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!

The Talking Corridor

 

“...her name is Fiona Hill and her last book….”

“…. Mrs. Dalloway’s had….”

“…. read the….”

“…. if she tells me again….”

I’m swimming between two walking ladies at the Kennedy Pool. They are talking. I am catching only snippets of their conversation each time I pass between them on my way up and down the lane. I am here to swim. They are here to talk.

            It’s a different kind of workout. The Talking Workout.

            And in the shallow lanes, there is definitely more talking than swimming going on. Part of it, of course, is the fact that they are walking in the water vs. swimming in the water. Water walking just lends itself to talking, and if the walkers are ‘regulars,’ well, they have a rapport going already. Ripe for talking.

            Today I knew I was taking my chances getting in the shallow ‘lap’ lane. I knew that a walker would probably get in with me and this is fine, but naturally, I’d rather have the lane to myself. I don’t like to share. So today, when one of the ‘Talkers,’ Alice, got in the lane next to me, we exchanged smiles and she started in on her walking and I continued my swimming. But then Granny Glasses Woman got in on the other side of me and started walking and talking over me to Alice as I swam in between them.

            They completely ignored me. I wasn’t even there even though I swam between them every minute or so. The conversation continued over me and I couldn’t help but catch fragments of it as I swam past.

            “…..and you just have to watch out for them. They all have a mean streak. Men! I love ‘em but I stay away from them….”

            Alice frowns and shakes her head as this pronouncement floats over me. It strikes me as wrong. In my experience, I find that most men aren’t the ‘mean’ type. Women are. Maybe I got this from when I was a teenager and the ‘mean’ girls ostracized me from their ‘in-crowd’ when I told them we were moving out of Hacienda Heights to Irvine. For some reason, they took this as an affront to their community and wouldn’t speak to me for the remainder of my time there.

            It was MEAN!

And, in Soap Operas, sure the men are scheming and manipulative, but not ‘mean'.  Watch out for Victoria on the Young and the Restless. She’ll eat you alive if you try to commit any corporate espionage on Newman Enterprises! “Tucker, you may think you have leverage over me, but my people have discovered several emails that will be quite detrimental to your continued business ventures. “Are you threatening me, Victoria.” Victoria smiles smugly. “Of course not. I just think you better be on your guard. I don’t just growl. I bite!”

            I turn at the wall and continue back down the lane, words floating over me:

            “….my Volvo needed an oil change and….”

            “….my car is smaller so….”

            “…. the mechanic told me…. if I want to be good to my car…”

The Talking Ladies continue their discussions over me, going from books, to men to cars. I wonder if I should stop my lap swimming and ask who their mechanic is. Sounds like someone that I’d like. Though the guys at J&E on 23^rd Street are very nice and I really don’t need a new mechanic. Plus, I hate car stuff.

            It's 11:00 a.m. and the pool is closing. The lifeguard gets off his throne and paces slowly up the cement center between the deep side of the pool and the shallow. He’s young and shy. Doesn’t blow the whistle or yell for us to get out, but his movement is effective. Everyone gets out.

            Even the Talking Ladies.

            I wait to get out at the ladder, but Granny Glasses is blocking my way out. 

            “I am going to try this Sushi place on….” Alice is yelling over me.

            “…. since Covid I ….”

            Instead of trying to manuever past Granny Glasses to get out at the ladder, I decide to just heave myself out onto the deck. 

           Sitting on the wet cement deck for a moment, I can't help but grin. "....if you wanna come to lunch with me, I...."

          Of course, she's not talking to me. But that's okay. I can listen.

          

            

           

 

Distraction and Delusion

 

“Hope you have a good lunch now!” I call out to the janitor who has just finished cleaning the locker rooms of the Kennedy High Pool.

            “I don’t eat lunch,” he asserts. “Don’t drink water. Just eat salad and drink watermelon juice.”

            I think how it’s crazy not to drink any water. Haven’t we always learned that drinking 8 glasses of water a day is the first step to good health?

            “I love those two things,” LS nods at him, calls out softly, "salads and watermelon."

            Ignoring her, he barrels on: “Most people, they think they have to eat 3 meals a day but you don’t. You have breakfast, right? That means break the fast! You’ve already gone 8 hours without eating, just add on another 4 hours and then another 4 hours. Then you fasting.”

