The Swim Club

Untitled III by Rabeya Jalil. Image Courtesy: ArtChowk Gallery.

Once again the little white case for my earplugs had fallen from the useless pocket of my tank suit, so I headed out toward the pool area to find it. Ordinarily when I lose my case I circle the Olympic-size pool, surveying it until I spot it bobbing somewhere on the surface of the water. But this time I was just too lazy to. I washed off my feet in the footbath as required by law—actually once I did find the case in the footbath’s open drain, and a couple other times on the side of the pool. Anyway, I washed off my feet, picked up a kickboard from the pile under the GOD LOVES US banner and sat down on the edge of the pool. One way or the other I was going to get in a good swim.

A few lanes down a Christian Scientist wearing blue coveralls and street shoes was on his knees testing the water. I thought he was giving me a queer look. Did he suspect I hadn’t taken a nude soap shower? Was I supposed to be wearing a shower cap or something? Some of the YMCA’s rules weren’t all that clear actually, and I wasn’t in the mood to be yelled at. I watched him use an eyedropper to squeeze a little pool water into a test tube. The solution turned greenish brown. Now what did that mean? Jesus! The pool, a common bathtub, is supposed to be kept free of toxins by continuous recirculation, filtration and chlorination. But you wonder if you can trust the people who run this place. I guess you just have to if you want to get exercise.

Bracing myself, I slid into the cold water and stood on the underwater ledge in the deep end. At the other end, the shallow end, the Ladies’ Aquacise class was about to begin and the Christian Scientist was called to assist. With a flourish he delivered a bamboo pole, shepherd’s crook and ring buoy. Splashing to the beat of Christian rock, a group of twenty women—fearfully well-made women—were working to achieve their target heartbeat. Participants were led through a series of specially designed exercises which, with the aid of the water’s buoyancy and resistance, can help improve joint flexibility and mold God’s body. Some of the young Christian women had enticing figures. I should invest in a pair of those prescription goggles, I thought, so I can see underwater. That way I wouldn’t mistake the ugly ones for the ones I’d like to fuck…

Several other groups were forming in the pool area. Roll call had begun. Sister Bertha put the buddy system into effect, as well as a system of tagboarding to check who went in the water and who came out. “All bathers must have a nude soap shower,” she announced over the P.A. “Urinating, spitting or blowing the nose in the pool can spread disease to other bathers and is not permitted! And, except for seeing eye dogs, NO PETS!”

My group was Gym ‘n’ Swim, a coed skills development group emphasizing stroke work, aquatic first aid and Christian standards of living. To prepare myself for my upcoming Social Security Disability trial, I planned to swim one mile. “EVERYONE SWIMS, EVERYONE WINS!” barked the Program Coordinator. “You will, you will, YOU WILL WIN!”

“You are gaining self-control! You are the master of your body!” She fired off a pistol and I began practicing my elementary backstroke. On the sixth lap, in the shallow end, the back of my hand brushed against some guy’s thigh or something and we both stood up. The man had a clipboard in his hand. It was none other—you’re not gonna believe this—but it was none other than my rehearsal lawyer Jack, with his pool buddy David at his side. David was munching on a pungent green steak and saying something to Jack. As he spoke, green pieces were falling out of his mouth and into the water.

“Okay, Frank,” Jack was saying to me, checking off several items on the clipboard. “So we’ve got those two points straight. Number three: Introductions. Now, I’ll be the judge and I’m going to fire some questions at you concerning your disability case. You with me?”
“Sure.”
“Okay… Are you single or are you married?”

“Single.”
“Do you live alone or do you have a roommate?”
“I have a roommate, Your Honor.”
“And what is his or her name?”
“Sally.”
“And when you introduce your roommate to a neighbor or a friend, how do you introduce her?”
“I introduce her as my roommate.”
“As your roommate?”
“As my roommate, Your Honor, or as Sally.”
“Never as your wife? You never once introduced her as your wife?”
“No, Your Honor, we’re not married.”
“Uh-huh. And how long have you lived with this Sally, for how long have you not been married?”
“Seven years.”
“Seven years? Correct me if I’m wrong, Frank, but is the Court to understand that for seven years you have lived with this woman, and you have somehow managed to have abstained from introducing her as your wife? Not even once? Not even to your landlord? That is very abstemious behavior. The Court finds that difficult to believe. But that is what you allege.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Court is adjourned for fifteen minutes.”

Jack was aware that if the Social Security Administration found out I was living with Sally as “man and wife,” they would assume she was supporting me, and my claim would be denied. “Y’know, Frank,” Jack said, splashing some water on his hirsute chest. “the judge might pry a little bit and come to find out that when the psychiatrist asked you to define the word ‘domestic,’ you answered, ‘Cleaning, washing the dishes, and fucking the wife.’ Fucking the wife? Now how do you plan to explain that one?”

Pieces of green steak were falling like bird droppings from David’s mouth into the pool. Each one landed with a little plop, and disintegrated in a green fizz beneath the surface of the water. I guess the pool had plenty of chlorine in it after all.

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?”

