06 September 2009
 
Revolt of the Grandmas

(Jolly Roger Done the Right Way)
 
I was going to write about the breathtaking efficiency of the Military Tribunal system this morning- the one held here in the District in 1942, not the ones in Guantanamo today, though there are some interesting parallels. It is necessary to finding the missing saboteurs, #276-281.
 
I have the best of intentions on that, but instead it was time to hoist the Jolly Roger, and bid Kuba that Polish Lifeguard farewell as he heads back to Mittleeurope and the darkness of the Continent in the fall and winter.
 
But then Lolita and Juggs turned up, the actual Pros from Dover, and I discovered that there is an amazing tart beverage derived from the apple family- DeKuyper Pucker Sour Apple Schnapps, to be precise- that when served from a bottle right out of the freezer has amazing properties to transform both space and time.
 
But that is a bit out of sequence, thought it is the direct reason I am both late and spatially challenged. Not all the memories of how I arrived here at the keypad are completely clear. There may be some mysteries in the narrative where I have to created a cloud and say “Poof!” (insert mystery) and then something else happened.
 
Anyway, it started out clearly enough and it will likewise be clear enough at the end, like a military tribunal when we are all hauled in front of the Board meeting. I don’t know what will be the outcome of the Revolt of the Grandma’s, which was a direct assault on the Rules.
 
Sequentially, the note in the elevator ominously announcing a Meeting on the Rules of Conduct at the Pool would probably be the start of this last week. But my part of the Revolt began when I came up from Brandy Station to attend- business would not die Friday, and I had to consult with the feral cats Heckle and Jeckle on how we would all deal with the new automatic garage doors. I paid the man who installed them, and had to run out to get additional cat chow when I ascertained that the cats did not care for defrosted hot dogs, which was the only thing I had handy as a substitute.
 
Later, watching the light fail over the pasture, I had that premonition of the coming autumn wash over me. It is going to be great down at the farm, watching the season change, but I was melancholy that the pool season back at Big Pink was soon to be over.
 
The usual suspects were throwing a big going-away of our Polish lifeguard, Kuba. He is a good kid, and I will miss his presence by the pool entrance almost as much as the evenings of healthy exercise and gossip.
 
The trouble began almost as soon as I plunged into the bracing waters of the September pool. It is not possible to have Labor Day any later on the calendar unless you called it Halloween. Jeremy and Chad were the ring-leaders of one of the revolts against Authority, of course.
 
Chad was just back in town from a family emergency out West, and was ready to commit to the party in a big way. They had a nice family over to round out their stipulated number of guests- that has been one of the huge issues this season at the pool, ranking right up there with the Great Raft Wars of 2007.
 
The Rules in that case clearly state that water-borne toys are not permitted, and the members fractured along the lines that rafts were not toys, but rather therapeutic medical devices. Mrs. Hitler was outraged, and led the Strict Enforcement Party in the battle against the Inflatable Faction.
 
This year the issues are guests and food, and both were very much on the menu, so to speak. The Grandmothers were first to scale the Barricades, and I saw the troops marshalling out by the frill, little kids with Styrofoam noodles, waiting for the moment to strike.
 
As it turned out, there were two guests that I would have been proud to sponsor as part of my quota of three-per-unit. Lolita and Juggs were down from Dover, like I said, and they were ready to party. It was a convergence of holiday and free spirits, and they were not the only ones. It is a complex time of year.
 
Mardy 1’s birthday is coming up, and it is the custom in Arlington County to celebrate it with a month-long festival. Part of that was why she had a spectacular shiner on her left eye, the story of which is (Poof!) a mystery.
 
Death Junior was not on call at the funeral home, and she had Todd in tow as her guest. There was a nice family from somewhere else allied with Jeremy, I thought, and Morgan the nice lady from the Siberian end of the building where it is always dark and cold brought her bum foot to make her ritual first appearance at poolside. Mr. French came down from the Seventh floor, not bothering to don a swimsuit, since he never gets in the water, and Diana Ross presided on the side-dishes for the coming barbeque with her usual sardonic efficiency.
 
Of course, not having a suit is not that big an issue. Two little tykes- a cute set of fraternal twins of the Little Egypt clan were in their birthday suits for about ten minutes on the shallow end of the pool deck, waiting for clothing to be delivered, I guess. I’m not a prude, and consider the art of changing suits on a French beach to be one of the most delicious ballets in the human experience. But this went on long enough to make even me a little uncomfortable.
 