            I think how I can’t go more than 2 hours without eating, but don’t divulge my weakness to him.

            “And, the other thing is people eat pork and they eat beef. We not supposed to be eating those things. Those things are poison.”

            “Yes,” LS and I both say. I can agree with this, remembering how my mother was telling me  how she had started a series of paintings about Kelp. How growing and farming and eating kelp is so much better for the planet than beef. If only people would stop eating cows the world would be so much better off.

            “And another thing you can do,” he continues, inching closer to us, his dark eyes wide and intense behind smudgy round wire rimmed glasses, “eat turmeric and magnesium.”

            “I’ve heard that magnesium is very good for you,” I offer.

            “And stay out of the chlorine pool. That water is poison. Go to the ocean. Stand in the water. You can feel the electricity. We are electric beings. You have a choice. We are all born millionaires. Just look at your social security card. Right below your signature, take a close look. There are numbers there. They give you your million dollars. Just look. And no offense ladies, but our world is full of distraction and delusion.”

            I wonder where the hell he is going with this? I mean how was he going to offend us with this next segment of the diatribe?

            “Men and women. Distraction and delusion. Republicans and Democrats. Distraction and delusion. Right lung left lung. Distraction and delusion.”

            We both nod. I glance over at LS, but she’s got her big dark glasses on so I can’t tell what she’s thinking. It’s probably a good thing I can’t make eye contact with her; I might lose it and start laughing. Which probably would be a distraction.

            Or a delusion.

           “And don’t eat any red dye no 5, 6 7 or 12,” he continues, heated now.  “It’s poison. And the Walmarts? They’re all being closed up. America is a corporation. The Corporation is closing all the Walmarts. They aren’t going to be there anymore.  And you know what’s going to happen in 2026?”

            “No,” I can’t wait to hear this. But as he inches closer to us, I start to feel a little uneasy. I don’t think he’s dangerous, but he obviously is crazy. This might be what happens when you spend your days having to work cleaning up other people’s messes in various Richmond City facilities.

            “I’ll tell you, in 2026 there is going to a thing called COVID and it’s going to kill over 2 million people most of them children.”

            He pauses for a moment. I think this is getting too weird and start to pick my swim stuff up off the cement, placing my mask in its case, tossing my cap into my bag. I’m getting out of here is what I’m trying to say with my actions. Yet will he pick up on this?

            He seems to, now backing up a little and reaching for his keys to open the door of his white Richmond City of Pride and Purpose work van.

            LS sings out sweetly, “Thanks again for your work.”

            He nods, getting into his van, then pulls out. Drives away.

            I exhale. Relieved he’s gone. Then, look at LS and grin.

            “That’s gonna take a while to process,” she says.

            “My blog is written for today!” I exclaim. “It’s the only way I can process it all.”

            “I wonder where he gets his information,” she muses.

            “Who knows. It’s not the Guardian!”

            We both laugh. She gets on her bike, and starts to cruise off. I wave goodbye as I climb into the Fiat, thinking about how hungry I am. The hunger is definitely a distraction. 

    But a delusion? 

    Nah, it's real,  I think,  as I close the car door, put the key in the ignition and back out of the parking lot, turn onto 41st and head back to The Mansion for some Cheetos, M&Ms, Hagen Daz Ice Cream and water. Lots and lots of water!

You'd Never Be Alone

 “I really like your fins.” Square Woman with Yellow Zoomers has gotten into my lane. I don’t mind swimming with her, but she requires a wide berth. And, today, I discovered, she also needs to know when to stop talking!

            I know I can’t be the only one who doesn’t want to ‘chat’ in the middle of my workout. I mean, there is only so much time! And, I cut it close. I want to get in my 2500 yards, and I can do this in 53 minutes, but I often only give myself 55. So, it’s a race against the clock before they kick me out of the pool.

            Now, I have to contend with a Chat Lady? Ugh!

            “I had fins like that,” she continues, completely oblivious to my hostile don’t talk to me vibe, “but when I went to Strawberry, I had them on the side of the pool and if things aren’t nailed down, someone steals them. I turned around after putting them on the deck and before I knew it, Poof! they were gone. Now I have these fins….” she holds up her foot with the bright yellow Zoomer attached, “and they are too stiff. What size foot do you have?”

