….E…..A. Logorrhea. Otherwise known as diarrhea of the mouth.”

            This woman had extreme logorrhea. I wanted to avoid getting into a conversation with her, but I had to at least respond to her idiotic question about mask wearing.

            “Yes,” I shouted through my mask as she stood waiting in the doorway.

            “What are you afraid of getting?” she asked. “The flu…or a cold…. or???”

            “COVID.” I said, turning toward my swim bag to stuff more shit in it.

            “COVID?” she repeated puzzled.

            “Yes,” I sighed loudly but she probably didn’t hear me since I had my mask on. “People are still getting it and getting sick and dying from it….”
            “Oh, yeah.” She didn’t make a move to leave. “I had it at Thanksgiving. I went to my brother-in-law’s house for dinner and I got it then. And no one else was wearing a mask and when I….”

            I tuned her out. I really had to get out of there before the lifeguard’s started shouting at me to leave: “Are there any Ladies LEFT?????!!!!!!”

            But I had to wonder, if she had gotten COVID and she knew that it was still around, then why was she questioning me about my mask.

            I told Ian about this exchange and he said that if people have already gotten it and didn’t get very sick, then they think it’s no big deal. Why wear a mask? “But people are still getting sick and dying,” Ian continued, “and they’re not all just old frail sick people. Young people are getting it too.”
            “Yes,” I agreed. “And I have so many friends who have been SO desperately sick from it, with long covid and multiple instances of contraction of it and work missed and debilitating loss of energy. It’s frightening.”

            I do think Ian is right though. People who have gotten it and not gotten sick just don’t get the mask wearing. Little do they know that they might get it again and get sick. Or they might be carrying it and give it to someone who is immune compromised and kill them!

            I’m not being dramatic here. It could (and I’m sure it has) happened.

            So, not to be a paranoid anti germ person, but in crowded inside areas with no ventilation like locker rooms or the grocery store, wear your mask!

            You could just save your life.

            Or someone else’s….

YoooouWhoooo!

 

“YooooWhoooo!”

        I hear the call above me, like a great horned owl, but it can't be. I'm in the pool. Through the fog of my mask, I see Alice climbing down the ladder into my lane. Okay, this is fine. I can swim on one side; she can walk on the other.

            But it’s a crowded Sunday. I’m anxious about this development. Technically, Alice needs to be in the designated ‘walking’ lane instead of my designated ‘shallow lap’ lane. But since it’s crowded, I think how it’ll be okay to have one swimmer and one walker.

I was wrong!

            Here comes Bella. She’s the wife of The Creep. We call him that because of his vibe. It’s creepy. What can I say? There is something about him that is a little pervy, a little suspect. He’s never done anything to me, like The Perv, but still….he gives me the creeps!  But, I like her fine. She’s always friendly and she’s okay to swim with cuz she doesn’t splash a lot. But today? What is she doing climbing into the lane with Alice and me here already? How can we circle swim with Alice walking?

            It’s not going to work!

            “Hello, Carol,” she smiles at me calmly.

            “Hey, Bella.” I glance down the lane at Alice, chugging away in the center.

            “She says that she can walk down the middle between us,” Bella nods, still smiling.

            “Really?” I shake my head. How the hell is that going to work? There isn’t room for 3 people to move up and down a lane without crashing into each other. Esp if Bella is doing her wide breaststroke (okay, she doesn’t splash, but she does take up a lot of room)

            Why isn’t she swimming with her creepy husband?

            “We’ll figure it out,” Bella says serenely as she takes off down the lane.

            I just stand at the wall, shaking my head. This is NOT going to work. What the hell are these women thinking?

            Obviously, they don’t care about swimming!

            “CAROL!!!! CAROOOOLLLL!!”

            I hear someone hollering my name. I can’t see a damn thing because of my foggy mask, but the voice sounds like it’s coming from the other side of the deep pool.

            I climb out of the insane lane and head toward the sound of the shouting.

            Now I spy my friend, Liv, springy strawberry curls out of her cap. She’s finished swimming it looks like.

            “You done?” I ask, plopping into the water before she answers.

