No Clue

 

“Hi, Bobby!”

I call out to the pool manager, fake cheery. He’s just gotten out of his dirty Subaru station wagon, holding a handful of yellow envelops, trying to hide under his grimy baseball cap.

            “Hello?” He’s confused. I can see it in his beady eyes. They’re blank, trying to retrieve information, but it’s just not there.

            I glance over at LS, who’s pulled out her phone, but manages to roll her eyes at the situation. We’re standing in the shade in front of the Kennedy pool facility, chatting about this and than when he drives up.

            “Carol,” I hint, to Bobby now, thinking he’ll remember me.

            He stares at me. Uncomprehending.

            “Carol Jameson.” He still stands in front of me, dumbfounded. Emphasis on the dumb.

            “Uh…. we talked on the phone?”

            ZING! WRONG! We’ve never talked on the phone. Only exchanged lengthy emails about the pool for several weeks. Its overcrowding. Its temperature. Its limited hours.

            “Nope,” I taunt. Do I give him another hint? Okay, I’ll play nice.

            “Email. We exchanged many emails about the pool,” I grin.

            “Oh…yeah…yeah….” he nods, shakes his head, but I can tell there’s still absolutely no recognition. What the hell? I do realize that he must email a lot of patrons complaining about the pool, but c’mon, can’t he hold the more strident ones in his brain?

            Evidently not.

            He starts in on a long harangue about the parking lot without any prompting. I don’t care about the parking lot, only the pool, but I let him ramble on.

            “They’re gonna give us a new parking lot this summer. But it’s going to take some time. They’re gonna give us some new trees, tear those out.” He nods toward the splendid cauliflower trees that shade several spaces. 

            “That’s too bad,” I comment, thinking isn’t that just the way of development? Destroying perfectly good trees that give us shade, oxygen and beauty.

            “Yeah, I agree,” he nods. Then continues his rambling after I ask about the parking lot behind the pool, which is always locked up, and could provide parking when the lot is closed this summer.  Wasted space. He has some long indecipherable explanation as to why there’s no access. Something about the gate?

            “The gate opens up inside instead of outside and so if it was available for our staff, they’d have to unlock the gate, open it the wrong way, then….”

            He stops for a moment, confused. “Well, anyway, it’d cause an accident.”

            I can’t fathom how a large chain link gate opening the wrong way would cause an accident, but I just let it go. It’s too far away from the topic of the pool. Which is all I care about. And he doesn’t seem to care about at all.

            “The pool was so nice today,” I offer, tired of his rambling. I can see that he’s trying. Trying to be someone who is in charge but has no clue what priorities he needs to explain.

            G, LS’s husband and one of the lifeguards, comes out of the facility, holding the door open for a moment.  Bobby takes the open-door escape and leaves us. Does he say goodbye? Smile with some semblance of social confidence?

            Nope. He ducks into the facility. G continues to hold the door open for him, then lets it close sharply behind him.

            “He didn’t even acknowledge me, let alone thank me for holding the door open for him,” G says, shaking his head.

            LS rolls her eyes even more if that were possible.

            “He gave us a long unasked-for update on the parking lot,” I mention.

            “Let’s get out of here,” G says, climbing onto his bike. LS follows him.

            “You guys have a good afternoon,” I call after them, heading to my car.

            “You too,” LS answers, mounting her bike and pedaling away.

            I unlock the car and heave my swim bag into the back. Then start humming the Rachmaninoff Prelude in D I’ve been practicing. Humming, according to LS’s acupuncturist, helps with anxiety.

Irina Lankova plays Rachmaninov Prelude Op.23 No.4

            I think this is true. But also, I like the melody and the depth of its emotion. A far cry from a talk with Bobby. Who probably has no idea who Rachmaninoff is.

            But he’ll give him a call. If only he could find his number!