Public Life Thrives

On the other hand, public life is alive and too well in the city of Richmond. Compared to Santa Cruz, the pool here is spilling out onto the streets. Literally.
“Mommy! Mommy! They’re letting 4 more people in!”

“What’s going on?” I ask Ian, taking another bite out of my Cliff bar. “It’s utter mayhem here today.”
He shrugs. “They’ve got a waiting list going on.”
“Seriously?!”

On the one hand, this is so great. The community uses the pool and thus, hopefully, it won’t be on the chopping blocks when the City Budget comes up again. Richmond is a city known for its high crime rate, high poverty rate, and poor school system. Yet when it comes to the pool, it seems that all this tragedy is left out on the street. The Plunge is brimming with exuberant energy---were these the same kids that sold drugs on street corners?

I had a feeling not, but then, who knew? The pool was a place, perhaps, where the tragedies of Richmond could be set aside for an afternoon.

Which is a good thing, right? Yet, today, when I run into Francine at the Richmond Y (yet another thriving Richmond establishment), she was anything but enthusiastic about the Plunge. “Oh!” she shakes her head, the French accent stronger in her dismay. “Yesterday, I go to the Plunge and it was a Zoo! They had a waiting list. It was insane!”

“Yes, I heard,” I nod sympathetically. “I spoke with a woman in the locker room and she said that it was the end of spring break. That all the families were taking advantage of the last Sunday of their vacation.”
“Maybe….” Francine sighs loudly, as we let a sullen woman pass between us. “I am on the waiting list. And they cannot tell me how long it will be. 20 minutes? Okay I can wait. But 30 minutes? An hour? No it is not possible. I come back here and it is empty!”
“Really?” I shake my head in wonder. “What about the Special Olympics? They said they were gonna be taking up the pool on Sunday mornings for 3 hours.”

“I don’t know,” she muses. “All I know it that The Plunge. I will not go again on a Sunday afternoon. Though this Sunday, it is Easter. Remember we go there last year?”
I pause, thinking. “Oh, yes, that’s right. We did. Will you go again this weekend?”

She sighs again, the French accent echoing through the locker room air. “I do not know…..I will see. I will call and see when they open.”
I tell her how it’s 1 pm now. How Ian and I had gotten there right at 1 and so hadn’t had to sign up on the waiting list. She notes that the Plunge used to be open at 11. Maybe this is the reason for the mayhem? Two fewer hours to pile all the Richmond swimmers in.

Sullen Woman sulks by us again. “There is nothing that we can do,” Francine stares pointedly at her receding back, then shakes her head her head, resigned. “People like that, It will come back to them.”
I laugh, “I have a story about her.” But it’s too gross and I’m too tired to tell it I think to myself.
Francine eyes me speculatively. Then grins. “I will see you Sunday.”
“Yes, Sunday.”

For what better way to spend Easter than to participate in the Public life of the Richmond Plunge? Esp. if it's in the company of an opinionated French woman.
Oh la la!

HARVEY WEST POOL

“That sort of decision is way above my pay grade.”

Santa Cruz Park and Rec Man sits musing in his mini truck in front of the closed doors of Harvey West Pool. He’d been telling us about how the pool was only open now in the summer. How a private company had taken it over from Parks and Rec when 30 workers had been laid off in 2009. If it were up to him, he’d have the pool up and running all year around like it used to. But it wasn’t up to him. Hence the pay grade remark.

I nod. It’s all about the pay grade isn’t it? If you’ve the power, you’re paid the grade. And if you don’t? Well, you end up like Rec Man, musing in front of the closed pool doors, wistfully wishin' for days gone by when Harvey West Pool was a thriving year around pool.
I’d called first, of course, before Ian and I headed over to the park. The recording said the pool was open from 11-2:30, M-Thurs, but I was dubious. The recording was dated Summer 2013. I didn’t have a good feeling about it, but then I thought, well, it’s Santa Cruz. Maybe no one changed the recording from a year ago.

And when we’d pulled up to the park, a beautiful spring day full of green lawns, blossoming trees, and jr. high school kids on a field trip, I was excited. The pool! Harvey West! I couldn’t wait to dive in.