            “Yes, it’s all yours,” she nods knowingly. Somehow, she saw the disaster waiting to happen back where I was and hollered to the rescue!

            “Thank you SO much!” I gush, before diving under the water and heading toward the opposite wall. The lane free and clear for me. What a narrow escape!

            As I swim, I think about how stupid the two women were. Think about what I will say when I inevitably see them in the locker room. Do I call them idiots? Ask them what was going through their brains to think that the three of us could share the lane in that dynamic? Two swimmers and one walker?

            I swim a few hundred yards, then pause to take off my fins. Trade them in for the pull buoy. Notice how Bella has moved too. She is in the middle lane now with her Creep Husband. They are partaking of gross face kissing in the pool! Ugh! They always do this and it’s so yucky! But at least I’m not swimming with them.

            Later, when I am back in the locker room and, of course, it’s just Alice and Bella, I refrain from taking them to task.

            “Oh, darn!” Alice harrumphs! “I forgot my underwear!”

            We all chuckle.

            “But at least I have my bra! Can’t live without that!”

            “I don’t have to worry about a bra,” Bella observes as she pulls her gray sweatshirt over her head with a strange black image on it that looks like a spade with a devil tail on it. “I am so flat. I just use those pasties. I feel so free!” she proclaims.

            Alice lets out a guffaw! “You’re lucky! Mine would be hitting the floor by now if I didn’t wear a bra!”

            I can’t help but laugh at them. Who could be mad at these two women? They’re hilarious!

            I pull my big parka on over my layers of sweaters before heading out the door.

“You ladies have a great rest of your Sunday,” I call out.

            “You too, Carol!” they both answer.

            As I rush out of the facility into the windy winter afternoon, I can’t help but grin to myself. Yoooouwhoooo indeed!

             

She’s Chinese

 

 

“You’re just like my wife. Hafta get your laps in!”

Pineapple Swim Trunks Man, too tan white guy, middle aged, eyes that wander without focus, eases himself into the hot tub where I’m recovering from a rather invigorating swim in the unheated pool. A zebra dove calls in the background as the palm trees whisper overhead. Puffy white clouds drift lazily in front of the emerald crags of Kaneohe’s mountains. I was relaxing, beginning to warm my frozen hands, but now?

Not knowing his wife, I just nod, agree that getting my laps in is a priority. But his tone had been disparaging. Like getting in your laps is somehow a waste of time or something that is beneath him. I can’t gauge what the issue is with his wife…. yet…

“She’s at Costco now.”

I frown, shake my head. “That sounds awful!” I sink a little further into the hot water, watching as a redheaded cardinal swoops down and lights atop the fence. Costco would be the last place I’d wanna be at any time, let alone in Hawaii.

“Yeah, well, if you’re gonna do it, I guess today is as good a day as any. Like she needs more stuff! The other day we were cleaning out a pile of junk and I found a receipt from Radio Shack from 1972! And I said to her, ‘I don’t think we need this anymore.’ But she never throws anything away.  What do you expect? She’s Chinese.”

I’m still processing the receipt from 1972 and agreeing with him in my mind that it probably can be thrown away when he tosses in the line about her being Chinese and that’s why she’s a hoarder.

Later, as Ian and I are strolling down the lovely shore of Kahana Bay, the sand a smooth caramel color, the aqua water lapping at our feet in languid warm waves, Ian mentions this comment and I say how racist it was and how sorry I felt for this poor woman that’s married to this jerk.

I have never heard of this derogatory bias against the Chinese---that they are hoarders. But I live in the Bay Area and even if somebody thought this, they would never utter it aloud. Sometimes, I forget that the area I live in is sensitive and respectful of other cultures more so than other parts of the world, even Hawaii. Here in Kaneohe, even though the environment is paradise, the military culture had taken over. Nothing against the military---well, maybe I have a little bias against the military, but that’s a whole other blog. I do, however, think that there may be a lot of derogatory biases against other races in the military, particularly women, and women of color doubly so. Of course, I don’t have any proof that Racist Guy is in the military or is ex-military. It’s just a vibe. One of narrow-minded dismissiveness. Of swimming. Of women. Of other races than himself.

