Pool

I mostly do fillings for old folks whose children have grown up and abandoned them. The pool at 393 Abcott St, a standard ten-by-twenty-foot rectangular hole in the ground, slopes gradually to just over six feet deep. Joe brings the concrete, and I bring the tools for laying, smoothing, and directing its flow. I couldn't tell you why people would have a pool in this part of the world where it snows for nine months, remains too cold for swimming for two months, and for only one month, the temperature is passable. Joe says it's nice to have a pool, but he can't even swim. One month. I laugh while making my way around the backyard. I arrive first to inspect and lay down the planks for the concrete, and typically nobody is home when I come. They give me a day and a time and either leave or stay home and peer discretely from their curtained windows, convincing themselves that a concrete yard is better than a concrete hole for a yard. I couldn’t care less. 

The pool had been drained for a long time. Most people keep their pools until it's clear that nobody is coming back and nobody wants to swim anymore, and by then, neglect drains it at a tortuous speed. May, when that one month comes around, is the most popular time for people to call in. The memories of children splashing and drinks clinking–they'd rather forget about what will never happen again. As the season thaws, so do the frogs, insects, and diseases. 

Stagnant rainwater from the past few weeks settles where the pit slopes to its end. The smell makes me gag. Mosquito larvae, frog eggs, algae, thick slime, and adolescent frogs infest the few inches of putrid liquid. "No Diving." As I draw closer to inspect, the scent, the mosquitos that violate my ears, and the uneasy surface send my vertigo into a trance. I vomit to the side immediately below the "5ft" mark. Usually, I would walk back to my truck, down a few sips of Listerine, and wait for Joe to arrive. 

"Why so minty?" he would ask about my breath in his simple manner. 

"Better than before."

This time, I stay to curse out the puddle with my eyes and spit into the shit of it all.

I settle the planks down, glare at my spot of vomit, and decide to clean it using their hose, embarrassed by my lack of professionalism. As the water and bile ran down the slope, it began to fill the puddle slightly; the frogs jumped in and reveled in the new and fresh addition to their home. They'll be gone soon, and this hole will be gone, and where I am standing will be gone, and I will be gone. 

It's the end of spring, the first leaves begin to cripple and die, and autumn feels close–the claws of winter seem like only a gaze away. Joe arrives, we fill the hole, and the cacophony of frogs and mosquitoes melts away. The invisible sun retreats cowardly in a joke of a sunset as I walk back to my truck with the sour taste of vomit still looming in my mouth. 

"Wanna grab a bite?" Joe asks with a toothless and ugly smile. The vulnerability of his question alone repulses me. Though I haven't eaten since yesterday. Joe, an older man in his forties, seems much younger, with a naivete that counters his physical agedness; heaviness he carries on the curvature of his back, his dry sandpaper skin, and a gait that is flawed beyond repair. 

"Doc say’z a cane would jus' fuck my other leg up." 

"I don't care."

"Alright. I thought as much, my momma, you know, she’z sick with her heart, and that's why I need to do the filler’z with you cause even jus' a bit of extra cash could…" By far, the worst quality of Joe is his lisp. I think about the frogs choking on concrete.

I've never thought much of Joe, he seems clean enough for an invalid, but his occasional reaching out to 'grab a bite’ causes me to recoil in embarrassment for him being so near me. It displeases me when people can't deal with their problems and can't keep to themselves, which makes my acceptance of his routine invitation all the more shocking. Maybe because of my low blood sugar, vertigo, or vomiting, or because I feel that Joe and his mother won’t be around much longer, the way an anthropologist ventures into a unique and fragile society, my curiosity pushes me towards a meal with Joe. Joe, the passenger pigeon, the wooly mammoth, the dodo bird. 

"Sure," I sigh.

"No kiddin?!" he perks up.

"Nope." 

"Should we carpool? Or?"

"How would I get to my car, Joe?"

"Well, I could drop you back if you'd like-"

"Just so we could sit in a car together for the 10-minute drive to Junk Burger, you'd then drive me back to this house where I am certain I cannot park for much longer?"

"Well..if you'd like?" Joe looks at me quizzically. 

"I'll see you there, Joe."

"Lemme just move stuff from the passenger-"

"No, Joe, I am taking my car. I'll see you there." 

Joe's mother had a heart attack as we bit into our two-dollar Junk burgers, stale buns and expired ketchup. I left when he began to cry. 

"I'll call when the next one comes up."

Driving away on flat highway 81, I feel a sense of liberation. From the clouds, from the frogs and mosquitoes–buried alive by an unimaginable force of weight and darkness. From Joe. Barely beyond the truck's front light beams, the first stars emerge over the forest, and the croaking peepers yelling at the end of spring take over me, and for once, I keep the window down all the way home.

I assume that when Joe calls it's about a job, so I answer. A shaky voice accosts me–I wonder if he ever experiences humiliation–I hang up. When his call comes again, I leave it for the machine.

“Hey there. I…uh. Well. My Momma’s funeral..” 

Joe's voice begins to break.

“...I’m sorry. My Momma’z funeral is set to be in two dayz and I just don't know, I just don't know how to do this. The coffin guys–they wanted me to choose one but I jus’ can’t and they’re so expensive, you see? And my momma she’z gotta have the bes’ and they were talking about a cardboard box.” 

At this point, Joe’s voice peaks, and his words become inarticulate–more so than usual.

“Please I don't know what to do, please, there's gonna be a meeting t’morrow at 9:00 am at the Munson Funeral home on Grace Ave, and uh, maybe you could help me?…”

Outside the funeral home, I find Joe collapsed on a bench, and I stand by its side, farthest from him, and look out at the flat terrain–my eyes meeting a point in the far distance where the highway meets the sky. A sunset radiates through the clouds like a pink explosion with rays reaching out towards a dimming blue. An empire in the sky. Wind penetrates through trees as they shiver--and Joe, with his head in his hands, wheezes out a snot-filled sob. I sit down and keep my eyes fixed on the horizon while both of us huff our visible breath. 

“I think winter’s here,” I exhale.

Joe lets out a louder whimper while raising his head–seeming to fixate on the same point as me straight out in front. 

“But, autumn, whha, what about autumn?” He speaks with a drawn-out “aww” before falling back into his hands. I take a sharp inhale of frozen air–coating my lungs like the first frost this morning.

“Joe. You are sad. Your momma’s gone–and winter’s here.”

I feel a wave, or a breeze, squeeze my chest and tighten my throat. A rhythmic flow begins to bubble within me–am I about to vomit? I grasp the edge of the bench and my eyes well up with tears that flow like concrete against my skin. 

“Yous think she's out there?”

And seemingly without even noticing, my arm floats around Joe and rests upon his sweaty shoulder as cars race towards an impossible future of indifference.