I could see the Grandmothers whispering to each other with animation as the number of kids grew with accompanying shrieks. I braced myself for an onslaught of Marco Polo as I did my hour of paddling with Jiggs, who had lost forty pounds since the surgery. Mrs. Hitler was watching everything intently from her usual perch by the northeast section of the pool. Between Little Egypt’s naked grandchildren and Mrs. Ortega and her five little kids, I could see there was a tally being kept.
 
Montana was draped across her couchette in the cool shadows, talking to her sister, and Helene was talking to Morgan, her ancient skin protected by an improbable hat.
 
I was observing everything from the semi-concealment of the water as little Jess and The Banana plunged in and out of the crisp water like sea-otters.
 
Semi-submerged as I was, I felt like one of our old submarine reconnaissance missions against a denied coast.
 
Lolita is a red-head, with smoldering good looks, a sunburst tattoo on her thigh and  sparkling eyes that have caused men to melt all through her life. Saucy and curvaceous, I was disappointed to discover that she was married to a C-5 flight engineer who is flying beans to Afghanistan this weekend. That is why she jumped in the car with Juggs to make the trek the wrong way across the Bay Bridge from Delaware.
 
Everyone else is headed for the shore this weekend, so they came this way.
 
One of the things that immediately caught my attention about Juggs was the way her swimsuit declared her sympathy with the Revolt. A Jolly Roger’s skull and bones clasped her left bosom, and proudly shouted out from her right derriere.
 
Chad told me Juggs is in the retail game, and that is how she came to meet Chad, or something. About then the grill fired up and the food started to come out, and I was pretty sure that the plastic cups contained more than soda, though I could be wrong. That would be a violation of the rules, like the beans and chili and potato salad and chips and dip.
 
Mrs. Hitler left in a huff around the start of formal festivities, the awarding of the complementary t-shirt with an enigmatic American phrase about “Trust the Player!” emblazoned on the front to Kuba.
 
The first calls from the front desk started to come right after she left, so it was no big secret who was behind it. But it was clear that she was not alone, as the crowd swelled and the rich scent of grilling hamburgers and hotdogs and steaks and kielbasi wafted over the sublime blue waters.
 
Jim-from-Livonia was there, of course, and 007 showed up with a couple of guests in tow. He is so new to the building that he was actually following the rules until someone (poof!) poured some clear liquid into a plastic cup and handed it to him.
 
Lolita was on the other side of the fence, her face pressed against the black wire, quoting a line from the movie Red Dawn: “We'll cause a diversion over here... cut holes in the wire, fire on all these machine gun positions. The B-Group comes across this area in a flanking maneuver... and when you reach this bunker, you lay down grazing fire on this defilade!” I think that's pretty simple. Anybody got any questions so far?”
 
I think that was the scene from the attack on the Calumet Drive-In, which in the film had been transformed into a Soviet re-education camp.
 
Mardy 1 had changed into a bathing suit that looked a lot like a set of underwear but suddenly (poof!) everyone was in the pool.
 
There were violations of The Rules in every direction- there will be heck to pay when the holiday is over, I'm sure. There were residents with too many guests and a general air of defiance that went along with Lolita’s quotation from a movie about the Soviet occupation of America.
 
In a fun way, of course.
 
Everything was put right before the official closing of the pool at eight o’clock. Nothing was broken, all the trash cleaned up and the cigarette butt-kits policed with crisp efficiency.
 
The party drifted up through the corridors of Big Pink, eventually coming to rest on the fifth floor facing the traffic on Route 50.
 
I heard Lolita ask Chad if there were going to be any consequences to the serial insurrections at the pool. He nodded sagely as Jeremy and Juggs were decanting shots of sour apple Schnapps from the freezer into shot glasses.
 
“Probably,” said Chad. “But oh well, this will all soon be over. The official closing is tomorrow night at eight. The pool will be open for two more weekends, but weekday evening swimming is done for the year. What is the Board going to do? Close the pool/”
 
“It seems sad,” said Lolita. “that seems like the biggest social place in the building.”
 
“Yeah,” I agreed morosely. “After that, everyone goes back in their holes for the other nine months of the year.”
 
Swirling past came Jeremy with Juggs and a tray of shot glasses. “Carpe Deum,” he said, and then (poof!) something magical happened, I just can’t precisely remember what.

Copyright 2009 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com