As Ian and I continue our stroll down the beach, we spy a little girl, busy in the sand, building something. As we walk past, she calls out to her mom: “Mommy! Look! I’m making pizza!”

Ian and I laugh, delighted by her imagination, but another part of me thinks how, of course she’s ‘cooking’ something. Preparing a meal for her family. It’s woman’s work starting at an early age.

Let’s just hope that when she grows up, she doesn’t marry someone like Racist Guy who belittles her to total strangers in the hot tub. That her industry is rewarded instead of ridiculed. That even though she comes from the white privileged class, she learns to accept and respect other races and cultures.

How will this happen?

One pizza at a time. One pizza at a time…

 

 

 

 

Mustang!

 

The line was a mass of static disgruntlement. Packed into the stuffy waiting room of the Dollar Rent-a-Car at Honolulu airport were at least a hundred travelers, their luggage stuffed, their phones in hand, their children running and jumping underneath the useless line markers, their faces full of resignation and frustration.

            “This can’t be right!” I exclaimed to Ian. “We’re going to be here all afternoon!” I’d had visions of landing at Honolulu airport at 12:05 pm, taking the rental car shuttle and then whisking away 20 minutes later to Kalama Beach where the warm embrace of the Hawaii’s sea awaited me.

            Talk about a fantasy!

            “I think we should try to call Dollar and find out if we’re in the right place,” I said to Ian.

            “I think this is right,” he said, squeezing into the stuffy too-lit room for a place in line.

            “But where are the cars? Shouldn’t there be a garage where the cars are?” I stared at the 2 beleaguered clerks at computers, blocked by the black mass of travelers. No way could I walk up and ask one of them.

            A couple behind us shook their heads, the man muttered, “She thinks were in the wrong place too.” He pointed to a pale, blue slacked older woman on the phone outside the waiting room. “She’s calling now.”

            “I think I should call, too,” I say to Ian, the claustrophobia hitting me hard suddenly. Between the too early wake up at 5 am and the long flight with only a strange sausage sandwich for a snack, I was starting to feel peckish.

            “I need to get out of here,” I said, staggering through the crowd and out into the bright Honolulu sunshine.

            “Hello, Dollar Rent a Car—How may I help today?” I’d waited for 10 minutes to talk to a person after finally finding the 800 number on the website.

            “Hello, yes, a person…. thanks…. I just wondered if you can tell me if I’m in the right place to pick up my rental car?”

            “Yes, Ma’am, of course. Where are you?”

            Here was a question. I knew I was at the Honolulu airport, but where exactly? I had no clue. I told her how we’d taken a shuttle. How it’d dropped us off at this structure. How the line for getting our car was enormous and non-moving.

            “Can you tell me if the structure is facing east?”

            I am so tired and cranky. I can’t tell what direction is east on the best of days when I’m able to orient myself. Now? No way.

            “No, I can’t. Can you just tell me if it’s normal to have 100 people in line to pick up a car?

            “Today is a holiday, Ma’am. There is a higher percentage of travelers.”

            I could tell that this phone call was going to get me nowhere. “Okay, thanks for your help.”

            “Thank you for choosing Dolar Rent a Car. Have a nice day.”

            I head back into the 9^th circle of hell. “Did you get ahold of someone?” Ian asks.

            “Yes, but she was no help.”

            “I think we’re in the right place.”

            “Well, I guess we’ll find out in 2 hours.”

            The White man behind us, (oh the entitlement of the Patriarchy!) was now crinkling and uncrinkling a plastic snack bag of granola. Then chomping on it with his mouth open. Needless to say, he had no mask on. In fact, no one did except for me and Ian.

            I was near a nervous breakdown. With hours to go before we got our car.

            “MOM! I’m hungry!”

            “Okay, baby, me too. Can you find your daddy and see if he can buy us some snacks?”
            “I have to go to the bathroom too!”

            Mom rolled her eyes, pushed a lank curl out of her eyes. Earlier she’d been near a nervous breakdown too. In the shuttle. Asking if she could borrow a fellow traveler’s cell phone.  “We got separated from my husband. He has my phone and my wallet.”

