The lifeguard job at the indoor pool was supposed to be my solid, my lean on. I had to be professional; I had to be discreet.
But what had happened was like a reflex. The grunt would have been friendly to his fat neighbor and would not have iced him had his fat neighbor shuffled the lawn a little more loudly while he walked. And neither could I. Or maybe it was a joke that I started to make up but never got around to finishing.
I have to finish that joke one of these days. Speaking of tattoos, every other old guy at the indoor pool had at least one of them. Mostly military tattoos from when they were in the Navy or the Coast Guard or the Marines.
At least, that was my guess. The ink had become splotched and smeared thin with time, and some could be easily mistaken for particularly assertive age spots.
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Nobody below the age of seventy-three swam in the Carson Community Indoor Pool during the wintertime. The elderly ruled the pool during the snowy months with an arthritic fist. I never argued with this, of course. Though I did have my hang-ups about sharing swimming water with the aged, my job was even easier than usual. But really, all of them are secretly good swimmers, too. I was thinking about how great that net would be and how much easier it might make things the day I lost my job.
That afternoon, the old fart with emphysema and the faded bathing cap started to clutch his chest, as usual, and started his deafening hacking cough, as usual, which gave me a little itch for one of the Lucky Strikes that I always had a carton of in my locker.
Though earlier that day I had somehow managed to lose the carton but none of the cigarettes, so they were all being held together like pencils by one of the infinite soggy hair ties that you can find lying near the diving board of any pool.
The guy really started to sound like his body was rejecting his lung, louder than normal, at least, and his head began to snap in and out of the neck-deep water in rhythm to
He Finds Himself On His Knees Gargling Drakes Bone coughs. This made me think about how I snapped the hair tie over and over again between my fingers after I had found it earlier today, and how nice it would be to snap it off the roll of cigarettes in twenty, twenty five minutes.
I was rudely brought out of my brief nicotine daydream by the husky cries of the other ancients in the pool. Another name that nobody ever names their kid anymore. All inherently old names that devour youth from the start.
All would make a toddler sound ready to draw Social Security. I sighed and got out of my chair, making sure everyone, especially the Navy veterans, saw the disappointed look on my face at their failure to rescue their fellow man, before I made a stiff dive into the water while trying not to think about how contaminated the water might be with stray grey hairs.
Even an alki-stiff would have...
A deafening cacophony of old-timer outrage was making my ears ring as I squatted there, my hands hovering above Earl like he was a steel guitar I was about to play.
I almost rolled my eyes. But I learned then that old people, veterans or not, are still cowards when it comes to death, just like the rest of us. I turned back to Earl and I noticed the muddied tattoo of a globe and an anchor on his right shoulder. I had to save a Marine? I moved towards the side of Earl and I was ready to begin CPR and all that nonsense when I got a good look at his face. It was turning
He Finds Himself On His Knees Gargling Drakes Bone bit blue, which was further highlighted by the soft white of his bathing cap, still tightly secured to his skull.
His body was struggling to cough and to breathe at the same time, as his necked jerked quickly up and down in a rapid nod. The ancients were still howling at me to save him, but they were too late. Reflex had kicked in. The rhythm of his almost musical convulsions.
The stunning viciousness of it all had brought me to my knees. Reflex had kicked in, like I said, and I was powerless to fight against it. Just a quick urge, like the sharp second you imagine an attractive jogger naked as she bounds past you. Claire or Clara kneeled upwards suddenly in triumph, and Earl began to cough dramatically, not with the cough of emphysema,
He Finds Himself On His Knees Gargling Drakes Bone the short, sputtering coughs of life returning from the abyss.
Claire or Clara turned and looked at me furiously, like I was some kind of psycho. I was just appreciating the scene for a bit. I never got a thanks from Earl for dragging him out of the water. The door of the dingy office snapped shut, and Mason looked up suddenly, distracted from his half-drank can of Mr. Pibb, and regarded the bored-looking man who ambled into his office and proceeded to flop into the chair in front of the desk scattered with empty nacho cheese containers and scraps of notebook paper.
The man had an oddly imbalanced appearance. His jeans were terribly wrinkled, but they were clean, free of any stains. His face was punctuated by a four-day-old beard, but all of the little blond hairs shared the dull glisten of his freshly washed, shaggy head of hair. A faint smack of a cigarette wafted off of him, mixed with a cheap spearmint gum aroma.