The front doors were locked. No one around. There was a sign saying to enter the pool from the back, so I tromped around the chain link fence, bothered a guy reading Clive Cussler. “Excuse me, do you know anything about the pool? Is it open now or not till the summer?”
He’d eyed me suspiciously. Clive was more important than my pool question, yet he tried to answer me nevertheless. Maybe so I’d leave him alone. Telling me that “I’m not sure, but I think it’s only open in the summer.”

Incredulously, I had exclaimed, “But I know I used to swim here year around!”
“You could try to ask over at the little kids’ pool,” he offered, lying to me. “There’s usually someone over there giving swim lessons. Maybe they can help you.”
I glanced across the fenced in pools. There was no one over there, but I dutifully left him to Clive and tromped over there to an exercise in Futility.

A sporty girl strode by. “Excuse me, do you know anything about the pool being open?” I asked her.
She grinned, “Nope.”
“Are you a swimmer?”
“Nope.”
“A runner?” I ventured.
“Hey! Yeah! How’d you know?”
“You’ve that athletic way about you!”
“I like your red glasses,” she exclaimed as she trotted past me. I noticed she had red sunglasses on too. “I like yours too!”

But no info on the pool.

And so, back to Ian talking to Rec Man and the woes of low pay grade status. “Yeah, they got rid of the diving board. They have swim lessons in the summer, but it’s not the same as it used to be. I’d love it if it got back to that. I love working at the pool.”
He shook his head sadly for a bygone pool era.

I too hankered for times gone by. Those days where Owen Hill would meet me and Sue Marsh after our swim; we’d stroll down the grassy hill, joking and laughing. Go back to the duplex. Make some nachos and watch Star Trek as the Fruit Factory lumbered crashingly on.

Harvey West Pool wasn’t what it used to be. At least not now.

But you never know. The economy could bounce back. Pools could be given more funding. The Santa Cruz Parks and Rec would thrive and Rec Man could once again bask in Pool Employment Glory.

“I could just hop the fence!” I grin over at Rec Man, who glances at me nervously now.
“I’m not gonna go there,” he replies, pulling his hat over his eyes.
I laugh. “Just kidding.”
He nods, takes off, the little cart put put putting away down the hill.

“Wanna go check out Polar Bear Ice Cream while we’re here?” I ask Ian.
“Sure,” he grins.

If you can’t swim, there’s always ice cream. Mexican Chocolate. Or Peanut Butter Honey. Or Bear Paws.
Yes, a couple of Bear Paws would fill the void of a thwarted swim. At least for now.

FLIP FLOPS

“Excuse me…?” Striped Bikini Girl stares at me shyly. Then points to her feet, clad in nondescript beige Ross-type flip flops. “Do you know? Is it okay?”

I smile, encouraging? Not really, I’m freezing and tired, but had noted her when I’d gotten out of the shower. So cute in her red and blue striped bikini with the string ties. I hadn’t seen string ties since 9th grade.

“The….” She searches for the correct vocabulary. Where is she from? Not Richmond. Maybe China? Vietnam? Korea?

“Flip flops!” She grins, proud. “Do you know? Are they okay to wear to pool….?” She searches again for the vocabulary. Pool deck wasn’t rolling off her tongue. I’m reminded of the time we stayed in Venice. We wanted to go to the local public pool. The landlord had been very insistent on our bringing pool shoes to wear on the deck. In Venice no bare feet allowed on deck.

Today, though, I honestly had no idea. It’d been a long journey to get to the Richmond Plunge. The pandemonium at Hilltop Y with the Special Olympics mayhem taking over the normally idyllic Sunday morning pool time. My complaint taken down by Jasmeeen. “Can I lodge a formal complaint?” about how the Special Olympics workout from 10:45- 1:45 hadn’t been on the schedule.

Hello here we go again! It’s not Rocket Science to make a schedule! And 3 hours! Shit. I’m all for every type of ‘abled’ ,disabled or differently abled body to swim, but during my Sunday mornings?

Can’t they figure something else out?

In any case, the Richmond Plunge had been glorious. A lane to myself. The tall Natatorium ceiling with its pipes and mushroom lights; the birds a plenty mural of the lake at point Richmond with a swimmer ready to take the plunge; the little girls in pink polka dots whispering behind their lime green goggles. (Yes you can whisper behind goggles if you’re 7 at the Richmond Plunge with your best friend)

And now, Bikini Flip Flop Girl. She was utterly charming. I had no clue if it was okay to wear flip flops out on the deck, but I couldn’t imagine the slacker lifeguards giving a shit about her footwear, and so I smiled, and lied: “Oh, I’m sure it’s OK!”
She beams, nods quickly, glances down at her feet and then turns and skips out. Her strait dark ponytail swinging down her slender back.

