The Pool Boy

Chapter 1: The Ad

Chapter 1: The AdI needed a pool boy. What man nearing forty wouldn’t? It was the truth. The pool looked murky and less dazzling than when Reynolds used to take care of it. But Reynolds moved back to Puerto Rico with a lover, didn’t he? Thereafter, the pool became shabby.

Gross, green-brown algae clung to its aqua-colored cement sides. A distressing smell lingered over the pool’s strangled and lifeless surface that shrieked of early death for any diver or stray canine that might be trapped in the pool and drown. The water was no longer warm because the heating device was broken, no longer safe. The pool was quite dangerous if you want to know the truth. Any professional would have agreed with me and placed hazard tape around its perimeter.

All the pool devices (skimmers, chlorine tablets, rafts, and the other unnamed whatnots that slip my mind today) were covered with a thick layer of dust in the pool shed, lost and forgotten.

Because of the pool’s disrepair, I could no longer stare at my lonely reflection by the edge of the pool and see an elite man of thirty-six with gray-blonde hair, shimmering yellow-green eyes, narrow hips, and a flat stomach. A man who considered himself still quite fit, trim, and bearably handsome. And let’s not forget wealthy, loaded with money. The pool left me as a singular, green blur near its unsettling edge, hideous, monstrous, and unrefined, an unpleasant spectacle in the June sunshine. Nothing of beauty. Atrocious. Something that should be kept in a cage, unfed.

I needed a pool boy. No argument there. That is where the ad came in. Almost immediately. I created it to be simple and to the point, easy to read, self-explanatory:

POOL BOY NEEDED

CITY AREA. FREE ROOM/BOARD

FOR INTERVIEW CALL:

800-555-1512

I placed the ad into two major papers for a week, also online, and waited for the calls to come in on my 1-800 line: patiently, resolutely, unconditionally.

* * * *

June. The heat turned humid and sticky, well above ninety degrees. I cursed Reynolds for leaving, for moving to Puerto Rico with his sexy boyfriend. Had he stayed, I could have paddled from one end of the in-ground pool to the other like an Olympian or Neptune. Back and forth. Willfully. Instead, I stayed in the shade, waiting for calls from the ad, losing my mind.

Eventually a call came. Giddy, I fumbled my phone like a quarterback on the lawn. “Hello?”

“I’m calling about the pool boy position.” The voice on the other end of the line sounded strong, pumped, uninhibited, and husky with a somewhat sweet edge.

I’d been editing and revising a manuscript called The Next Fall, my newest work, and lounging in the shade, swinging in a comfy hammock near the back patio. Flustered and sounding pompous, I asked, “I beg your pardon.”

The person sounded young, very much a gentleman. He said, “I’m answering the ad in the West End Cardinal…There’s a pool boy position available. I’d like details regarding an interview, please.”

Charming and debonair. Just right. Twenty-twoish…maybe. A strong voice, perhaps muscular, with will behind it. Confidence. Nice tone. Comforting. A smile formed at the edges of my mouth. “Your name please, sir.”

“Kent…Kent Tacoma.”

“And where are you calling from? Tell me the city please.”

“Ashtabula, Ohio.”

“You’re not very far away. Sixteen miles perhaps?”

“Yes, something like that.”

“Do you know anything about pools, Mr. Tacoma?”

“I was a lifeguard in high school, and then a Navy private for four years. I feel comfortable around water. I know CPR and how to clean pools. Plus, I can hold my breath for almost three and half minutes. I feel that I’m quite experienced for the position.”

Interesting. Informative. He spoke quickly. Not that such a detail mattered to me. In all honesty, Tacoma sounded…young and delicious. Perfectly respectable. No lisps or bad grammar. Simply enjoyable. Someone intriguing for my selfish needs, and the care of my pool. I puffed, “Does tomorrow work for an interview, Mr. Tacoma?”

“Yes. Sure. Fine. Where? When?”

I gave him the address without directions, mentioned the time of noon. “You can meet me in the West Garden, Mr. Tacoma. We’ll be sharing lunch together. There’ll be no one answering the door. Come right in. Make yourself at home. Don’t plan to swim in the pool, though. It’s quite a fright if you must know the truth.”

Silence. Calmness. Then, Mr. Kent Tacoma breathed into his end of the phone rather softly, and slowly, “This may sound crazy, sir, but what do I wear?”

“Something a pool boy would wear of course, Mr. Tacoma. Play the part you’re interviewing for. A bikini will be fine. A towel. Sandals if you must. Sunglasses. Nothing like starting right off the bat, don’t you think?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Mr. Tacoma?”

“Yes?” He sounded surprised by my abruptness and tone, alert.

“Is there anything special you would like for lunch?”

“No, sir. But thank you.”

Before ending our conversation, disconnecting his world from mine, I became rather pleasant with him, and professional, “It shall be a delight to meet you. