Our local pool seems to be suffering from some sort of bipolar disorder.
On the first day we went this year, my family was greeted with strict instructions on how to enjoy ourselves safely. The guard at the counter told us to shower before entering the pool, which seemed fair until I saw the prison-like conditions of the locker room and the quarts of discount sunscreen the lady next to us applied before she plunged in. I dutifully dragged London under the spitting nozzle and led my shivering shaver back to where my wife Lala and her sister Becky had set up. As London and I sadly padded by, another guard told us to walk, which is what I thought we were doing, but maybe we had hurried our pace since there's nothing more pathetic than a half-clothed man-boy combo waddling in the shade of a concrete building. On this day, every rule was enforced in both English and Spanish: No running, diving, hanging on the rope, ferrets, smoking or change for vending machines.
On a subsequent visit, the watchdogs had been replaced by a platoon of zombie lifeguards whose rulebooks must have been waterlogged in an after-hours brain drain festival. London, still in shock from our last boot camp bath, reminded me that we had to shower, so we stuck our heads under, but no one noticed or cared when we scampered out into the sun. There was no one but a guy on the lifeguard stand who was staring out across the horizon as if a crow had just filched his whistle. Even though everything was in place-the sun-worshipping lady on her side next to us, the hallucinogenic mushrooms in the tot pool pissing water-something was amiss. Then I spotted a toddler in red trunks racing across the concrete and nary a word was said. Soon, a few more kids ran by and I saw dozens of unshowered heads bobbing like husky coconuts in the water. I can't say I'm a huge fan of over-legislation but this type of chaos smelled like trouble.
Before I could start my finger wagging, I got roped into some sort of monkey-in-the-middle game with Poppy and London: I threw a softball into the water and since London can't fully swim on his own, he choked Poppy until she either gave up the ball or drowned. During a break where London readjusted his pair of hand-me-down goggles (no wonder he has mistaken gender issues), I rested my foot playfully on Poppy's head. All of a sudden I felt someone shove me in the small of my back, and I had to do that cartoony windmill thing with my arms to avoid falling in.
"Why'd you do that?" I asked Lala, who was sitting idly by.
"Wasn't me," she said, in a tone that reminded me that only idiots like me would pull such a sophomoric stunt. "He did." She pointed to a boy of around 8 or 9 who was zigzagging around the pool like he was being chased by a hive of bees.
"That kid tried to push me in?"
"He was running by, saw you off-balance and just shot you a straight arm," Becky said, not unkindly.
That's when Lala started laughing. Then Poppy. Then Becky and London.
"I can't believe some kid just tried to push you in."
It was obvious that my pusher had the sort of issues that his grandmother and a fleet of lifeguards from Baywatch couldn't handle. He pulled his shirt off, jumped into the toddler pool and began splashing kids in the face. I realize now that I should have had empathy for the kid, maybe intervened before the outraged (and wet) toddlers tried to cold cock him and a lifeguard yelled "Are you deaf?" in his ear when he darted away from her. But instead, I felt like the grandmother: ashamed and outmatched on an otherwise beautifully sunny day.
Copyright 2007 Robert Wilder
Robert Wilder's recently published first book is
Daddy Needs A Drink
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