            “6 ½”

            “That’s small, isn’t it. I’d probably take a large.”

            Why are we talking about foot size between my intervals? I have to cut her off, but how? She’s just getting started, I can tell. I could just take off, push off the wall, during her mid-sentence, but that is so rude. Or is it? I mean, isn’t she the rude one keeping me from my workout?

            “I got these at Transporters cuz they’re the only ones they have. What are those called?”

            She peers at my fins, now sitting on the deck. “Umm….they’re called Finis.”

            “Where did you get them?”

            “I think I just got them at Amazon.” Doesn’t the whole world know that you get EVERYTHING at Amazon?

            She takes a breath, and I take off, hoping that this is the end of her talking, but no…. when I return to where she’s still standing, I take a short pause between my intervals to grab my kickboard, and she starts in again: “I used to swim at the Berkeley Y. I really love the sauna.”

            “Oh, yes, me too!” Cj what are you doing? This is encouragement!

            “I haven’t been there in 5 or 6 years, and I got a senior low-income rate of $40 a month and most people complain about the parking, but since I’m a handicapped senior, I got a placard so I could park in front, but you know often even those spots are taken and I have to drive around and around and with my injured shoulder this causes me pain and…”

            I just take off. I can’t listen to her anymore. What am I doing talking to a crazy lady about parking at the Berkely Y in the middle of my workout? She’s sucking away valuable time!

            As I turn at the wall opposite, she’s floating on her back toward me in a crooked lane takeover way. Then she starts coughing spastically. Damn. Is she okay? Do I ask her if she’s okay?

            I glance over at the lifeguard who is frowning. Who can blame her? It’s a busy morning at the pool and I noticed earlier how Chat Woman caused an issue by asking the lifeguard to fetch her a kickboard and pull buoy. “I’m not supposed to get equipment for people,” the lifeguard had explained. “You can pick it up before you get in the water.”

            I couldn't hear what Chat Woman had said. Probably something like “I’m already in the water. I didn’t see where they are! Can’t you just get them for me this one time? I’m a senior with a disability and it’s a challenge for me to get in and out of the water and….”

            Now, as I pass Chat Woman, still coughing, I think, No way am I going to ask her if she’s okay. Frankly, at this point she can drown.

 

            Afterwards, hanging out with the cool swimmers in front of the building, B says that he might do the lifeguard training again. We all say we should, and when D comes out, one of the lifeguards, hearing our conversation, tells me that, yes, I could be a lifeguard.

            “But I’m so old and I’m not very strong.”

            “You could do it. You can swim. You’d never be alone! Others would help!”

            “You’d never be alone!” LS calls out, grinning. I know what she’s thinking. We like being alone!

            But now, I don’t tell them all how I wished Chat Woman had drowned. If I am going to be a lifeguard, it might not be a good idea to divulge such wicked thoughts. Besides, if I never were alone, someone else would save the drowning person. They’d never know what I was thinking: “Drown, Chat Woman, drown drown drown!”

            Not that I would really let anyone drown. 

Or would I?

No, of course not. I can't even let a fly drown in the cat bowl water, always scooping it up and tossing it out the window. 

Admittedly, scooping Chat Woman out of the pool would be more of a challenge. But remember, I'd never be alone! And in this instance, that would be a very good thing!

Happy Birthday in the Shower

“Spppp! Spppppiissss! Carol!”

In the shower across from me, Maggie is trying to get my attention. My hair foaming in shampoo, most of which is falling in my eyes, blurs her motions to me for a moment.

“It’s Alice’s birthday today!” she whispers through all the spray as 6 women soap up after swimming. “She’s coming! Let us know, okay?”

I’m in the prime vantage point to see Alice’s approach.

“…and then we’ll all sing her “Happy Birthday!” Maggie beams as the water streams down her.

Happy birthday in the shower? I’m, of course, completely delighted as Alice comes lumbering into the locker room and heads for the shower. I wave my arm up to get everyone’s attention; the other women watching me for direction.

Alice enters the showers and, “Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you!” Everyone bellows the familiar song in wild shower abandon. We’re all laughing too as Alice stops and watches in wonder, starting to give us all her boisterous laugh. I remember the time she told me how her laugh was one of her best qualities. I had agreed at the time and today, it certainly expressed her surprise, appreciation, and joy.

