I like to consider my job professional people-watching. The official Red Cross certificate says lifeguard, but as anyone knows who has ever held that post, there is no better place to observe human nature than perched atop a guard chair. At the local pool where I work, “Baywatch”-style rescues are rare, leaving me plenty of time to soak up the sun and the summer atmosphere. Although I can only muster a freckled Georges Seurat rendition of a tan, I’ve become quite an expert on the patrons who brave the over-chlorinated depths.
The premium lounge chairs are always occupied by a coterie of middle-aged women known as the Leather Ladies. Bikini-clad in various fluorescent shades of 1980s splendor, they’ve crawled straight out of a dermatologist’s worst nightmare. Years of diligent baby-oil application and proper aluminum foil angling have brought their skin to its present appearance, which can fall anywhere between an orange reptile and a raisin, depending on the tanning commitment level of its owner. The Leather Ladies interrupt their sacred sun worship only for the occasional cigarette break, because apparently flirting with just one type of cancer simply isn’t enough for them.
The lap swimmers are another interesting bunch. One contingent, composed of former competitive swimmers, is frighteningly hardcore. Fully outfitted with every gadget the Speedo catalogue has to offer, they constantly compare times and technique with one another, barely shrouding their vicious aggression under a pretense of camaraderie. A spin-off crowd from this one is the Wannabes, an equally well-stocked but far less motivated group. The Wannabes have bought the gear, but they haven’t really bought into the sport. They make a great show of stretching extensively, swim a lap or so and then stretch for another fifteen minutes while telling each other about how that trick knee just won’t quit. One garrulous, plump doctor spends his entire time dispensing gratis medical advice to the ever-injured Wannabes, all the while enjoying the snack bar delicacies his poolside clientele proffers in gratitude. His wife just can’t figure out why the new exercise plan isn’t working.
Then there are the geriatrics, a category unto themselves. There’s one elderly man we’ve lovingly nicknamed Floating Corpse for his astonishingly slow swimming style. He literally splays out facedown, comatose and bobbing along for a solid 15 seconds before halfheartedly jerking a leg in the semblance of a kick. I sit on the edge of the guard chair for his entire “workout,” afraid between the periodic relief of his twitches that he’s finally lived up to his nickname. Floating Corpse comes with his wife, whom we’ve dubbed The Grinch. She’s a devoted and passionate aqua-jogger who wears shoes, socks, and a huge flowered hat into the pool. The Grinch considers Lane Four her personal domain, and will literally run over anyone who tries to actually swim there. At least once a week, she stops by the guard room to ask us if we can do something about the child problem. The “problem” is apparently the fact that children come to the pool in the summer. How dare the little turds?
Speaking of human refuse brings me to the problem of the Serial Shitter. Though his identity was never definitively discovered, the M.O. was unmistakable. Every few days during swimming lessons the potty-training dropout struck. Picture the Baby Ruth bar scene from Caddyshack, except instead of candy … well, you know. After his first few strikes, instructors refused to get in the water, telling kids to visualize learning the backstroke. Finally, we were able to isolate a couple of five-year-old boys who had displayed an unusually strong scatological fascination, and a few discreet words to their parents flushed the case down the toilet for once and for all.
Even as I look forward to another golden summer of professional people-watching, I know my lifeguarding days are increasingly numbered, and I’m okay with that. It’s all too easy for me to sit back in my ivory tower of a guard chair and sharpen my claws on the tableau of human foibles on display before me, but in reality, part of me envies the whole vulnerable group. The Leather Ladies spend every day in the company of their best friends. The Wannabes are gamely trying a new experience. The Grinch and Floating Corpse leave every day holding hands, content in their love. Even the Serial Shitter understands that when things get crappy, you just have to keep trying again. Maybe in a few years I’ll come back to the pool with all my weaknesses on display for a bored adolescent to satirize, but I’ll know that really she’d rather be in the water than in the guard chair.
