Vic Socotra

21 September 2009

The Last Cannonball

(Last Cannonball of Summer)

Don’t believe your calendar. Summer died, officially, at 8:07 pm last night.

She did not pass away quietly, leaving with raucous shouting. The Gang that assembled was fully prepared to carry on her post-mortem right into the wake, and I must say that when she died, Summer of 2009 left a beautiful corpse.

This last weekend by the pool was glorious. There was not a cloud in the sky on Saturday, and Sunday brought only high wisps of cirrus. There was a count down to the last of everything: the last lazy Saturday afternoon when college football was largely irrelevant; the last Sunday when the paper could be strewn about, and the book you had been meaning to get to as beach lit came out of the pool bag dog-eared and damp and still unread.

Sunday was devoted to trying for the last sunburn to carry some color on our skins into the coming season of the little death, when the rich brown of our tans is sucked out and paraded in brief triumph on the branches. Then the leaves are gone, blowing across the parking lot and the green cover is stripped from before our window and we have to worry about what we are wearing- or not- as we pass the tall glass windows in our living rooms.

The count-down was painful Sunday afternoon. An hour to burn in the sun, two-to-three o’clock, catching up on the last gossip. Emmie had some, of course, since she was once a lifeguard at this very pool a quarter century ago. That was before the Czechs and Poles arrived to be our guards, and globalization began at the shallow end of the pool.

Between her and Mrs. Hitler they had the residents covered, including the owner of the trashed truck who has appeared again, apparently a prodigal nomad back to live with Mom just until things get better. The owner of the ancient van who has not left his unit in months, and may be over 500 pounds in weight now, ordering delivery food and speaking to no one.

Creepy to think that slow caloric suicide is happening behind the closed blinds above.

There will be no gossip in the months until the pool opens again, since there is not other place where we can gather and do nothing but talk about one another, sipping surreptitiously at the contents of our thermal glasses.

Then an hour’s swim with Jiggs and the Professor and the mad determined woman from the seventh floor. The sun starting to lower, the line of light moving grimly across the pool deck until we were all huddled in a mass in the last triangle of light.

Still two hours to go, and people drifted off to grill. Jiggs and Mrs. Hitler treated me to a steak on the patio in front of the building. Still in my swim trunks, I could feel autumn climbing my ankles and caressing my calves.

The change is in the air, plain enough, but so bittersweet is the leaving of the summer.

We finished up dinner and it was time. We poured a fresh cocktail and trooped out the door to the hallway, out the back door and saw the gang.

Death Junior was looking just like that, fresh from some sleepless adventure in the country involving loud music and no sleep. Mardy 1 rolled in from the Funeral Home, ready to rock. Jeremy and Chad had rolled back a day early from Atlantic City to be in attendance at the ceremony, or truth be told, Lady Luck had picked their pocket and poolside had no slots to play. 007 was there, feeling his way in to the queer rituals of this latest building in his migratory life. Samantha had her cool black swimsuit on, the one that combines a one-piece with tantalizing cut-outs that we will not see again until the middle of 2010.

The Banana and Jessie were there, leading the junior brigade, and they will miss the pool the most. They were there the most, practically living there. It was understandable for sweet shy Jessie, since her family lives in an efficiency unit with a newborn. The Banana is just the freest spirit in the big pink building, and her Dianna Ross permitted her a leash of moderate length and duration.

Ann, Queen of the Dogs, walked by, mildly curious at the lunacy, and Mary Margaret and The President of the International noted the time and came by.

The President did a clean racing dive into the deep end. I cannon-balled in and Jiggs plopped in with authority. The count-down began; at eight minutes to go in the season, the crowd began to chant: “Mardy, Mardy, Mardy!”

“I don’t have my suit,” she said.

“Mardy!, Mardy! Mardy!”

She showed admirable restraint, and did not leap into the blue water until five minutes till.

At two minutes to go, I climbed up the pool ladder.

“Vic, you aren’t quitting, are you?”

“Not on your life. Last leap!” I yelled and hurled myself into the water with the urgency of a lover.

I rose to the surface to see Chad waving triumphantly. Suddenly, out of the darkness, Greg Darling appeared, flashing into the light and into the air above the blue water. He burst to the surface, shouting “Hah! I got the last jump!”

Not to be outdone, the Banana got the last jump in the water as the lifeguard walked to the pool edge.

“Like, I hate to rain on your parade, guys, but it is eight o’clock and the pool is closed. I want to get out of here.”

Silence fell. A grownup- not me- said, “C’mon, it’s over. Let’s get out of here.”

Greg had threatened to try to beat me this year, so I watched him closely as I swam slowly toward the shallow end. He knew I was watching him, and gentleman that he is, climbed out as I stood on the lower step.

The Banana was going to challenge me, I could see, her eyes peering at me in the darkness. This would be awkward if we ended this season in a Mexican Stand Off, she hanging on the ladder and me still calf-deep in the shallow end when Security arrived.

Her Mom yelled at her to get moving, and the tension broke. She climbed out and giggled, and warily, I left the water, padding alertly around the deck to my towel in case someone jumped back in. So far, so good. I nearly had the record again, first in and last out, for the seventh year. So much could still go wrong, though.

The guard was impatient. He clearly had places to go and things to do that did not include our celebration of the death of summer. I put on Chad’s flip-flops by mistake, and unscrambling the proper footwear gave me the excuse to follow along at the end of the crowd.

I stepped through the gate, and the guard was right behind me. We all stood in a semi-circle around the gate as he fished around for the lock. With a “snick,” it clicked shut, and the summer was done.

I stayed there to pensively smoke a cigarette in the sudden peace. The lights glowed from benieth the surface of the water as the ripples began to still.

Above, the door opened to the balcony where Ludmilla had lived. We still do not know why she decamped, not really. A young man with dark good looks stepped out and looked down.

“Hello,” I said, looking up. “My name is Vic. Welcome to Big Pink. Who are you?”

“Thanks,” he said. “My name is Justin.”

“We won’t be disturbing you any further this year, or a good chunk of the next. Once the pool is closed we all go to ground like hedgehogs. We won’t see each other again until the holiday party. You are in Ludmilla’s place, you know.”

“That’s nice,” he said. “It is useful to know a little of the history.”

“What brings you to our little community?”

“Law school. I’ve been overseas. China, Guiana.”

“Interesting.” I stubbed out my cigarette and wished Justin a pleasant evening. I could hear voices high above, probably at Samantha’s where the party had migrated. Summer is done, I thought. Time to go upstairs.

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