Finishing up, we join in Alice’s laughter.
            “I can’t believe it!” she exclaims.

“When was the last time you had six naked women singing you ‘Happy Birthday’ Anne asks.

“Uh…never!” Alice erupts in laughter. “I’d ask to take everyone’s picture, but I suppose that would be X rated.”

We all grin. And, indeed, 6 naked women singing in the shower at Richmond High School’s pool would be quite a photo.

Anne starts singing, “On the day of Alice’s birthday, 6 women sang to her. 6 women showering….”

More hilarity. Maggie gives up her shower to Alice. It’s Alice’s favorite. All for her birthday.

Earlier, when I was swimming, I’d noticed that there was a woman in the water walking section of the pool with a fabulously decorated hat. Looking more closely, I saw that it was a 3-dimensional cake with birthday candles affixed to the top and “Happy Birthday” written in lime letters around the rim. I’d thought it was her birthday and she was celebrating herself with a water walk and a hat, but, in fact, it was Alice’s birthday she was wearing the hat for.

“Five minutes ladies!” One of the guy lifeguards hollers at us from out in the hall.

“HEY!” I holler back, “it’s Alice’s birthday! You need to give her an extra five minutes for her special day!”

Alice guffaws. “THANK YOU, Carol!”

I grin. Alice is always the last one out of the locker room. The least they can do for her birthday is to not yell at her to get out!

            “Where do you want to go for lunch?” Anne asks now, trying to pull on her colorful flowered leggings. “That sushi place you like?”
            “Nah, I don’t think so. There’s no sit-down area there.”

            “What about that other place you like…. oh, I can’t remember the name…it has artisan in the name.”

            “Artisan a Sushi”

            “Yes! That’s it. Do you want to go there?”

            “I don’t know. We can talk about it.”

            Anne glances across the room at me as I’m trying to stuff all my gear into my swim bag. “Carol, you are welcome to come with us.” She smiles warmly and I’m touched to be included. But not today. I have work to do. And tell her thanks but have to decline.

            The lifeguard's yelling stopped after my hollering back. I finish with collecting my stuff and start to head out, part of me wishing that I could go with them, but another part of me knowing that I really am quite antisocial. And, sitting inside a restaurant still makes me anxious. I know everyone says that the pandemic is over, but DL told me she knows of 4 people who came down with COVID last week.

            Yikes. I don’t need to risk that. Even for Alice.

            “Have a great lunch,” I call back to them, heading out the door. “Happy Birthday.”

            “Thanks, Carol!” Alice calls after me. “It really is shaping up to be quite a special day!”

            And she laughs and laughs and laughs, the mirth floating out of the locker room and following me into the parking lot. 

What Women Do

“Accch! I haven’t made it on a Tuesday in I don’t know how long!” Alice announces to no one in particular as she turns the shower on, dipping her head back to soak her white hair.

            “Yes, I haven’t seen you here on Tuesday in a while,” I say, though I honestly don’t keep track of the days that she’s here. I often lie to keep the conversation going. 

            “Do you swim every day?” she asks me, soaping up her hair after tugging off her wet swim shirt and suit.

 "Nah, I can’t swim every day. My body can’t take it," I answer, trying to focus on getting all the shampoo out of my hair. 

            “Well, you’re here every day that I am!”

            “I plan it that way! I think to myself before I leave the house, ‘Is Alice going to be at the pool?’ And if I think you are, then I head on over!”

            Alice guffaws. The other two women, her friend, Linda, and another woman whose name I don’t know,  join in the giggles.

            “We’re both reading the same schedule!” Alice continues.

            “Yes, but it’s only a schedule for Alice and Carol. No one else is privy to it!”

            Again, more laughter. I’m on a roll today with the shower laughathon. I used to think it was so strange to chat in the shower, naked, tired, and soapy, but now I know it's just What Women Do. At least here at the Kennedy High Pool.

            “The schedule reminds me of statistics!” Alice continues. “I won’t give you the details!”

            “Thanks,” I say, though I wonder how the pool schedule reminds her of statistics. Is it the boxes? Or the outcomes? What the hell is statistics anyway? My students are always citing evidence from a source called ‘Statista’ but I have no clue what it is. It seems to tell them something about business, but I don’t know what. And, I remember that in order for me to be a psychology major at UC Santa Cruz, I had to take statistics.