            Evidently, the husband was still missing as the line inched forward.

            “Ian, I’m going to scream.”

            “Don’t scream.”

            I nod. Of course, I wasn’t going to scream, but I felt like it. It’s hard not to sometimes. But I try to avoid outbursts in public.

            A half hour goes by. We inch forward. An hour goes by. We’re still not at the counters.

The waiting is so boring. Do I tell instead of show? I’ll show a little: Woman behind me in line, her lank dark hair exposing a tender pink part, squats down and sighs deeply. On the verge. Three young Asian Women, huddled together in a triangle, draped with colorful beach towels, chattering for a moment, then dully silent. Two tall Black women, dressed in golden and ruby finery, animating their discussion with waves of silver pointed fingernails and spangly bracelets.

            The waiting continues. And continues. And continues. Will we ever move? Let alone speak to a clerk and get our car?

            But the line does move. Slowly oh so slowly until…. finally, after an hour and a half, we reach the clerk.

            “Wow, I never thought we’d be talking to you,” I exclaim.

            She doesn’t even crack a smile. “Name?”

            I give her the info. She types it into her computer. The rigamarole of renting takes no more than 5 minutes.

            Now what?

            “Go out and turn to the right, down the elevators to the garage to pick up your vehicle.”

            “Great!” I am so relieved. It’s now 2:30, but maybe there’s still time for a swim in the sea.

            As we step off the elevator to the vast empty garage a box of an office is in front of us. We give the young woman our info. “How long before we get a car?” Ian asks.

            “We’ll try to get one for you within an hour.”
            “An HOUR!” I can’t keep the horror out of my voice. “Do you know what we’ve been through upstairs?”

            She nods, shrugs. “Oh, yeah. Take a seat.”

            Resigned, we do. Rolling our bags over to the concrete bench. “At least we can sit down,” Ian says.

            I don’t answer. Sitting down is NOT what I want to do. I should have been in the ocean by now. Floating under the bright blue sky with puffy clouds floating overhead as the warm water embraces me with its Aloha warmth.

            I watch as the couple that had been in line behind us climbs into an oversized brown Jeep Cherokee. “Why did they get a car before us?” I ask Ian.

            “They must have ordered that car and it was available. We’ll just have to wait till our car that we ordered arrives.”

            “Minnie!!! MINNIE CHAN!!!!”  The Man in charge is striding around, waving a paper over his bald head, his wire-rimmed glasses sitting atop his bulbous nose.

            “Ian!” I whisper. “Doesn’t that guy who’s in charge look like that actor who was in that movie about the mean drum teacher?”
            Ian gives me a blank stare.

            “Do you know who I mean?”

            “I’m not sure.”

            “I can’t remember his name.” I have a phone. I have time. I google ‘mean drum teacher film’ and up pops “Whiplash” starring J.K. Simmons.

            “J.K. Simmons!” I announce, pleased to have accomplished something easily.

            “Oh, yeah, you’re right,” Ian nods.

            “Minnie Chan?” JK has found her. She’s 90 pounds in a pale green mini skirt, her frail bare legs ending in pink flip flops. “You can take this vehicle, but you’re responsible for it.”

            He points to an enormous SUV black monstrosity. Minnie nods, but I can sense her fear. Could she really drive such a vehicle?

            Yet, how long has Minnie been waiting? Hours.

            She takes it.

            JK yells for the next customer.

            A plump, exhausted woman motions at our bench. “May I?”

            Ian moves over, “Of course.”

            She plops down. “Wow. It’s a zoo here today.”

            “You can say that again,” I agree.

            “Where you from?” she asks.

            We tell her the SF Bay Area. Turns out she’s from Concord. We trade banalities about geography.

            “LAMBTON!!! IAN! LAMBTON!!!” JK bellows.

            “Here, here!” Ian rises, waving his arm.

            JK approaches. “Listen, I don’t have the economy car you ordered, but I tell you what I’m gonna do.”

            He points to a beautiful white convertible Mustang.

