Pool Party

Pool Party

Sal Rodriguez

I was invited to a barbecue pool party today. Don't misunderstand me, the pool is not the barbecue. I mean, just think of the price of charcoal alone! I'm sure a barbecue pool party sounds like a lot of fun, especially during a scorching Sunday in May, but I have issues. Let's start with the barbecue. I have no issue with this. I love barbecues. I don’t know what it is about us humans, whenever we gather near a pool, somebody deems it necessary to throw a dead animal on some flames. Beats me, but I love it. I'm hoping I can one day attend a barbecue funeral; seems appropriate if the deceased was cremated.

Here's my issue, it's the pool damn it, the pool! I hope there are no small children there. Now hear me out! I love small children in swimming pools, especially when they're wearing those arm-floaty things, which make any reasonably intelligent child appear "special." But small kids pee in the pool. I know we don't like to think about this, but we can no longer ignore this fact.

When I was growing up there was an urban legend that floated around (pun intended), and I hope it still exists. We were told that if you peed in the pool there would be a blue dye trailing you, leading to shame and embarrassment. The good news was this prevented a lot of kids from peeing in the pool…I think…I pray. But the problem is very small children have no perception of shame or embarrassment, after all they're peeing and "making" on themselves all day. I'm sure they see the pool as a giant potty, I know I did. Yes, I have peed in the pool. As a matter of fact, I've recently had my YMCA membership revoked. No, seriously, it was Bally's. But anyway, I don't believe this telltale blue dye is actually real. So let's just say that as soon as I see a small child in the pool I will suddenly realize that I have not adhered to the proper 30-minute gap between eating and swimming, and must exit the pool immediately, and be sure to eat every 30-minutes.

Aside from peeing kids there are a few more issues I have with pools. When I was growing up someone on the block had a pool party. Now that I think of it, there was no barbecue (cheap bastards)! Anyway, my mom specifically told me that I was not allowed to go to the pool party, and definitely not allowed to go swimming. (My mom had a strict policy that stated that if she were away from home then I must stay home. In case of a break-in involving a knife-wielding maniac, this would ensure that a child was present to defend the castle. And if you grew up in my neighborhood you would know that a knife-wielding maniac was not that uncommon. And if you grew up in my neighborhood you would know that sometimes the children were the knife-wielding maniacs.)

I begged my mom to at least let me stay at the party for a few minutes while she was getting ready to leave. She said okay. I went to the party and made sure to stand very close to the edge of the pool. Would you believe another kid pushed me into the pool? Well, since I was in the pool already, I began to swim and, of course, participate in the obligatory "Marco Polo." I never liked this game. I always imagined I would hear "Marco!" shouted from behind me and would chase the voice, only to bash my arms and face against the sides of the pool. By the way, everyone cheats at this game. I mean, how the heck is someone with their eyes closed supposed to catch someone with their eyes open - in a swimming pool no less?

There I was, swimming in my clothes and shoes, without a care in the world. All of a sudden, out of the corners of my stinging, chlorine-filled eyes, I saw my mom. She ordered me out, "Now!" I jumped out quickly. My mom was, and still is, someone I would rather not piss off. (No pun intended…we were talking about peeing in the pool remember?) This would have been the end of this story, had I come from one of those sitcom families, but no such luck. My mom proceeded to swing her giant yellow purse at me - repeatedly. Her purse matched her yellow blouse, her yellow shoes, her yellow pedal pushers, and her huge fly-like yellow sunglasses. So basically I was being beaten by Chiquita Banana. The other kids loved it! They pointed and laughed. She kept swinging that purse as I ran and dripped all the way back home - which was only across the street. I never heard the end of it. I was the laughing stock of Norris Avenue. Every kid would mimic swinging an invisible purse at me - for years! In my defense, and I'm willing to testify in a court of law, not one of those swings actually landed. She never hit me. No one believes me. My mom even brags about how she connected with my skull.

On another occasion, while swimming at the neighborhood public pool, I went diving into the deep end with my Speedo® goggles. I went down eight or nine feet looking for treasure. I saw something and I grabbed it, before anyone else got their greedy little hands on it; this was my find! I came to the surface, removed my Speedo® goggles, and stared into the palm of my hand. Yes, there it was, in all its glory - a turd. That's right, a dark brown turd. I did what any self-respecting kid at any public pool would do - I threw it at the lifeguard! Yeah, those damn lifeguards, with all of their "No running!" and "You have to take a swimming test to go into the deep end!" and "If you pee in the pool a blue dye will follow you!" nonsense.

Guess the brown turd flew under the blue dye radar.