17 September 2007

Queen of Concrete



It is the end of summer, and the change of the season. I know the Earth does not recognize it, not for another week or so, but the finale came as Andre walked down the concrete steps into the grim sub-basement of Big Pink. He turned a medium-sized wheel in the dusty machinery room to open the “flush” line to the water outlet, and pulled the plug on the underwater lights.

I was standing with Montana, County Servant and part-time belly-dancer, still dripping from the last plunge into the cool blue water. We heard the water begin to flood out the pipe and down the asphalt to the sanity sewer and saw the warm beckoning lights wink out. The water turned opaque, with only the glitter of the security lights on the unsettled surface, still agitated by my presence.

It was a solemn moment. Andre is on an airplane back to the Czech Republic in the morning, and back in class by the end of the week. He is sad to leave and excited to go.

Montana and I are not going anywhere. We will each retreat into our units for the winter with the rest of the pool crowd, all the gossip done. The long months that the pool is closed truncate our information flow. We will not be able to argue about the window replacement issue, or the state capital reserves of the Association, or who is sleeping with whom.

The Awards are pretty much set for the 2007 season. I was pretty sure I had "First In, Last Out" locked up, since there is nothing they could do to change the latter, and the former appeared near certain unless someone burst unexpectedly from the building.

The "Best Tan" category has been permanently retired by Ms Hamilton; "Most Obnoxious Guest" goes to Lester's the Molester's fat friend who knows everything at the top of his voice; "Cutest Kid" is probably five-year-old Olivia, although the judges are still out on that. The Professor has again secured the "Most Revolting Men's Swimsuit" by acclimation of the ladies for his ancient form-fitting Speedos.

"Best Bikini" is still hotly contested between Margaret and Marty II. I'll be interested to see how that duel plays out at the awards banquet.

We will have to think of something nice for Stanley, since he is differently-abled, and once we figured that out, the women did not mind him staring at them so intently.

Montana is "Queen of the Concrete." She does not swim. I think her season ended with only one full-body immersion. She has retired the trophy for Queen of the Pool Deck, though, best in class. She is brown as a nut, and totally committed to life outdoors. She sets up her camp just after opening time in the morning, and will often stay in her lair on the distant side of the concrete until closing.

In the high summer, that is just at dusk. On the last day, it is in the deep gloom of night. The darkness is a cloak as deep as a blanket, and I sometimes worry that she will be asleep back there, and the lifeguard will lock her in, caged like a lioness until morning.

Montana is a complex person, as I suppose we all are. Her journey to the far end of the pool is one I have heard in snatches over the five years that the pool deck has been my summer home. There was a marriage that did not work, and a change of life; a commitment to living a healthier and less destructive life. She has an incurable optimism, an aversion to being alone, yet is solitary by circumstance. Now she counts things for the County on a spreadsheet, and rules the pool deck in the season.

In the latter, she is the same as the rest of the crew at Big Pink. We all have washed up in the large building by chance, and stayed as a place of refuge.

She has her own throne: a long lounge cushion in bright yellow. She has both disc and MP3 players to listen to, with a headset to comply with pool regulation. Mrs. Hitler is quite stern about the enforcement of that from her customary position at the far corner of the pool. I'm sure she views herself as the Queen, but she would only be a pretender to the throne.

For staying power, Montana has a stock of bottled water, sunscreen, sunglasses and several novels in her bag. She has a blanket if necessary to keep the chill off, and an assortment of towels and other support equipment.

If she could do this sans the suit, she would. Her body is lean. She is the true Queen of the Concrete.

We have struck a deal, the two of us. She stays out of the water, and I stay off her end of the pool deck. I make no protest when she is the last civilian off the concrete for the season, and she permits me to be the last one in the water.

I defended my crown successfully once more, the fifth consecutive year as First and Last in the crisp blue waters. It had been a challenge this year, and I remained vigilant until the moment that Andre snapped the padlock shut on the stout chain that secured the black wire gate. Uncle Bill and Tony had displayed what I considered to be an unhealthy interest in my evening schedule.

I thought it entirely possible that Uncle Bill would show up at the last moment, rushing past Andre and making his own leap into the water, and in a nightmare scenario, result in a Mexican stand-off in the shallow end, Organized Labor versus Retired Government,   neither of us willing to get out of the water first, and let the season die.

I would not have put it past him. As it turned out, there was nothing except Montana, and Andre and me, the only one dripping. Goosebumps began to rise on my skin in the chill. The night was silent except for the water rushing from the pool and down the parking lot. No challengers to my streak.

Andre wrapped the chain around the gate. “Snick,” went the lock.

“Snick,” went the season.

Copyright 2007 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

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