            “You want it?”

            We both break into big grins. “YES!!!” I cry.

            Concord Woman whoops. “Look at you! A Mustang convertible for Paradise!”

            And as we roll our bags over to the Mustang my grin grows wider and wider. My father immediately pops into my mind; he was such a Mustang man --he would have loved this car! 

          And a Mustang convertible!

            We plop our luggage in the trunk and climb into the car. Ian presses a button. The top floats up and down. And we’re off. Out of the reality of Dollar Rent a Car and into the fantasy of Hawaii!

            Alooohaaaa!

           

           

The Perv and the Patriarchy

 

I.

He waves for me to approach from atop his throne of power. A burly, tank-like white man, middle-aged, scruffy beard. The Lifeguard.

            What could he want? I think as I put the kickboard back in its stack, still cold and shaky from my swim. I’d gotten the Covid booster the day before and its side effects were giving me the chills, making me tired. Plus, my arm hurt.

            I honestly just wanted to get in the hot shower. Not have any sort of conversation with the lifeguard. But maybe he just had some pool news to tell me. Maybe the pool was closing early next week and he wanted to inform me. Who knows?

            He leans toward me, his usually booming gruff voice softer, conspiratorial. “I can see through your swimsuit,” he says. “You might want to consider replacing it.”

            Shit. I am mortified. Embarrassed.

            “Oh, sorry,” I mumble, trying to cover up by wrapping my towel around my waist. But what part of me could he see? If it was my ass, then the towel would help, but if it’s my tits, then what could I do to keep him from seeing?

            To be suddenly so exposed by a MAN was beyond creepy.

            I hurry off the deck, into the sanctuary of the women’s locker room, full of the usual cackle and chatter. I turn on one of the showers, letting the hot water rinse off my shame. I don’t participate in the women’s banter, but hurriedly dress and head out to hang with the post swim crowd in the parking lot.

II.

They’re gathered there as usual, chatting about Ian’s not pursuing the cello as a child. I’d heard the story before, but was too distraught to take up the thread; instead I interrupted.

            “You guys won’t believe what just happened to me.”

            They stop talking, LS and her husband, who is busy on the phone, and Ian. “The lifeguard told me that he could see through my suit and I should consider replacing it.”

            “That’s awful,” LS murmurs.

            “I’d like to see that,” Ian quips.

            “Not helpful, honey,” I answer. “It was horrible. I was so embarrassed. Mortified. I couldn’t believe that he singled me out to tell me that! Coming from a man.”

            “Maybe, since he’s a former Pastor,” LS offers, “he is just trying to take care of his flock.”

            “I dunno,” I’m shaking a little. Is it the after effects from the vaccine or the incident I just went through? “Maybe. I guess…. but it seems so inappropriate for a male lifeguard to tell a woman that he can see through her suit, you know?”

            They nod. Not reacting much. Was I being too sensitive? Making too big a deal out of the incident? Maybe he was just trying to do me a favor.

            It didn’t feel like that.

            “I need to get home,” I tell Ian. “I’m not feeling very well.”

            “Yes, you said you were cold,” LS says, offering sympathy and understanding.

            “Sure, let’s get you home,” Ian says, grabbing my swim bag for me and heading for the car.

III

“I was thinking about your text,” DL says, “and that lifeguard is a total Perv. He had no business telling you that he could see through your suit. It was shaming, Cj, shaming.”

            “Yes! I was mortified.”

            “Of course, you were. That was his intention. He was using his position of power and authority as a member of the Patriarchy to make you small. Here we are in our bodies, and for years, we’ve been owning them, and then to have someone like HIM belittle you like that. Well, it’s shaming and outrageous.”
            “Yes, and agist, too, DL. I mean, there was another woman whose suit was thin, but she was young and cute. Did he tell her? NO! He singled out the old lady who has no sex anymore to make her feel small and shameful.”
            “Exactly! Sexist. Ageist. Not only would he not tell her, she’s young and sexual still. But if a DUDE had the same issue, would he tell them he could see all their stuff?”

I laughed. “No way!”