            That’s when I switched my major to Literature.

            “OH!” Alice exclaims now that we’re all out of the shower and hurrying to dress before the 15-minute-get-out-of-the-locker room shouting begins. “We’re doing pretty good today. 7 minutes left.”

            “Yes, we’ll make it,” I say, shoving some of my stuff into my swim bag and digging around for my brush.

            “You know what slows me down?” Alice continues, and I think to myself, “TALKING!!!”

            But say instead, “No.”

            “Q-Tips. I love just sitting here, digging around in my ear with the Q-tip, waiting for the water to drain out. I just can’t get out of my ear!” She laughs joyfully.

            “That’s really weird,” Linda comments, pulling up her solar system stretch pants in what looks like an impossible task.

            Again, we all laugh, even the shy other woman who hasn’t said a word but has joined in all the frivolity. She slips on her red bowed flip-flops and heads out the door, “Goodbye!” she calls out, her soft voice filled with laughter.

            “BYE!” We all yell after her.

            20 seconds later, she comes back in. “She’s back!” Alice pronounces.

            Shy Girl grins, scurrying over to where she’d left her anti-covid face mask hanging on the bar. Grabbing it, she puts it on, then waves goodbye again.

            I think how I haven’t worn my mask today. I’m not sure why. Of course, it’s mostly habit at this point, and I do remember thinking that I should put it on after I got out of the shower, but then I thought, it’s just Alice and Linda and Shy Girl. Why bother?

            So, I hadn’t.

            And this is a first. To not wear a mask in the locker room. I’d been complaining about how no one does to my swim friends. That I was the only one who wore a mask. “You’re the only smart one,” Lauri had said.

            Was I being dumb today? Or is it really time to eschew the masks?

            I finish drying out my cap, rolling up my suit in my towel, and tossing all my stuff in my bag.

            12:14! I am out of here with a minute to spare!

            “Bye, Ladies!” I call out.

            Alice hollers something at me and she and Linda both crack up. I have no idea what she said as I head out of the locker room and into the parking lot, the rain showers paused for a minute as the puffy dark and white clouds float in the sky above me. "Those dark ones look like they're full of fire!" Alice had said at one point in the shower. Maybe before the statistics chat. "But they're not! They're full of water!"

    As I climb into the Fiat, the water starts to fall. I raise my face to the sky and grin and grin and grin!

Oblivious

 “Excuse me? Hello…? Hello…?” In vain, I try to gain her attention as she continues her inevitable descent down the ladder into my lane.

            Her tiny milky blue eyes stare past me, sunk in the pale wrinkled face. While I admire the 1940s-style white scalloped swim cap, I just want her to acknowledge the reality of climbing into my lane. Which, actually, isn’t really a lap lane. It’s the ‘water walking’ lane; narrow enough for a water walker or two, but two lap swimmers? No way.

            Yet, I can’t even get her to make eye contact with me let alone respond. What is she thinking? Is she even thinking?

            She continues to lower her square sagging hulk into my lane until most of her is submerged. With the exception, of course, of her head. There’s no way she’s going to put her head underwater. She’s the type. Old people with no awareness of the others around them. They just climb in and go.

            “Did she have a conversation with you?” one of the lifeguards hollers at me, shaking his head.

            “Nope. I tried. Is there a lane over in the shallow pool?”
            “Yes, lanes 14 and 15 are open if you don’t mind swimming in the shallow water.”

            “Don’t mind at all,” I answer, trying to get past oblivious woman in order to climb up the ladder.

            As I exit the lane, I look back at her, now floating on her back, flapping her arms, her square bulk taking up the entire narrow lane.

            I make a face at her as I walk past, sticking my tongue out and wrinkling my nose, dripping and pissed off. Why am I the one to move? Why didn’t she just go over to the shallow pool and flail around there?

            All of this happened because, at the Plunge, the Masters of Disasters swim team take over the deep pool promptly at noon. Their aggressive energy demands that everyone move out of their 4 designated lanes NOW! I know this is the routine, which is why I didn’t start in one of their lanes. I purposely got into the end lane. I even asked the Pool Manager, the-always-on- it, Paula Cooper, if it was okay for me to swim in this water walking lane as long as I moved for any water walkers.