“No, no, I dropped out,” I said.
“Pourquoi?” Excusing myself, I looked into the parlor, and glimpsed the woman in the bathing suit. She was ushering late arrivals to the area where everyone was huddling around the TV, and again I lost her. They were all pressing in close, their scrubbed faces glowing blue in the reflected light. I moved into the dining area and from there spotted the woman’s curvaceous silhouette rising up as she adjusted the contrast control. A blue corona flared around her jiggling bottom. A moment later she was reabsorbed by the crowd. Giving up, I decided to lie down on the carpet to listen to the TV show. But all I could hear were two guys talking over it.
“They didn’t issue you any swimming suits?” one of them was saying.
“No,” the other said, “and the Program Coordinator made him get up on the diving board and put a towel over it.” Who were these guys and who were they talking about? I wondered if I knew them. I slid my eyes up the legs of two men standing over me, but their heads disappeared in the blackness above. Then, suddenly, a pair of naked, shapely legs were spotlighted by the gooseneck lamp. I was surprised to discover that they belonged to the woman in the bathing suit. From my vantage point on the floor, I actually seemed to have a good view. She was standing over the phonograph to change the record. Her abundant thighs were exposed, but would I be able to see her buttocks? When she bent over to clean the needle, truncated limbs and countless sections of heads, eyes, noses, mouths, and chins occluded my line of sight, so I stealthily adjusted my position on the carpet. And then—Yes! Yes! There was no doubt. I could see her ass. I could actually see her ass—the cheeks, the crack, rectal hair, everything! Who was this woman? I vaguely remember her being semi-introduced to me as somebody’s roommate or something… Anyway… she then bent over a little further and I could see her vagina. It was huge and pink—hyperreal. The organ’s damp sinewy lips were opened a full three inches and I could see right into her body. It was like a hollow cavern, a ribbed barrel or cave, pink and yellow with tubes and pipes and veins hanging from its sides like stalactites. Pubic hair clung to it like wet grass. It was like looking into the chest of a gutted chicken whose head had been lopped off. Jesus… There was no way I could have sex with this woman…

“Y’know we all tend to focus in on our uglies,” Alan was saying to her.
“Oh yes. Yes we do,” the woman replied, still bent over the Victrola. “Do you like Old Black Joe? Or would you prefer to listen to something more uplifting, say… Stand Up for Jesus.” My eyes were moving like a flashlight beam up and down the inside of her ribs. “The Old Oaken Bucket, My Maryland, Ben Bolt, and Jesus, Lover of my Soul,” she continued, “are all known to be generally strengthening.”

My skin was really beginning to itch. Whether it was from the woolen carpet, the chlorine, or from my damp tank suit, I couldn’t say. A nude soap shower was advised.

In the lockerroom on the way to the shower I remembered I still hadn’t found my earplug case. So I decided to go out to the pool area to look for it. Someone had taped a couple of signs on the door to the pool. The first read: Complaints About the Green Water – The Water is Safe to Swim In – The Management. The other one said: WARNING: DOGS IN THE POOL AREA TODAY. I tried the door, but they had locked it. The pool must’ve been closed for maintenance. Oh well…

I stuffed my tank suit in a locker, which smelled of fumigant, and entered the communal shower room. There, five men were standing in a row cleansing their genitals. They must’ve been regulars. Y regulars. They all looked vaguely familiar. The two closest to me were big and burly. The first one’s penis was long and yellow and seemed to be weighed down by something. He was busily sliding a bar of soap up and down his inner thighs and thrusting it through his legs to scrub his hairless buttocks. In contrast, the other one was almost lax in his cleansing. He was just standing there under the shower head, eyes aglaze, absent-mindedly stroking his anus with a bar of soap. The third guy in the row had his shower on the hottest setting. His testicles were bright red—well, not quite bright red, but red, definitely red. Where did I know these guys from? The pool?… That’s possible… Anyway, one of them, I think it was the fourth one, had an abnormally large scrotal sac, some sort of deformity. Him I’d seen making a claim at the Bureau of Disability… Or was he a caseworker? The fifth guy, whose penis was quite etiolated and was shaped like an inverted ice cream cone, also looked like someone I’d seen there. Another caseworker?… He was scouring his penis with a bar of black soap. When he bent double to rinse off, the suds skidded off his pinkened back. Steam was everywhere. A fluorescent haze was filling the room. There was a surge in the water pressure and water gushed out of the shower heads. The trap drain in the sloped floor backed up, and we were soon up to our ankles in water. Chlorine gas burned my eyes. Liquid soap squirted from the four wall nozzles. Slapping sounds echoed off the tile walls and I experienced a premonitory sensation. I leapt forward, trying to get out of the way, but I was an instant too late. I felt the warm, viscid ejaculate splattering my back. Looking behind me, I saw the first man’s pupils rolling up beneath the lids. The second man’s eyes were two egg whites. Again I leapt forward and again I was struck. The third guy squealed as he came, and the fourth snarled and ejaculated on my neck. In a panic, like a dog chasing a car, I ran forward. Smack into the speckled tile wall.

David Hauptschein is a Chicago-based playwright, screenwriter, impresario, and visual artist. Hauptschein has had four plays produced in London, ‘In Memory of Edgar Lutzen’ (2010), ‘An Alchemy of Flesh’ (2008), ‘The Playactor’ (2007), and ‘Trance’ (2002). His play ‘The Gurney’ was produced in Chicago in 2008. In 2004, his play ‘The Ballad of Johnny 5 Star’, co-written with David Vlcek, premiered at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe and the Library Theatre in Manchester, England. ‘Trance’ received a Fringe First Award at the 1996 Edinburgh Festival Fringe, and was featured at the 1997 Arts Festival in Brighton, England.  

Among Hauptschein’s other theatrical events are the Heartless Theatre production of selections from Hauptschein’s ‘Frank Monologues’, featuring Michael Shannon; Pig American Theater’s production of ‘No One Goes Mad: From Writings of the Insane’; and ‘The Duplex Planet Project’, directed by Charles Pike, based on David Greenberger’s magazine.

Hauptschein’s plays have been published online by indietheaternow.com