And I think. What the hell was I so upset about this morning? Here I am. At the Richmond Plunge. Lying to charming young bikini girls about footwear regulations.

Life is good. Isn’t it?

But I still wonder if I’ll hear anything back about my formal complaint I lodged.

Though at this moment, I don’t really care. Because life at the Natatorium just can’t be beat.
Though they could use a couple of hairdryers. And a sauna. And…..

GOD SAVED HIS SORRY ASS!

PP glances disdainfully at the layout of drying clothes in a prime Utopia spot—an entire corner of the top bench. Then notices Green Faced Witchy Woman and knows they belong to her. Decides not to say anything, but climbs up behind GFWW to plop down next to Sandy.

GFWW gives her the Evil Eye. PP smiles sweetly at her as DL takes the lower bench.

“Hello, Ladies,” Sandy says.
“Hey, Sandy,” PP replies. “You back at your pool yet?” Sandy’s regular ‘club’ pool, and we can all imagine how divine that would be, has been closed for several weeks. She’s had to navigate the terrors of the Oakland Y’s pool in the meantime.
“Yes, thank goodness,” Sandy sighs. “I was about ready to kill someone the other day.”
“Really?” PP grins, eager to hear the story of course.

“Tell, me, P,” Sandy continues, “why is it that people can’t stay on their own side of the lane? I’m swimming with this guy, he’s doing the breaststroke and every time he passes me, he kicks me. Not hard, mind you, but what the f….!”
Sandy shakes her head as P nods in agreement. “Yeah, I know what you mean. The lanes are super narrow here. But that doesn’t have to matter. When I pass someone and I’m doing the breaststroke, I just glide till I’m past them.”

“Exactly!” Sandy exclaims. “So do I! But this guy…..I tell you, I was ready to have ‘words’ with him. He got out just in time….”
P nods.

"God saved his Sorry Ass!” Sandy harrumphs.

P and DL both crack up, DL’s eyes wide with delight behind her wire rimmed glasses. GFWW heaves her massive mean body up and lumbers out of the sauna. Leaving her drying clothes on the prime space still.
“Yeah, well, he was lucky,” P agrees. “I had the same thing happen to me at Hilltopia. This man kicked me so hard when he passed me doing the breaststroke that I had to get out of the pool. That was a Man Kick that felled me!”
DL laughs.

“I think you came up with that term, DL, ‘Man Kick’?”
“Yeah, I think I did.”
“Well, I’m sorry that happened to you,” Sandy shakes her head, “but I tell you, this guy was just out of line. I’m glad to be back at my pool.”
“I bet,” P nods as DL rises and stumbles out of the sauna.
“Oh, there goes the Canary!” Sandy exclaims.

“Yup,” P agrees, “must be almost time to go.”
“That it is, that it is.” Sandy sighs, taking a large slug of her water and then pouring the rest over the top of her head.
GFWW lumbers back in. Gives P another Evil Eye. What the hell is up with that? P wonders. What had she ever done to her? She was even being nice today by not commenting on her drying clothes that were breaking all the rules.

Later DL tells P how she gives GFWW the Evil Eye back. Sicilian Style. Once again, P wishes she were Italian. No words would be necessary. Just one look and wham! All would be well!

Soup, Sauna and Hair

“There’s this woman who brings her soup into the sauna, the part I don’t like is that she brings it in a glass jar, leaves it while she’s doing her workout, and then when she returns, it’s nice and hot and ready to eat.”

“Eeeewww, GROSS!!!!!” P exclaims, thinking how food should not be mixed with extreme heat and naked women.

They’d all just been in the sauna a few minutes earlier where Sandy had announced that it was 200 degrees. P had thought it seemed a bit on the hot side, but liked it. DL, upon hearing this extreme heat proclamation, had zoomed out, leaving PP to hear about Sandy’s foray into the Y’s pool since her club was closed.

“They close this pool to clean it, for how long? 10 days? And then what? I go for a swim and catch hair in my hands while I’m swimming.”
“Hair in your hands?” P asks, thinking about how disgusting this is. “Like big clumps of hair?”

