“Thanks for throwing your towel in my face!”
It’s square can’t stop talking
woman. There’s a phrase for this trait in Spanish that I just learned on
Duolingo: Ella habla hasta por los codos. She talks non-stop. I’ve
witnessed this on several occasions here at the Kennedy High Pool. In the
water, her square top half covered in a long-sleeved black stretched out rash
guard. Her mouth moving non-stop, words spewing forth with no pause whatsoever.
But today?
It’s just one sentence, hurled at me when I set my stuff on the bench in the
women’s locker room.
I threw my
towel in her face?
Uh?
I glance down at my towel, the worn green and gold Hawaiian Islands crumpled innocently on the wooden bench. Was her face on the bench when I threw the towel down? How could that be? Was she kneeling on the floor, resting her head on the bench, talking talking talking?
I have no
clue. I’m way too cold to try to figure it out. But still, I’m baffled.
“What are
you talking about?” I ask. “Did I hit you with my towel?”
“You sure did!” she laughs.
“Oh, I
didn’t notice; I was just so cold and trying to hurry into the showers. I
didn’t see you. Sorry.” I think to myself how I really can’t handle this right
now. My life is in constant upheaval with Ian’s illness. Between the various
doctors’ appointments and phone calls, constant driving him around to these
appointments, plus the underlying worry that all of this is for naught. What if
he (and I) go through all this work to heal him and the chemo doesn’t work? Or
if the chemo does shrink the tumor, and the surgeons give him the necessary
Whipple operation, how will he weather that?
I tell
myself that it’s just one day at a time, but it’s been a challenge. I don’t
like to live like this, not knowing what each day will bring. So, I’m on edge.
And I’m cold. And Towel Woman is testing my patience.
But then
she backs down: “No matter,” now full of
good humor.
I am really
cold now, standing in my wet suit, going back and forth with her over this
inane accusation that I threw my towel in her face.
I glance over at LS, who shrugs and rolls her eyes. I can hear her inner thoughts: “Weirdo!”
Why are
there so many weirdos at the pool? I wonder, grabbing my shampoo and
conditioner and my TOWEL to hang on the hooks outside the showers. There’s the
Perv—he’s the biggest weirdo and the most revolting. I can’t believe that he
works at the pool still after his sexual harrassment of me: “I can see through
your swimsuit. You might consider replacing it.”
Then
there’s the Creep. He’s never done anything overtly creepy to me. He just is
creepy, with his too tan leather skin, beady eyes always looking the women up
and down, stopping at the wall and feeling himself underwater.
Oh, and the
Freak, aka the Cry Baby. He’d gotten all bent out of shape cuz GL hadn’t
‘accommodated’ him when he tried to share his lane. There was an acutal
screaming breakdown on the deck, with the Freak yelling at GL and threatening
to call the supervisor.
The pool is full of these undesirables. I don’t need them in the women’s locker room too. I do remember a time when the women were getting dressed, discussing the heinous policies of Donald Trump and Towel Woman had grinned and said, “I can’t say this too loud, but I actually voted to Trump. I think he’s a genius.”
Doesn’t
this opinion say it all? She’s delusional. So, she probably just made up this
‘fact’ that I threw my towel in her face.
I’d wished
I’d seen my towel land on her face. Seen the shock and outrage at the time.
But part of
me just doesn’t believe her.