Mason made a show of shuffling papers that bore a number of obscene comics that he had drawn over the past three days as if they were important business documents before cramming them into his desk. He then regarded the man seated in front of him, whose eyes were flicking back and forth at the short ceiling and the poorly painted walls, probably having discovered that this was not an office but probably a converted storage room. The man looked up at the ceiling again.
Mason waited, tapping his fingers impatiently on his desk. The man started to grin weakly, thinking it to be a joke, but his smile quickly faded. The tapping stopped, and Mason beamed suddenly at the man, who recoiled backwards a bit as if Mason had shone a flashlight in his eyes. He brushed back his shoulder length brown hair and flicked the gauges in his ears absentmindedly.
Used to come here sometimes when I was in high school. Mason raised his fists in the air in a lighthearted Rocky impersonation, stretching out his Primus t-shirt. Was trying to develop. Being a resident of this fine burg, you probably have gathered that anybody who was trying to develop is either gone or putting all their efforts into selling, not buying.
I like the sound of old trees too much. Gotta love that smell, too. Blaine shifted in his seat and looked at the wall, seemingly uncomfortable. Or you can on your own, whatever fries your bacon.
Mason shook his head. The second was just my own personal curiosity. Mason laughed loudly this time, slamming his hand on the desk. And so is Panhead Bowling Alley. More than I can say for a number of older business establishments in this town. Blaine leaned forward again, a small, curious smile flecking the corners of his mouth. I do remember that Williamson owned this place since Truman was president. So was "He Finds Himself On His Knees Gargling Drakes Bone" your grandfather, or something like that?
I was a bit curious about how he got the place, though. Old man Williamson had a death grip on the location even back when I was in high school, when I came here a whopping five times in the span of like three weeks, because Jessie Blaylock loved to bowl, and the best chance I had of nailing her was to continue to take her here. This made me a little paranoid, and I responded by making sure to kick his pinball machine harder than I usually did. You spill a drop of Lite on a table, Williamson who looked a lot like Emphysema Ed, only with more hair and tattoos would swoop down and squeak it away with a handkerchief.
I used to feel like stuffing the pencil stub I was marking the scores with directly into the fumbling web of his hand whenever he put that damn key ring directly in front of the pocket that held the handkerchief, which was each time that I saw him.
There has to be some sort of exchange rate between bowling hours and number of sexual encounters in automobiles, and we were way, way under the correct rate. So just five times at Panhead Bowling Alley, but it felt like I had been there a great deal because of how the images of Jessie grinning her way through an entire bowling game and Williamson keeping an eye to the cleanliness like a pelican patrols for fish. Mason did not hold the same views as Williamson did in regards to cleanliness, that was for damn sure.
The smell now was closer to that of an old pop-up camper. Stale beer and cheap cigars could not conceal the oily, motor pool aroma mixed with the leafy smell that you get in your house if you leave your doors or a window open for too long. After a four years of inhaling the sterile smell of chlorine six days a week, seven to five Monday thru Thursday and eight to four on Friday and Saturday, I caught myself trying to breathe only through my mouth.
As soon as I walked into the bowling alley, I nearly ran into what looked like the most serious bowler in the place, and it almost lost me the job before I even had a chance to answer the single qualifying question. There were only five other people in the whole shitberg, a mom and her two little kids and an older couple whom were probably the only two that I had not seen swim at Carson Community. But this guy walked with the air of a professional, which I hoped that he was because it was two in the afternoon on a Wednesday and he was getting ready to go bowling.
He harrumphed at me and padded away, trying to coax the wisps of his combover down as his bright yellow bowling shirt strained against the pattern of fat rolls. I glanced at the large bald O shape on the back of his skull and began to wonder if his head could fit in the ball retrieval hole.
I would hold it there while he watched me take his custom-fitted ball and drop it on his toes, one at a time. I watched the bowler unsuccessfully attempt to keep his shirt from exposing the bottom of his belly in between his labored rolls down the alley, all of which had a surprisingly tight spin and commanding finish upon the trembling pins. He turned and slowly sat down at the table in front of his lane and wiped the sweat from his forehead as I slowly finished my bag of pretzels.
It was at this point that I began to notice that the shittiness of the Panhead extended far beyond just the smell.
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Many of the chairs were cracked and had jagged backrests. The lighting was dim and many bulbs looked out. The walls needed a new coat of paint, and bad.
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