“No, no, just a strand here or there,” Sandy chuckles. “But still. At my Club the signage is very clear: Showers Required. Caps Mandatory. I have no idea why they don’t enforce the wearing of caps here!”

P nods, “Yeah, that’s strange. They’re so strict about everything else.” P thinks about all the times she’s tried to swim in the walking lane and been immediately admonished in loud lifeguard public humiliation fashion to move over to lap lane. “NO SWIMMING IN THE WALKING LANE!” even if there were no walkers in sight.

They won’t let you swim in the walking lane, but you can lose your hair all over the pool?
Evidently pool hygiene is not nearly as important as lane enforcement.

“It’s not nearly as strange as it may seem,” Sandy continues the heat food commentary. “I had a mailman who’d put his lunch on the engine to warm it up.”

“You’re kidding!” P exclaims.
“No, I am not,” Sandy methodically pulls her stuff out of her locker and packs it into her gym bag.
“I’ve heard of that,” DL confirms.
“Seriously?” P can’t contain her incredulity. “But doesn’t the food fall off the engine while the mailman is driving around delivering mail?”
“He had a system for it, evidently,” Sandy continues. “I’ve known lots of people who do this.”
“What was he warming up?” P asks. “Eggs Benedict?”
They all laugh as the Y girl comes whizzing through collecting towels.

“Natalie,” Sandy commands, “go into the sauna and see what the temperature is.”
Natalie stops her towel retrieval and obeys without question. For if the Mayor of Oakland asks you to do something, you do it, right?
“I’ve been needling them for weeks about how it was too cool,” Sandy whispers conspiratorially to PP and DL. “And now, it’s too hot. I just want her to see it for herself.”

DL and PP both nod. The Mayor of Oakland has her methods. She knows what she wants and she knows how to get it.
If she wants the sauna hotter, she just has to ask (for a couple of weeks—actually faster results than Jean Quan). If she enjoys a woman’s soup warming, she just has to observe and let it happen.

And if she wants the hair strands cleaned out of the pool?

P is certain that it will only be a matter of time before this situation is eradicated by a strict cap wearing policy. She can just picture some innocent family, mom, dad, brother and sister, ready to hop into the pool without caps.

“NO SWIMMING WITHOUT CAPS ALLOWED!” A lifeguard will holler. “SWIMMING CAPS MANDATORY!!!!”
The family will have no choice but to retreat to either don their caps, or head back upstairs to play in the child watch area.

Oh the power that the Mayor of Oakland wields! It’s only a matter of time till that glass jar for the soup will be replaced with plastic.

If that’s what Sandy meant about not liking the glass that is.

The Next Mayor of Oakland!

“Sandy should be Mayor of Oakland,” DL announces, floating down Broadway after an evening of Utopia.

“That is an excellent idea!” P exclaims. “She would make a perfect Mayor of Oakland.”
DL nods as she unlocks Moondoggie’s passenger door, P climbing in for a last ride in DL’s 13 year old chariot.

Settling in, P muses about all the reasons Sandy should be Mayor of Oakland.

1. She is a member of the downtown Oakland YMCA
2. She is a swimmer
3. She has opinions

4. She used to be a travel agent
5. She knows how to navigate Utopia’s strangeness
6. She wears aqua and lavender leisure suits
7. She feels guilty about having a maid
8. She has a sense of humor that surprises
9. She is open to anyone and everyone
10. She vacations in Mexico

11. She has danced at her cotillion
12. She drives a big white car
13. She knows where to shop
14. She has a Greek husband/partner
15. She knows when to be silent
16. She wields a wide spray bottle
17. She reads the New Yorker on the Treadmill

18. She narrates stories with aplomb and panache
19. She thinks DL and PP are fun
20. She is Oakland

So, yes, DL is right. Sandy would make a great Mayor of Oakland.

P wonders if they can start a write up campaign. Sure, Jean Quan is powerful, but can she lay claim to all of the above? P has NEVER seen her at the Oakland Y, and frankly, a regular membership should be a requirement for any mayoral candidate. Why, you may ask?

The downtown Oakland Y is a perfect microcosm of what Oakland could be: it’s got ‘community’ and ‘heart’ and ‘health. Everyone gets along at the Y---it’s a diverse and divergent membership.

