Back to School
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Back to School It was a sad, sunny afternoon on the pool-deck at Big Pink. Ivan the Terrible, the lithe young Czech who had ruled the pool with a hand of iron, is done with us and headed back to Mittleurope. The women of Big Pink liked him. His skin was bronzed by the sun, set off by his snowy white t-shirt. He was lean and well-muscled, toned by peddling his bicycle around the streets of Arlington . The bike leaned against the fence while he stood the duty, gazing impassively at his flock with flinty blue eyes. He is a college student at home, and they say that lifeguards there earn about $75 a month. The pay difference is one of the reasons he is here, able to send some money home and finance a little look-see around America at the same time. I don’t know what he thought. The disaster that ended the season. The War. The pool is an existential place. It is located on the West end of the building, sheltered by the flanks of the tall rose brick towers. The water is a delightful blue when the sun peaks up over the cooling towers above the eight floor units, and when the weather is pleasant, the light stays up until the dusk is done. Most of the time the pool enclosure is empty. There is a water aerobics class of older women who arrive before noon; a handful of gentlemen retirees who camp out under the yellow umbrellas. The Professor is normally there in the saggy red Speedo that so appalls the women. The Prof has sagged in the days of his age, belly and but, and the display of his private parts resulted in a season-long campaign to encourage him to wear a regular swimsuit. He demurred. I don’t know what he is thinking, except that the Big Pink pool is the last place he can parade himself without getting locked up. There is the odd sunbather in the day, but most of the building either works or is housebound. The afternoons stretch on in the week until the surge at five o’clock. We have a few strong swimmers who get their exercise then, and a few diehards like me who plunge after dinner is prepared and the cocktail hour is done. Those of us with units around the pool deck spend the pleasant evenings on our patios. State Department Sue likes it outside and often entertains the Third Infantry Division, or a significant part of it, at her place. The Leadership of the ironworkers union often host impromptu wine-tastings in their enclaves, and Ann, empress of the canines, is usually out holding court with the other dog-lovers. Big Pink’s public grill is down by her unit, and often the smell of grilled chicken and steaks wafts over the blue water. At the beginning of the season, the days are longest and sunset is almost coincident with official closing time at nine PM, sharp. The darkness overwhelms us slowly, a minute or so each day. That is important to me, since I like a plunge in the cool water to finish up the day after work. In the high season there are occasionally some lap-swimmers, the Indonesian man and the two old ladies with the bathing caps and slow patient strokes. Most of the time it is Ivan and me, alone in the darkness. The big spotlight at the deep end illuminates the water, and the water embraces me as I leap in. Ivan looks on stoically. At the beginning of the season, he stayed to watch me. But over time he realized that I would not sink on him, and he would go about the closing up ritual, taking the water sampling kit, and the log book and the boom-box downstairs to the pool locker. We got things straight at the beginning of the season about what was what. The Rules say that the sound of thunder is enough to close the pool for twenty minutes, and it was cat-and-mouse at the end of the day to see if one could imagine a distant storm and leave early. I made it clear that I was listening, too, and I would not be denied my plunge. We came to an understanding, an uneasy truce. He would do his job and I would do mine. He got even by being mean to my guests in small ways, who took his authority seriously. He insisted on guest passes from the front desk, a sticker for the paperwork that made me think of other days, east of the Iron Curtain. He seemed to think he was within his rights. The last lazy day passed with puffy clouds and a final epidermal burn. The weekend crowd took up a collection for Ivan, mostly because they thought he was cute. Leslie organized it, and that seemed right since her grandchildren had practically lived at the pool on weekends when they visited. Loren, the lithe winner of the George Hamilton Tan Award looked under the cushions on her couch up on the fourth floor and found a few bucks to kick in. Marty 2, the voluptuous venture capitalist, contributed willingly. Since she got sick she works at home, and got more color this year than any time since the mysterious illness began. Petite Margaret is always good for a social cause, and we all signed a card of thanks and farewell. Last year’s Ivan ended his stay in the U.S. with a trip to New Orleans before flying back to Prague . That isn’t going to be possible this year, and maybe the next year’s Ivan will not be able to do it either. But that is something to think about today, when the kids go back to school, we swarm back onto the Hill and into the canyons of downtown. The pool is closed. They say they may find someone to come in the next two weekends, a special deal to extend the pool life a little bit into the Fall. But those days will be problematic, totally dependent on the weather. I made sure that I was the last one in, and paddled around until just a few minutes before closing. The water was cool against my skin, and I felt deliriously weightless, hanging between the summer and the winter. Ivan cleared his things for the last time from the Life Guard table and waited by the gate until I was out of the pool. I shook his hand, still dripping, and wished him safe travels on my way out. Copyright 2005 Vic Socotra www.vicsocotra.com |
