Vic Socotra

21 August 2009

Anger Management

(Anger at Poolside)

Humid. Not unbearable; we do unbearable and this is not it. Makes the pool better, a nd that is all I wanted to do and feel when I got back from a low-turnout beer call in Shirlington. I missed the sun, but that was OK.

The beer was cold, and refreshing.

I am traveling to Chicago on Friday, so Thursday night would have been the new Friday; I had plenty of time for a long swim, and opened up the balcony door to grab my towel after shedding my work clothes in small piles along the hallway.

I left the le tter from the IRS on the dining table to deal with later. Bastards.

I could hear the Voice as I opened the door. It was querulous in tone; high-pitched and angry. Assertive. It seemed to be coming from the lifeguard table, and I stepped down to the southern end of the balcony to peer through the dense leaves to see what might be the matter.

I could see Cuba, the Polish Lifeguard with his hands on his hips. I could not see his face, since it was covered by the yellow and white awning. There was someone in prim white shorts and tall white socks and fiercely dark hair hectoring him; it could have been a toupee, it being dark enough to be something not found in nature.

I had never seen him before, of if I had, certainly not from this angle.

I could make out only some of the words, since it appeared to be a thoroughly one-way conversation; something about the lap-top computer, or a cord, or something. I could clearly hear only the words “manager,” and “Czar Peter,” the pool company owner.

I strained to hear more, since the scrawny little man seemed to be on a roll.

I could make no sense of it, but I don’t like bullies, and I don’t like people raising their voices with the employees.

Why do some people try to make themselves appear big by yelling at people who from a situational perspective are powerless? I have always thought you could tell al lot about a person by the way they treat their waiter or waitress in a restaurant.

Some people are jerks.

“Sir,” I called down. “Sir!” It took a moment to get his attention, since he was so concentrated on making Cuba feel bad. He finally turned and looked up.

“Do you have some sort of problem? Who are you?”

“I have been here since 1988!” the man said, his voice cracking.

“Never seen you before. What is your problem?”

The man gestured at Cuba. “There is an extension cord that he ran to his laptop. I nearly tripped on it the other day and it is still here.”

“Had you thought about watching where you are going?”

“There could be a rain storm=2 0and an electrical short and someone could be hurt. It is a liability issue!” The man seemed determined.

“And I could come down there and help you with your manners, you little Bonaparte.”

“I have been here since 1988 and I have my rights.”

“Where you living with your Mommie? If you have been here that long you don’t get out much.”

“I don’t want a trouble with you,” said the angry man.

“Well, you got it,” I said. “Civilized people don’t yell at the help. Not at our pool.

“I’ll talk to the Manager,” he sputtered.

“So will we all, Sir.”

He stormed off, and a mousey little woman trailed along in his wake. I realized it made sense. He was pumping himself up in front of the wife or girlfriend. I pitied her for that. It is going to make a long life.

He was gone by the time I got down to the pool deck. Cuba was still quivering with anger. I congratulated him on holding his temper and not throwing the guy out.

“Who was that asshole? Does he really live here” I asked.

“Is Gilbert, I think,” said Cuba. “He has pool pass.”

“Well, pool pass or not, I apologize for his behavior. America, for all its faults, doesn’t yell at the Lifeguard.”

“Is OK. I’m back to Poland nex t month.”

I patted him on the shoulder. He is right. Fall is coming. He gets to go home, and we get to keep the assholes right here.

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