Plus, it has a pool. And if the Mayor of Oakland were a swimmer, like Sandy, well, then, all would be well with the city.
For doesn’t water solve all problems? P has never seen any of the ills that plague Oakland in the pool, with the exception of some minor violence against rubber duckies by naughty children.

So! Sandy for Mayor of Oakland!
DL and P just have to find out her last name before the next election.

Secret Santas

P watches in rapt fascination as Asian Towel-Headed Woman stands at the plastic bag dispenser machine. Methodically, forcefully, she pulls and pulls and pulls one after another after another of these plastic bags down, wrapping them around her fist into a giant plastic bag ball. With each pull of a bag, she gives a little grunt, her focus on her task, taking zero notice of P standing next to her staring.

“What the hell was she gonna do with all those plastic bags?” P asks DL a few minutes later as they exit the locker room, heading up the stairs to the torture machines.

“I dunno,” DL shakes her head, the mass of dark tresses creating a wave of puzzlement.
“I mean, is she gonna take them all home and use them as freezer bags? Or is she gonna pack up all of her socks and panties and such and preserve them from the elements? Or what?”
“Maybe she’s gonna use them for ice? You know how everyone in Utopia has those plastic bags of ice that they strategically place all over themselves?”
“Yeah….” P giggles, nods, then shakes her head, “Maybe. But that’s a lot of ice!”
DL joins in the giggle.

It’s good to be back at Utopia with DL. It’s been too long away. What with one thing or another, P and DL’s schedules have been skewed and P’s been swimming at Hilltopia more often.
Tonight’s off to one hilarious start with Plastic Bag Fist Woman. And as DL and P climb the stairs, their eyes wide with amusement, they begin their ritual routine. Giggling on the red mats; staring at Muscled Men; losing count at the machines.

And the pool! After her torture machine gossip ritual with DL, P heads out onto the pool deck. Is beyond pleasantly surprised when there's just one slow snail swimmer in the end lane and two playing teens in the lane next to him.
All the other lanes were open!

A too fit swimmer, stretching seriously on deck, barely glances at her, but she can't contain her delight: “This is what we like!” she waves her arm at the empty pool, grinning.
“Yes,” he manages a small tight smile, his stretching a most serious business. Later P noticed he was doing laps and laps of butterfly.
Of course.

Later in Utopia, it was back to the women’s gossipy banter. Sandy griping about how she was in a funk from pointless obligatory letters from friends she hadn’t heard from all year: “Get over it, Sandy!” she harrumphed at herself as she stretched her legs up and over her naked belly. Then she was on to some place on Grand Ave where you could buy specialty spices for all those ‘Secret Santas’ in your life.

“Oh, that’s a great idea,” Gap Tooth Woman exclaims, eyes bright with anticipation. “I have a Secret Santa in my office and I had no clue what to get her.”
“That’s right,” Sandy nods. “And you can re-gift too.”
“Yes! Otherwise you just perpetuate a cycle of Hoarders!” Gap Tooth exclaims to the titter of all the women in Utopia.

The door opens. A square sullen Asian woman saunters in, climbs up to the top shelf corner, perches next to Sandy. Spreads her legs as far apart as possible and then stares at P and DL who both sit directly in the line of her Belligerent Vagina Exposure.

What the hell was up with her? P wonders. Did she have a case of Sullen Sauna Exhibitionist Disorder? (SSEC) P wants to look at DL to gauge her reaction but doesn't dare.

Sandy shifts, but almost imperceptibly, away from Vagina Woman. P could tell that Sandy thought there was something off about her, but was too classy to say or do anything.

Sullen Vagina continued to stare at P. It was a bit unnerving, but also fascinating. What the hell was up with her? Sure the women were all naked and sure there were Vaginas galore exposed, but not in such a belligerent way.
Maybe she was testing them all?
But about what? And why?

“What time is it?” DL asks.
“The Witching Hour,” Sandy responds, sighing and rising.
“Oh, my, I had no idea it was so late,” DL murmurs, heading out the door.

Vagina Woman stays put. Never says a word. Continues to stare with Vagina bared.
She was mysterious. And unnerving.


She was being a bit naughty even. What if Santa found out? Oh, he already knew, right?
But just in case, P wasn't gonna tell. Well, at least not till she published her blog.

