(The detective was driving a military-style vehicle like this Toyota FJ Cruiser off-road SUV. I didn’t pay much attention until I realized I was looking down the bore of a professional grade digital Single Lens Reflex camera with a telephoto lens and he started taking pictures of me. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?)

I am working on my little encounter manifestation of the surveillance state this morning. I still don’t know quite what to make of it.

The flexibility provided by lack of a full-time job has some upsides. It was around two, and still sunny. Hurricane Arthur was churning off the Outer Banks, and the storm bands would arrive presently, so I decided to get the exercise therapy out of the way while I could.

I went through the ritual gathering of materials- iPod, waterproof case, smart phone, towel and Ray Ban Wayfarers- and padded out to sign in with Kamil, the Polish Lifeguard.

There were three of us civilians on the pool deck- Filene and Rocco were dozing on the blue plastic lounge chairs, and I stacked my stuff on the table under the blue-and-white umbrella. I steeled myself to prepare for the shock of cool water.

I curled the toes of my left foot over the concrete rim of the pool deck and made the leap. It is sort of pathetic compared to what I could do, but I consider myself lucky to be able to do it at all.

The shock was electric as my skin registered the stark difference between the humid heat of the atmosphere and the placid blue water. I got my ear-buds screwed firmly into my head, noted the time on the clock on the wall and the air temperature- 94- and gradually acclimated to the temperature.

Kojo Nnamdi’s program was on the state of children’s literature and the necessity for diversity therein, and I resigned myself to being disinterested for the hour of motion. I made big strokes with both arms and a sort of bicycle peddling motion with the legs. This is possibly the most boring activity I can imagine, so I do slow circles in the water, timing each stroke to a view of the space between fence-poles on the enclosure and the decorative pink brick walls.

I had just passed a glimpse of Filene, and was sweeping my field of vision across the recumbent Rocco when I saw it.

A late-model gun-metal gray SUV (Toyota FJ cruiser?) with roof racks and a contrasting black top glided to a stop right next to the pool enclosure. The individual driving was male and was wearing a slouch hat. I sensed that he had facial hair but it was hard to discern around the large lens of his professional-grade Digital Single Lens Reflex camera.

He was pointing the damned thing at me!

I contemplated my options. The ladder to get out of the water was too far away to get to, and I can’t move that fast anyway these days. Submerge? He would have more oxygen than me by a lot. I sighed and kept paddling. He took several pictures of me, as I raised my right hand slightly above the water and extended the usual digit. He panned his the last shot over toward Kamil’s table by the gate, presumably to document the location where the photos were taken.

He then put the camera down where I couldn’t see it and drove away briskly. He apparently exited on the service drive in front of the building and then came back up Pershing, parallel to the parking lot. As he went around the bend, I saw that the vehicle had Virginia tags, but the letters or numbers were too far away to make out.

I could not get to my phone to use the camera, nor the apartment for my baseball bat. Damn.

Filene got up and walked to the edge of the pool, motioning me to approach her. I paddled over and removed my ear buds so I could hear.

“That was very weird,” she said. I nodded in response. “I thought he was taking pictures of me, and I hid behind my magazine.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I am pretty sure I know what this is about. The camera was pointed at me. I think it was a private dick trying to document the fact that I can swim. I guess that is supposed to undermine my contention that I can’t walk properly, and being on the eighth floor of an office building scares the shit out of me these days.”

“You still fighting about getting part of your pension back?”

I nodded. “Yeah. The family law thing is kind of a nasty industry.”

“Divorce is hard,” she said.

I nodded again. “And expensive. But on the whole, worth it.”

Filene gathered up her things to head back inside, the pool mood broken by the detective- or agent, or whoever the man had really been. I put my ear buds back in and listened to a librarian from Maryland talk about engaging reluctant readers.

A private frigging detective, I thought in wonder. What a waste money. Hell, if they want action shots, I can take them myself.

Then I stopped and considered other possibilities, A Private Dick is the most benign interpretation I can put on the disquieting event, considering the line of work I used to be in.

There are certainly worse ones. I realized that going forward, I need to put the ball-bat in the pool bag. Jeeze.

Copyright 2014 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303