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A small crowd of night owls huddle around warm cherry wood tables with marble tops. They sip cocktails in the dark and dip tiny silver forks into platters of soft French cheese. Up front, jazz players brush their strings, tap on drum skins and whisper secrets into their shiny gold horns with their eyes closed.
I pull the drawstrings on my swim bag and lay it on the wet bleachers. I walk gingerly across the hot deck and dip my left toe to check the temperature. My girlfriend dives in splashing my ankles and waves me over. I plunge in like a teabag and swallow a tablespoon of chlorinated water as athletic bodies on either side of me perform underwater somersaults to launch themselves off the wall. Towering over us are taut teenage lifeguards wearing bright red jackets. The shiny whistles around their necks occasionally pierce the pop hits playing in surround sound.
Beep beep beep!…My eyes and face crumple into a paper ball. A weighted blanket hugs my body tight and won’t let me go. My arm SWINGS like a sledgehammer onto the white clock, its red numbers blink nervously until I hit the pillow-shaped snooze button. I flip over and snuggle my pillow even tighter trying to climb back into the carnival of talking animals and long lost friends, but the day's duties are breaking down the door. I lean against it with all my might trying not to let the allure of the percolating dark roast coffee in the other room seduce me into my rubber slippers. The fight is lost. I raise an eyebrow, peel back an eyelid and see a tangerine-colored palm tree outside my window. My mouth is cotton dry.
One misstep and under water I go. Sea lions barking in the distance call out to me. The warm sun rests on my shoulders and a purring motorboat sends over a rolling set of speed bumps that seesaw my board and tighten my calves. Paddle’s firmly in my grip. I bend into the letter P and float free in the bay’s womb. I’m surrounded by rapt sailors in toy sailboats forming figure eights in the wind and kayakers daydreaming along the bay’s broad banks.
Bells in the sky begin to swing. It’s God’s call bouncing between bulky clouds, vibrating the windows of tiny brick cottages laced with white-framed windows. Inside, large families quietly feed on salted ham and a variety of creamy cheeses with oven-toasted sourdough bread.
A wood banister wraps around the porch. It’s faded, Granny Smith green with mildew and peeling paint. On a white wicker table, a glass jar of pomegranate iced tea sits. Water beads veer down its sides. The clouds part and steam rises from the asphalt like a ghost story set in southern Mississippi. Dew drops settled on the tree leaves, afraid of falling to the ground, cling for their lives, until a warm breeze pushes them off their little green helipads.
Brass church bells topping the white spire sparkle against the deep, blue night as they reverberate through the clouds and down to patient puritan parishioners cloaked in long, black peacoats and crisp, white collars cracking toasted French baguettes spread with modest layers of 7 year old soft cheese, while sipping bitter burgundy wine.
The storm’s bulky shoulders lean forward, its brows furrowed as it stares down the tiny ship. Below, in the narrow galleys of cold gray steel, the men scurry, like frightened mice, shouting orders, pointing frantically at little green blips bouncing on their screens. The air is stale with body odor and fear.
Sure the monogrammed t-shirt and weighty medal with silky ribbon are nice, but that’s not why I do it. I do it for the fresh bubble blisters on my hands, the bruised knees, the faint cheers from strangers on the sidelines, the wet clothes soaked in mud, and the goosebumps on my arms from the winter’s chill. It’s for the taste of a perfectly yellow ripe banana and tomorrow’s soreness while sitting on the sofa. Where I’ll be recalling every agonizing moment from the day before — with a big smile on my face.
In between the salty pretzel cart and the neon frozen lemonade vendor, stands the balloon man pulling rubber taffy and blowing long sausages into anything you can dream of. His cheeks form two softballs. His deformed fingers twist a squeaky red tube, while elbows flap like the bird being born before our eyes. A yellow giraffe is next, followed by a blue dachshund. Then he ties two together with his teeth, head cocked to one side, as lookeeloos dip their sticky fingers into powdery plates of dough and honey. Their eyes are the size of eggs. What’s next, balloon man? A dolphin, a unicorn? “Whatever you wish,” he mutters from the corner of his mouth, his pinkies pointing outward like he’s holding a teacup at high noon. “How about a house? With a white picket fence? A nice boat to take out on weekends, and a 401(k) with 7% growth? Can you make a balloon filled with self-esteem, fulfillment, and joy?”
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