Hair by the Numbers

“Hey DL!” P yanks at another tangle before shoving a lock in DL’s face.
“Smell my hair! I used that Suave Coconut Conditioner yesterday and my hair still smells like it!”
DL takes an obligatory sniff, “I like that stuff.”
“Yeah, me too. At least the smell. It does have staying power that way. But it dries my hair out.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I think so. Well, it’s hard to tell cuz swimmers have notoriously wrong dry hair anyway, but the Suave isn’t great for the moisturizing hair situation” (MHS).

She nods, “I never knew that. I use the shampoo and I thought it dried my hair out, but now that you mention it…..” DL’s voice trails off. Lost in Hair Moisture Reverie Situation (HMRS)? “What kind do you use instead that’s better for the moisture situation?”

“Well, I got some huge tubs of Tres Semme conditioner, but it’s shitty too. Of course, I won’t throw it out; I’m too cheap. I used to use Finesse, but then I dunno…..”
P yanks at another tangle as the YMCA girl comes swooping through the locker room to collect towels, “5 minutes, Ladies! 5 minutes!” she hollers at them cheerfully.
DL rolls her eyes, “You know what you should do, P?”
“What?”
“You should find out what kind of Product is good for the Moisturizing Restoration Situation” (MRS).

“Yeah, that’s a good idea.”
“And you should find out the prices too. Like give us the Product from cheapest to most expensive.”
“OKAY! Good idea. And then I can put it on the blog!”
“Yah! Put it on the blog.”
And so, here P is writing the blog but without the full research product situation finished. Cuz to be honest, she tried, but it gave her a headache. All that Product. And then the prices? She never even got to that point.

She just found some funny pictures, which she’ll put on the blog and then she’ll do the price point research later.

Just kidding.

She’ll never do that. Numbers hurt her head. And her hair.
Do numbers hurt hair? How could that be? Can you just picture it? You’re standing in the pool and all of a sudden a bunch of numbers come raining down on the swimmers’ heads. 9’s and 3’s and 4’s and 7’s and then even two digit numbers like 22 and 77 and 88 and why are these the same number? They could be numbers like 34 and 59 and ....

And the numbers would be different colors. The 3’s could be orange. And the 4’s could be lime. And the 9’s could be aqua.
Can you see the numbers?

And then the numbers could also play music. The 5’s could play a phrase from Beethoven and the 2’s could sing out some Schubert.
Can you hear the numbers?

P can. But then, she’s got a vivid visual imagination when it comes to the pool. And her hair. And numbers?

Surprisingly, these too. She owes this to Suave, though, and her tangled mass of tresses.
Product anyone?

A Rubber Ducky?

P surveys the scene from the deck for a few minutes. Mayhem. Sigh. What the hell were the kids doing still in the pool at 8:45 at night? Didn’t they have school now? Why were they still here, preventing her from any hope of a decent swim?

All the lanes have at least two swimmers, if not three. P refuses to circle swim at the Oakland Y. It is hellacious beyond words.

Standing forlornly on the deck, clutching all of her equipment, she curses the Oakland Y. Damn damn damn I hate hate hate this pool! she mutters to herself.

Then, lo and behold, she spies a swimmer stopping, removing his cap, preparing to climb out. A lane! Yes! Quickly, she scurries over to grab it before another forlorn swimmer soul gets in ahead of her.

“Mind if I share your lane?” she asks the super swimmer guy.

Politely he lifts his goggles, revealing a beautiful set of handsome guy eyes. You know the kind? Where the lashes are long and lovely, but he’s still a guy?

“No problem,” he smiles, shooting out a killer sexy swimmer vibe.

P slips her feet into her fins, trying not to be too distracted by Sexy Swimmer. Glancing down her lane, she notices a toy floating in the lane. The kids had thrown it in, obviously, and now it bobs gently up and down, small and sweet.

“I see, though,” P grins, pointing, “that you already have someone in your lane.”
Sexy Swimmer glances down the lane in the direction she's pointing, then gives her a sidelong smirk, “A Rubber Ducky?”

Laughing, P dips her fins into the water, “Yup, that’s what it looks like. I bet we can swim circles around it!”

He grins, pulls his goggles back down over his handsome eyes and takes off.
P hops in, swims up to the Rubber Ducky and scoops it up. But it's no Rubber Ducky....it's a Rubber Walrus.

Even better.

