Saving Lives

   "Can you open the deep end for swimming, Ned?"

   I knew who it was before I looked down from my chair.  There stood Joey Keller, wet hair plastered against his scalp, a shiver spreading across his skinny frame and a bubble of snot emerging from his left nostril.

   "Sorry, Joe.  Too crowded today and too many divers."

   As if to make my point, one of the teen-aged boys cannon-balled toward my guard chair, drenching Joey and me.

   "Ok," said Joey, wiping his nose with his forearm and then running off across the wet pavement.

   "No running," I yelled but he ignored me.

   Scanning the crowd on the lawn across the pool, I saw Sandy Billings, lying back on her lounge chair and apparently reading a novel.  How I missed her arrival in a stunning red two-piece was beyond me but I was determined to say hello when we rotated our guard positions.

   Just as that opportunity arrived, I was greeted by Jim Thomas, our manager, who handed me a garbage bag and a strainer.

   "You've got butt duty this afternoon, Ned."

   "Terrific," I said, reaching for the equipment to sift cigarette butts from cement ashtrays spaced around the pool.  Fortunately, one of these receptacles was near Sandy and I took my time at that location.

   "I see they give you the important jobs," she said, smiling behind her large, round sunglasses.

   "I am highly qualified for all my life-saving duties," I said. "That reminds me.  You still plan on nursing school this fall?"

   "You bet," she said.  "We'll both be saving lives."

   "Then take notes," I suggested.  "I'll be out here all afternoon."

   Once I completed my rounds, I rejoined the guard rotation, enforcing adult swims and disrupting aggressive horseplay while enduring the good-natured taunts from inebriated club members.

   Heading to the office for a break, I was stopped by Jim once again.

   "We've got a problem," he said, "Poop in the baby pool.  I'll clear out the moms and kids and you go get the scooper and chlorine granules."

   A few minutes later, I was standing at the edge of the circular kiddies pool, doing my best to snare the source of an all-too-common emergency.  Looking up at the expanding onlookers, I saw Sandy, pretending to take notes on her palm.

   "Rescue of the day," she said, turning to head home.  

True Stories

   An admirer of her work for many years, I finally met Sylvia Marshall at a local bookstore.  She was signing her latest collection of short stories and I couldn't wait to devour them.

   Waiting in line, I was surprised by her appearance.  Short and thin with a mop of curly hair and wire-rimmed glasses, she looked up to thank each customer with nothing more than a smile.  As one who seemed to know me so well, she was alarmingly passive.

   How could this tiny person in a pale yellow dress know about my absent father and my domineering mother?  How could she write about my failed relationships, my struggles with alcohol and my thoughts of suicide?  Who kept her informed about my loss of faith in God and humanity?  Somehow, she bared my soul in each story.

   When I finally reached her desk, she signed a book, gazed up through her thick lenses and said something that I could not understand.  Though I wanted clarification, I was forced ahead by the lady behind me and moved on to the cashier.  What had she said?  It sounded like "Thanks for the inspiration."  Could that be? Have I been right all along?

   I rushed home to read the stories and to see what else she knew.  

Night Ride

  Swaying gently with the train, I opened my eyes to watch the city lights.  As I began to drift off again, an elderly man settled into the seat next to mine and asked if I wanted a drink.  Startled by both the question and his voice, I looked over to confirm that it was, indeed, my father, who had died several years ago.

  "Where are you headed?" he asked.

  "Down to Lexington for a pickleball tournament."

  "At your age?  You should have stayed in medical school."  He shook his head.  

  I was about to argue the point when a commotion in the aisle drew our attention.  Some guy in a clown suite was running from an old lady who kept beating him with her cane and telling him to keep his fucking hands to himself.

  "Wasn't that Clara Johnson?  The old lady that used to live down the street from us?" I asked.

  Unfazed by the incident, my father asked what I wanted from the bar.

  "Just a Diet Coke."

  "I'll get you a beer."

  While he was off to the lounge car, a young woman grabbed his seat.  I initially tried to ignore her but jumped when she spoke.

  "Hi, Mack" she said.

  Unbelievably, it was my college girlfriend and she had not changed a bit.  She was even wearing the same perfume.

  "Hey, Margo.  How have you been?"

  She just leaned over and kissed me on the mouth.

  "Want to come over to my place?" she asked.

  Though I've been married for twenty years and have two teenaged kids, I did not hesitate.

  "Sure.  When?"

  "Now," she said. "It's at the next stop.  Don't you remember?"

  It was then that I noticed the train was actually a bus and that I was dressed only in a T-shirt and a pair of boxers.  As the bus creaked to a halt, we stood at the door and, when it opened, jumped from the steps into a large, calm pool.

  The water was warm and a bowl of stars gleamed overhead.  It was otherwise pitch dark and I could not see Margo.  Though I repeatedly caller her name, she did not answer.

  I suddenly awoke in my bed, tears on my face.