“…and the bit about his being a former pastor,” she continues.  “Well, that just adds to the Perv aspect of the situation.”

            “Yes! You’re right, I hadn’t thought of that. Why is it that the clergy has such license for perversion.”

            DL frowns, shakes her head. “They just do. They have the power. The establishment behind them. They know there are no consequences for their actions.”

            I think of how the vicars of Trollope are always ordering their women around. “Make me some tea dear. Have you posted the mail yet? When will supper be ready?”

            And the women, in their buttoned-up Victorian dresses, dutifully serving, submissive, quietly suffering the patriarchy’s unrelenting suffocation.  

            I wasn’t buttoned up in my see-through suit. The nerve of me to expose my body! The Patriarch was disgusted. I must be put in line.

            “Will you report this to the management?” DL asks.

            “No, I don’t think so,” I shake my head. “Even though part of me is very angry about this. I don’t feel comfortable going to the pool now with this Perv in charge. But, I’m not gonna let him stop me from swimming, you know?”

            “I understand,” DL shakes her head.

            “But if he says anything to me again, I’m gonna let him have it. And I’ll report him then. Let’s hope he doesn’t.”

            We both laugh. “Watch out for CJ!” DL declares.

            And he better, I think, he just better.

The Three Carols

 

“Hello, Carol.”

I hear my name and answer to the other Carol that I know in the locker room. “Hello, Carol.”

But then, there’s another woman in our midst too---and, guess what? She answers too: “Hello.”

“Wait a minute,” Carol #2 says (I’m #1 of course), “is your name Carol, too?”

“Yes, it is,” Carol #3 says.

“WOW! I exclaim. “Three Carols all in the same place at the same time here in the locker room of Kennedy High Pool!”

“Is your name spelled with an e on the end?” Carol #3 inquires, “or are you a Real Carol, with no e.”

“Oh, I’m definitely the REAL Carol!” I grin, plopping my swim bag on the wide bench and rustling around for my shampoo and conditioner out of its depths.

“Yes, me too,” Carol #2 says.

“Me too,” Carol #3 says.

We all start grinning. “Are you Carol Ann?” Carol #2 asks me.

Our middle names will surely distinguish us. Not that we aren’t already quite different. Yes, we’re all women, we’re all white, we are probably of nearly the same generation. Though I think I’m a bit younger than the other two Carols—but I always think I’m younger than I am. I forget that I’m a senior citizen now until I look in the mirror. But these two women, while both women and white,  are physically very different. Carol #2 is a wide square load with a painful and slow gait caused by a fall. Carol #3 is delicate and slender, almost too slender. You can see her tail bone poking through at the bottom of her back when she bends over. And, me? I’m just a petite swimmer athlete, with a perky step and no bones showing. Well, maybe a few rib bones if I suck in my stomach.

But, I’m no Carol Ann, “Carol Leslie,” I answer, heading into the shower.

“Carol Lynn,” Carol #3 announces. “But two separate words!”  She laughs softly.

Oh, I know that one.

I often get called Carolyn, one word. Not sure why since it’s a longer name and doesn’t really sound like Carol by itself. In fact, there’s a fellow swimmer here who calls me Carolyn. I’ve thought about correcting her, but then, I shrug and think ‘Why bother’? I can be Carolyn for her.

        

Now as I turn on the hot water and dip my head under the tap, I think about names and Carols. How my mother told me I was named Carol because she was very pregnant at Christmas and there were Christmas Carols in the air. Plus, I think she thought it was a pretty name.

            And it is.

            Though I have taken on other names over the years. I was “Nora” at Avenue Books because there was another Carol. And I’m Cj to a few of my friends. My sisters call me Snart because we couldn’t say fart when we were kids so Fart and Snot became Snart.

            Now I’m part of the Pool Carol Club. And I like this. Though part of me is always a little surprised to meet another Carol.

            Aren’t I the only one?

            As I rinse the conditioner out of my hair, turn off the shower and head out into the locker room to contine the Carol talk, I find myself alone now.

            No more Carols in the locker room.

            Now I am the only one.

            And boy do I like that!