A walrus means what? Hell, she has zero associations with walruses. Though weren't there a couple of walruses in Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland? And weren't they zany and funny and well.....duh, if they were in this story, they'd have to be silly.

She'll have to do some research on this vague association. But for now, she
tosses it into the kids’ side of the pool, and dives under the water, noting how Sexy Eyes has already lapped her, Rubber Ducky notwithstanding.

Panties in the Coal Mine

“What’s That over there in the corner?” P nods toward a mysterious square dark cloth laid out neat and flat on the top bench of Utopia.

“She’s drying it,” Sandy sighs, loudly. “I remember once I was at the Berkeley Y and this woman was drying her swimsuit in the sauna and I started to smell this horrible stench and said to her, ‘I think your Nylon is burning.’”

P and DL both chuckle. It’s a common theme in the women’s saunas of the YMCA. Women hanging their various clothing situations to dry.

“And these women that are always drying their panties in the sauna?” Sandy harrumphs, “I’d just toss a clean pair in my gym bag. Enough with the laundry at the Y.”

“Yeah,” P agrees, “I mean, how dry can those wet panties get in the sauna anyway?” P thinks about saggy droopy moisty panties and wrinkles her nose. But she has to laugh to herself about the Panty Theme for the day. That very morning, she’d been at a meeting, where the Chair of one of the Graduate Departments was going on and on about how her plumbing for her washing machine was clogged up and the plumber kept telling her it was her fault and she’d miffed at him and said, ‘Hell, do you think I just bunched up my panties and jammed them down the pipes to give you a thrill.”

Did she really say that?

P isn’t quite sure now after her long day and arduous swim.

Sandy shrugs, “I dunno. I just remember that stinking nylon suit at the Berkeley Y and how surprised the woman was that her suit was burning up. Hell, it is nylon after all.”

P nods, “It does seem like it’d catch fire even.”

“That it could. That it could. Hell, that’s why they have the signs all over the place saying don’t hang your wet shit, excuse my French, on the sauna rods.”
They all share a giggle. Then sit in companionable Sauna Silence for a few moments.

“How was your swim tonight?” Sandy asks.
“Oh, pretty good. I shared a lane with a super beautiful efficient swimmer.”
Sandy nods in approval, “Very good.”
“Yeah, I was amazed. She was so smooth and fast. I could tell she was pulling really hard under the water and so when she stopped I asked her about her stroke and she told me about it.”
“What did she say?”
“She said that she was pulling out to the sides instead of under our bodies, like I thought you were supposed to.”
Sandy frowns, “The S shape, under and around.” She makes the S shape motion in front of her sweat beaded torso.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too, but this woman, well…she was so fast…..” P pauses for a moment, thinking of Super Efficient Swimmer Woman. “I do hafta admit that maybe I got it wrong though. I had my earplugs in and I was super distracted by her beautiful eyes.”

DL laughs, softly? Or does P just imagine this?

Sandy continues to puzzle through the S Stroke Paradox, “I wonder what she said exactly?”
“If I swim with her again, I’ll try to ask and pay more attention to what she’s saying,” P offers.
“Yes, do,” Sandy advises.

DL rises, weaves out of Utopia.
“Ah, the Canary in the Coal Mine makes her move,” Sandy chuckles. “Guess it’s time we follow suit.”

P tries to remember which story she used to teach that used this idiom. It was something famous and literary where the entire narrative was spun from this premise. There was an actual coal mine that the characters were all trapped in and the canary actually was sacrificed and it was horrible and sad and real all at the same time....

What was it? Something by Steinbeck? Or Nabokov? Or hell…..she can’t remember now. Maybe she’ll remember it tomorrow.

Or not.

Exiting out of Utopia, P encounters Evil Eye Towel Woman heading into Utopia (She’d given P and DL the Evil Eye earlier in the hot tub—P didn’t know why, but could only guess it was because she was giggling at something DL had just said. No giggling in the Hot Tub! the Evil Eye seemed to be saying).

After a moment, Evil Eye emerged from the sauna with the ‘dry’ fabric that had started this whole story.

Of course it belonged to her. How else could the story end?

She gives P the Evil Eye as she passes by while folding neatly her damp square cloth.

Proudly, she saunters into the steam room. P stifles another giggle, hurrying into the showers before it escapes into the steamy damp air.