lately I've been skeptical, silent when I would used to speak
I once wrote an absolutely horrendous vid-fic to that song. Funny what the radio will make you think of when you're driving. I'm lucky I didn't rear-end someone after the jolt of sucktastic memory.
Worked at a different pool today because they were short on people.
I'm not too fond of working at other pools because they always have different ways of doing things and different routines. For example, they might fill the Fantastick cleaner bottle with pure chlorine and not label it thus, provoking you to burn the shit out of your hand when you go to wipe down tables. Not that I say this out of, you know, personal experience or pain caused by typing with a chlorine-burned hand.
Also, no one ever really speaks to you. In the absence of Louise this summer, I turned to hassling Dave because he and Louise share many of the same characteristics. For example, Louise often attempts to cut off her own warts with an x-acto knife. (Not that she has a lot of warts. I do not live with a warty roommate.) Dave routinely pours random chemicals in his ears and then walks around with his head at an angle so he can "fix" his ear infections. Also, Dave is a Republican. So you can see, they have a lot in common.
But with no Dave OR Louise around, I have been forced to turn my attention to these other strange lifeguards. I thought about calling a girl who had a slight resemblance to Louise a cockjockey, and then making an obscene gesture that involved a lot of thrusting by me, as well as some judicious and choreographed arm motions. But, I decided she would have probably maced me so I refrained.
Regardless, I had a decent enough time at this pool. They have much better facilities than us, so it was a little odd to be working in a place that was not actively being held together with duct tape. They were also much less populated, so I mostly sat around on deck rereading my Edith Hamilton and shooting the shit with their manager, who is also the head of the county board of diving. We discussed other diving coaches who we would gladly punt off the earth. Occasionally, we would pause, but never-quite spit.
(You know, whenever I want to talk about real life online, I never quite know what to do about names. I don't want to really give out people's real names or some of the locations, and writing Mr. C-- is too much like Arthur Conan Doyle. Most of the time, I think I just say "that guy" or "that place." Hmm.)
Several times in the course of the day, various trucks or wagons full of frozen treats appear and try to sell their wares. This is common at most swimming pools; what might seem to be a random smattering of appearances by men in brightly painted trucks tooting illogical songs, is actually a highly complicated hierarchy. Fred the ice cream man, who I have previously mentioned, is a generous but shifty character who has been known to chase his competitors off with a baseball bat. The Clayboys shaved ice wagon will no longer visit our pool because of Fred and his baseball bat.
They showed up at this other pool, as did another ice cream truck driven by Fred's son, and Fred in his ice cream truck. Today I was sent out for shaved ice twice and a ice cream sandwich, and each time I ended up being directed to Fred, who proclaimed it on the house even though I was at another pool, because I was "part of the family." I envision Fred as a sort of mafia Ice Cream Lord whose word is law everywhere north of Rockville. He rules with an iron fist that clutches a delicious fudgsicle.
Does anyone even read it when I blather about stuff like this? Seriously.
I want to work on a story-- any story-- but instead, I think I'm going to go to sleep.
Worked at a different pool today because they were short on people.
I'm not too fond of working at other pools because they always have different ways of doing things and different routines. For example, they might fill the Fantastick cleaner bottle with pure chlorine and not label it thus, provoking you to burn the shit out of your hand when you go to wipe down tables. Not that I say this out of, you know, personal experience or pain caused by typing with a chlorine-burned hand.
Also, no one ever really speaks to you. In the absence of Louise this summer, I turned to hassling Dave because he and Louise share many of the same characteristics. For example, Louise often attempts to cut off her own warts with an x-acto knife. (Not that she has a lot of warts. I do not live with a warty roommate.) Dave routinely pours random chemicals in his ears and then walks around with his head at an angle so he can "fix" his ear infections. Also, Dave is a Republican. So you can see, they have a lot in common.
But with no Dave OR Louise around, I have been forced to turn my attention to these other strange lifeguards. I thought about calling a girl who had a slight resemblance to Louise a cockjockey, and then making an obscene gesture that involved a lot of thrusting by me, as well as some judicious and choreographed arm motions. But, I decided she would have probably maced me so I refrained.
Regardless, I had a decent enough time at this pool. They have much better facilities than us, so it was a little odd to be working in a place that was not actively being held together with duct tape. They were also much less populated, so I mostly sat around on deck rereading my Edith Hamilton and shooting the shit with their manager, who is also the head of the county board of diving. We discussed other diving coaches who we would gladly punt off the earth. Occasionally, we would pause, but never-quite spit.
(You know, whenever I want to talk about real life online, I never quite know what to do about names. I don't want to really give out people's real names or some of the locations, and writing Mr. C-- is too much like Arthur Conan Doyle. Most of the time, I think I just say "that guy" or "that place." Hmm.)
Several times in the course of the day, various trucks or wagons full of frozen treats appear and try to sell their wares. This is common at most swimming pools; what might seem to be a random smattering of appearances by men in brightly painted trucks tooting illogical songs, is actually a highly complicated hierarchy. Fred the ice cream man, who I have previously mentioned, is a generous but shifty character who has been known to chase his competitors off with a baseball bat. The Clayboys shaved ice wagon will no longer visit our pool because of Fred and his baseball bat.
They showed up at this other pool, as did another ice cream truck driven by Fred's son, and Fred in his ice cream truck. Today I was sent out for shaved ice twice and a ice cream sandwich, and each time I ended up being directed to Fred, who proclaimed it on the house even though I was at another pool, because I was "part of the family." I envision Fred as a sort of mafia Ice Cream Lord whose word is law everywhere north of Rockville. He rules with an iron fist that clutches a delicious fudgsicle.
Does anyone even read it when I blather about stuff like this? Seriously.
I want to work on a story-- any story-- but instead, I think I'm going to go to sleep.