            “Sure, it’s fine, but just don’t do the backstroke,” she told me.

            “Why?” I asked.

            “You can’t see the ladder.”

            Obviously, I could see the ladder when Oblivious Woman got in. And she was no water walker, just an old lady with apparently no perception of what she was getting into.

            How does this happen? Is she on drugs? Does she have some sort of brain situation that prevents her from speaking or understanding if someone is speaking to her? Does she not speak English? Was I not speaking English?  Or is she just rude and doesn’t give a shit if she pushes someone out of their lane?

            Who knows.

            I finish the rest of my swim in the shallow pool. Harp Woman asks to share my lane. She asks! “Of course,” I say, giving her the thumbs up.

            Later in the locker room, I see Oblivious Snail Woman. She’s just as slow and clueless on land, as I watch her sit on the wide bench, slowly drying off one foot before slipping on her ugly black old lady clomper shoe.  I consider for a moment ‘schooling’ her on lane etiquette. But think, what’s the point? She probably wouldn’t even remember me, let alone the fact that she got into my lane without telling me first. Besides, was I the Lane Etiquette Instructor?

            I think not!

            I wrap up my wet suit, cap, and goggles and stuff them into my swim bag.  She’s doing the turtle walk in front of me. Again, blocking my progress.

            We both emerge from The Plunge into the cool spring air. There’s a soft breeze blowing and the orange poppies are waving hi with their bright perky petals.

            Oblivion Woman slowly slowly slowly heads down the sidewalk. Part of me wants to feel sorry for her. Who wants to be a slow oblivious old lady? It’ll happen to me one day too.

            Yet, I can never see myself getting into someone’s lane without talking to them first.

            No matter how old I am!

            

Missing Pants

 

“Oh dear oh dear oh dear oh dear! Where did I put my pants?”

I glance over at Linda, one of the regulars of the Old Lady’s Club, dripping from the shower, rummaging through her swim bag. “They must be here! Oh!!!!”

“Did you wear them to the pool?” Alice, the president of the Old Lady’s Club asks.

“No, no….I had my swim pants on….oh dear. Where could they be? I wonder if I left them in the car?”

Chuckling a bit too diabolically, Alice sings out: “My mantra? Better you than me!” Her loud cackle rings through the cold locker room.

I think how this isn’t a very nice thing to say to someone who is supposed to be your friend, but then, maybe these two women have this sort of relationship. Or, more likely, Linda is so distraught over her missing pants that she didn’t even hear.

            “I wonder if I left them on the pool deck?” she muses out loud. “Oh, dear! Maybe they fell out of my bag? I’m NOT putting on my wet swim pants! I refuse to do that!”

            “Why don’t you ask one of the lifeguards to look on the deck for them?” Alice suggests.

            “That’s a good idea,” she says, and then yells: “HELLOOOO! YOOHOOO! LIFEGUARD! CAN YOU CHECK ON THE DECK TO SEE IF I LEFT MY PANTS OUT THERE?”  

            Alice plops down on the bench and wrings out her hair. “Do you think they heard you?”

            “I don’t know. Oh, I hope so! I just don’t know where they could be.”

            I stuff the rest of my junk into my swim bag thinking how it would be a dilemma to be pantless after the pool. Though, during the pandemic when there was no locker room, I simply took off my suit from under my big stadium jacket and drove home naked underneath it like a vixen in a Noir film showing up at the door in a trench coat.

            “HELLO??? BLAH BLAH BLAAAAAH!” Someone yells from outside the locker room.

“OH! I wonder if that is one of the lifeguards? Maybe they found my pants. Could you hear what they said, Alice?”

            Alice shrugs, “No.”

            “I’ll go take a look,” I offer, slinging my heavy bag over my shoulder.

            “Oh, thank you thank you!” Linda gushes.

            I walk out of the locker room, across the cement hallway to the noncashier cashier window with a ledge. On the ledge sits a neatly folded pair of brightly colored stretch pants. Grabbing them, I holler into the room where all the lifeguards are sitting around, busy on their phones. “Thank you!”

            One of them nods at me before going back to his phone.

            I head back into the locker room, pants in hand, and give them to Linda.

