Posted by Justine Solomons on 26 February 2021, in News, Showcase, Writers
The Pool
The Lifeguard
The lifeguard sits in the chair ten feet above the pool deck, a whistle around her neck. Her shift is two hours long. There are nine people in the pool: one in the fast lane, three in the medium lane, two in the slow lane. At the far side of the pool, two lanes have been combined for swimming lessons, and a college student is dragging a small child on a kickboard. The child’s mother sits on the edge with her feet in the water. That makes nine. The lifeguard keeps her eyes on the lanes, and on the doors to the locker rooms, out of which more swimmers might appear at any time.
The Swimmer
The swimmer is thankful to have the lane to himself. He can’t stand it when some slow old fogey dives into the fast lane, showing off their years-old swim technique, probably honed on a high school team in the eighties. The swimmer has a regimen to complete, as he decided—it was his decision—not to go out for the college team. Therefore he must swim at least an hour a day, five days a week, to maintain his current muscle mass percentage. Having the lane to himself means he can swim with less rage.
The Child
The child hates swim lessons. He hates how the pool gives him goosebumps up his back when he jumps in. He hates how his mother stays so far away from him, all the way on the other side of the pool, when he would prefer her to come in and hold his hand. He hates his teacher, who pretends to be nice when he can’t lift his arm over his head and cup the water on the way down, just like she showed him; it is hard. He loves one thing about swimming, though. He loves being underwater. If he could, he would sink to the bottom of the pool and stay there for the whole lesson.
The Lifeguard
Two people emerge from the locker room. One is a janitor, who strolls across the pool deck with a garbage bag in her hand. The other is a student in a Y-back racing suit, a swim cap, and goggles. The student takes a glug of water from a bottle, puts it down and dives into the fast lane. She does not look human, the way she slices through the water. She is a creature, a water bird. She is grace. The lifeguard loses herself for a minute, remembering the book of Greek mythology she read as a child, with its faded drawings and bent corners. Then she sits up straight and counts. Ten.
The Janitor
The janitor is glad that it is Tuesday, and not Saturday. The pool is less busy on a Tuesday, and that means there are fewer hair balls in the drains, sanitary napkins overflowing from the metal bins, and shit floating in the toilets. Her feet hurt, and she’s wearing old, worn sneakers. She would like to buy new ones. The lifeguard on duty never takes her eyes off the water. Some of them are kind, they look at her and smile when she walks by. Not this one.
The Parent
The parent avoids eye contact with her child while he’s in the water. She believes the child has forgotten to object to the swim lesson, and that if he catches her eye, he will remember and make a scene. The child is manipulative that way.
The Lifeguard
There are one hour and forty six minutes left in the lifeguard’s shift. She shifts in her chair. Her left foot is asleep. No one has entered the pool deck in the last few minutes, though one aging swimmer has exited the slow lane. Nine. The woman in the fast lane keeps a mesmerizing pace, her elbows emerging in a rhythmic dance. Every two laps, she overtakes the man in her lane. The child bobs underwater. The men’s locker room door swings open, and a middle-aged man walks onto the deck. He is completely nude, brown curly hairs from his nipples to his toes. He turns his head right, he turns his head left. His face is abject confusion; he’s in a bad dream. The janitor, picking up discarded belongings in the bleachers, stops and looks. The man turns around, his white buttocks disappearing back into the locker room. Well, that’s a first, the lifeguard thinks. She looks at the pool and counts. Only two in the medium lane, now. She sits taller, scanning the bottom of the pool. Her heart races. But then she sees a man toweling himself off in the corner. Eight. One hour and forty three minutes to go.
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Rachel Mann is an NYC-based writer of fiction and plays. Her debut novel, ON BLACKBERRY HILL, won the National Jewish Book Award for Young Adult Literature in 2016. She graduated from the Novel Studio course at City University London, as well as from Columbia (BA) and New York University (MA). She can be contacted via her website www.rachelmannwriter.com or on twitter @rachelmannnyc.
Absolutely delightful! Well done!