Hardly Anyone Here Swims

At my work, every now and then, the Big, Big, Big Boss gives us a couple of hours off for whatever reason, a holiday, a birthday, a different holiday. On one Friday I got two extra hours off, and I decided to celebrate by going lap swimming.

I love lap swimming, but it's a time investment. The pool isn't close to me. There are only so may lanes, and swimming takes at least forty-five minutes. But I had two extra hours in my day! Yay. Swimming it was.

I got there, mid-afternoon, and what did I find? Old people. Everywhere. I'm talking the bottom of the age spectrum was late sixties. Which was normal. The reason I like that pool is because all the old ladies in it are super nice and very supportive. They tell me I am a good swimmer, and I tell them their swim suits are nice, and if they need the lane with the therapy bar I switch them.

But that day, there were old men there too. I came out of the locker room, and the lanes were full of old men. Two older women were there, on the deck, trying to see if they could get into a lane, and one guy, who held a giant cup from Burger King, stood in the middle of a lane, screaming.

"YOU HAVE TO TAKE A NUMBER TO USE THE LANES. IF YOU ACTUALLY READ THE RULES..." He paused his monologue to suck down some soda from his cup. "THE SIGN SAYS THE RULES. YOU CAN'T JUST ASK TO USE A LANE."

The two women, probably both near seventy, were not amused. They did not deign to speak to the screaming man, who did not seem to be exercising anything, other than his need to hall monitor the pool. They made their way, canes and all, to the hot tub.

I sat down on a bench. Another old man came and sat next to me. He looked at me then leaned into my space. He was soaking wet, in a Speedo, and he said, making prolonged eye contact, "CAN YOU TALK TO ME?"

I let out a heavy sigh then said, "Sure. What do you want to talk about?"

"Oh, thank God," he said, reaching to his ear. "I swam with my hearing aide in and thought I'd really killed it this time, but she's up and running! Thanks!"

Then he got up and walked into the sauna. That actually went pretty well, so I turned my attention back to the pool, where the hall monitor was still standing in the middle of a lane, styrofoam cup still in hand, yelling at another guy on the deck. Then, the bad lane, the lane with the stairs, became free.

I walked to the hot tub, where somehow the number of women had doubled.

"Hey, I don't really know who was here first, but do you all want to use the stair lane?" I asked.

Two of the women shook their heads and stared daggers at the man still occupying an entire lane. Then the other two shook their heads too.

I got in the lane and began to swim. About ten laps in, another man was in the lane with me. He stood in my lane and was yelling at the man with the Burger King cup, who was still standing in the lane next to me. I swam around him.

About twenty laps in, a lane opened up. I called to the hot tub ladies.

"You all want the good lane?"

The hall monitor, who was still just standing in his lane, snapped his head at me.

"THERE IS NO ORDER. AND THEY ARE WASTING TIME AND CANNOT JUST GET A LANE."

I had one of those moments where I had to remind myself that violence was not the answer.

"They were here before me," I said. "And they were kind enough to let me use this lane, and if anyone is going to get first dibs on that lane, it's them. They have been here the longest."

The guy's eyes went huge. "THEY WERE NOT HERE BEFORE YOU! THEY ARE TIME WASTERS."

"Sir, they were in the locker room with me. They were here first. And they were kind enough to let me use this lane."

He opened his mouth to respond, but I got out and asked the women loudly, so the Hall Monitor could hear, if they wanted the lane. They got in the lane, despite the Hall Monitor's protests.

Then a guy in a different lane, probably in his early seventies, who was swimming laps, flagged me down.

"You can have my lane," he said. "I never see anyone actually swimming here. So you can have mine because you actually swim."

I thanked him and swam ten laps in his lane. When I paused, he was at the end, just watching me.

"You know, I used to be a life guard at Zuma Beach," he started. "Back before there were jet skis. We pioneered jet skis. You can see my name if you go there. My friends use to guard at pools. I was in the surf. The real deal."

He talked to me for close to ten minutes before another old man on the deck, who was clearly waiting for a lane, and was watching me not swim, started to turn purple with rage that I just talking. Of course, he didn't seem concerned by the guy with the cup who still hadn't swam anywhere, although he had drifted toward the far end of the pool.

"I should keep swimming," I told the guy. "I think that guy wants to swim."

"Hardly anyone actually swims here," he said.

Which I agreed with.

I swam my mile, everyone leaving, including the ex-Zuma Beach life guard, although he sat on a bench and stared at me for a while. Well, almost everyone. The Hall Monitor was still there when I finished my last lap. But he had put his cup on the deck and had found a pool noodle. He had it under his arms and was no longer even standing. He was talking to another guy while they both glared at me.

I thought about being mad, but decided I'd gotten a nice swim in, and that was victory enough.

Also, it didn't hurt to have out-swum a guy who clearly considered himself the boss of everyone. Maybe a little more swimming and a little less micromanaging strangers and he too could leave the pool smiling.

But what do I know? I'd rather hang out with the time-wasting old ladies than take a number.

#ungovernable