            “They found them,” I grin behind my mask.

            “OHHHH! Thank you thank you thank you! Thank them! Ohhhh!” She is almost near tears. “I’ve had such a day. It’s just been one of those days. I got here late and only had time to swim for 20 minutes, but something is better than nothing, and then this is yesterday, but I missed an appointment, I just totally forgot about it, and oh! I am just so grateful that they found my pants!”

            “Yes, me too,” I nod, turning to head out again.

*****

            Five minutes later, I’m outside sitting with my back to the sun at one of the blue circle tables, chewing tiredly on a granola bar. Alice and Linda finally emerge from the Kennedy High Swim Center building, waddling toward their cars, talking talking talking.

            Alice waves goodbye before heading to her vintage-era Nissan black sports car. Linda’s beige Jeep is parked right in front of me. She glances over at me, her tiny pale eyes watering in the bright sunshine. “Oh, it’s been a day!” she exclaims.

            “Well, I’m sure the hard part is over,” I offer.

            “Let’s hope so!” she sighs, before opening the car door. A crow caws above us and she pauses, looking up.

            “Caw caw caw!” she answers, face up to the sky. Not waiting for an answer, she tosses her swim bag on the front seat, then slowly turns and heaves herself into the jeep, slamming the door behind her. 

Dear

        “Hello Dear. How was the swimming today?” Middle-aged salt and peppered pony-tailed man is getting into the car next to me. Do I know him? He called me ‘dear’ like I was someone he knew. But then, he probably calls all women dear. I should be offended by this, but I’m not.

        He’s got a presence of authority and weight. I wouldn’t dream of ignoring him. But do wonder if I know him or have chatted with him before.

            “It was great!” I exclaim. Because it had been.

When I’d arrived, checking in at the front window of Kennedy High Pool, I noted how the lifeguard lane chart displayed prominently on the counter in front of me was nearly empty. No red XX’s in any of the lanes except for one. Could that be true? Only one other swimmer was there today? “Looks like there’s lots of room,” I’d grinned behind my mask. Toto, one of the senior lifeguards, almost smiled, “It’s your own private pool.”

            I’d laughed. “I like that!” His smile broadened.

            And, when I’d walked out on deck, only Dori, the beauteous Cello Player, was swimming her languid flippered laps.

            It was a beautiful dream.

            So, now when Pony Tail man asks me about my swim, I can’t help but spread my delight. It was such a rare treat to have my own private pool!

            “What’s your stroke?” he asks me now.

            “Oh, lately I like backstroke, but honestly, I’m a freestyler. How about you?”

            “Freestyle.” He nods, opening the car door to his massive SUV. He leans on the open door, settling in for a chat. “I like a little breaststroke. I tried to master the butterfly…” He chuckles.

            “Yeah, me too,” I agree. “But I could only move forward with my flippers.”

            He nods, “And then I did some springboard. Some platform. My brother, he was a platform diver. On teams. Won some awards.”

            “Wow! That’s impressive,” I say. “I tried to do a little diving myself in high school, but too scary for me. I stuck to swimming.”

            “I understand,” he nods, pausing for a moment, gazing out at the street that runs by the pool. Two Canada geese honk overhead.

            “I played myself a little ice hockey, too.”

            “You were a real athlete!” I marvel.

            He nods, “Back in the day, maybe. Now, though, it’s good for my job.” He nods over at the high school but doesn’t elaborate on what his job is. I wonder if he’s the principal. He seems like a principal to me because of his weight, authority, and friendliness. But it would make sense that he's a coach, right? All that sport experience and knowledge of swimming.

            He heaves himself into the car, “You have a nice rest of your day, Dear.”

            “Yes, thanks, you too.” I open my car door and climb into the warmth of the front seat.

            He starts his engine and backs out quickly, speeding off to who knows where. Lunch? A tryst with his lover? Home to his wife? A drive down to the marina?

            As I start my engine, I wonder why he talked to me. Guess it was that swimmer common ground situation. And proximity. And I just invite conversation?

            I turn on Beethoven. Back out of the parking space and head out of the lot. More Canada geese fly overhead as Alfred Brendel’s hands dance over the keyboard. I turn up the radio. And grin and grin and grin!

Alfred Brendel plays Beethoven's Sonata no 1