The Swim Club

Running some water up his muscular biceps, my rehearsal lawyer then began firing a series of typical Social Security trial questions at me. “What did you have for breakfast today? Name five U.S. presidents. Who was President Hoover’s Vice President? How are a dog and a cat alike? How different? What is the difference between a Victrola and a phonograph? What’s wrong with this picture? What is your wedding day? If you found a stamped, sealed, addressed envelope lying on the street, what would you do with it? What does this saying mean: ‘An apple a day keeps the doctor away.’ What year was Jesus born? Oh yeah, and one other thing, Frank, before I forget,” said Jack. “You need at least twenty signatures in support of your disabilities case. All right? See you in court!”

My legs were going numb from standing in the cold water, so I started swimming, but after a few laps I lost my will and ended up floating on my back. It was so relaxing I must have drifted off to sleep for a while. I’m not sure how long, because when I woke up, the pool was twice as crowded as before and the water had become cloudy with particulate matter. “Honk, honk,” some guy was yelling. He was doing the breaststroke and coming right at me. We almost collided. “Are you blind?” he yelled. “What’s the matter with you? You’ve drifted into the middle of the pool!”

“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, “tell it to the judge!” “Look, I apologize.”
“Save your apologies. Just start stroking.” After promising to swim in a circle, I began practicing my crawl. But by about the sixth lap, it was becoming just about impossible to swim. Literally hundreds of people were crowding into the pool, well exceeding the upper bathing load limit. We were all writhing around in the water, just trying to find a place to swim. The water was really heating up. Shivering young Christians were attempting to squeeze themselves into the pool. They jockeyed for position on the icy diving blocks and commandeered the handicapped ladders. It was an indoor pool but it had become more like an Arctic hot tub. Steam was rising from the water.

By this time, the swimmers were no longer really swimming; we had formed a kind of synchronized mass which was propelling itself in a slow circle around the pool. The object was to hang on, keep your head above water, and go around and around with the group. But it was getting tough to stay afloat. And the water had really begun to stink. Body discharges—mucous, saliva, sperm, sloughed skin, fecal matter—were putting a dangerous strain on the surge tank. Scum gutters and hair catchers were starting to clog. Algae slime was proliferating unchecked on the pool walls, and the turbidity count skyrocketed.

Suddenly I felt something heavy and slack, almost like a decomposing log or something, bobbing beneath my feet. Disgusted, I drew up my knees, but a few strokes later I felt it again. What could be going on down there? I looked around and saw Sister Bertha, a handful of assistants, and a fully-clothed swim instructor descending from the bleachers to the edge of the pool. “Where’s Teddy Fahey?” I heard one of them say. They scanned the sea of heads. A shriek came from the lifeguard’s crow’s nest: “He’s gone under! He’s gone under!” The group was now treading water. Teddy had disappeared and the theory going around was he had lost his will and gone under. “What does he look like?” everyone was asking. But no one seemed to remember. No one was able to describe him.

Swimmer’s cramp disrupted my breathing and I accidentally gulped some pool water. It was disgusting, putrid! I clutched at the side of the pool, caught my breath and wiped the water out of my eyes. Looking up, I saw a woman with a well-cushioned rump sauntering toward the ladies’ lockerroom. Her wet flesh-colored bathing suit—or was it translucent?—barely contained her ass, a primordial bundle of cushions and grooves. Moving away from me as if in a slow dissolve, the contours of her body blurred, all distinctions between skin and suit vanished, and she dematerialized by the locker room door.

Later that evening, I was surprised to see the woman again at a gathering in one of the residence rooms. She was still wearing the same bathing suit. However, I couldn’t see her ass very well, because the only source of light was a dim gooseneck desk lamp with its eye toward the floor. She was standing behind a card table near the kitchenette, where a group had formed to play A Will to be Well. A Will to be Well is a fascinating parlor game. She reached over the formica counter to sample the jello mold spread. One or more of the players rose to their feet in a dispute over a modified die roll, blocking my view of the woman. “Smiley-face card,” gloated one of the players. My view was further eclipsed by hungry partyers gravitating toward the kitchenette. Following the group, I started maneuvering in the direction of the jello, but on the way—and you won’t believe this—I bumped into Alan from my Group Plastic Surgery group. “Frank!” he exclaimed. “Are you still in Group Plastic Surgery discussing your issues?”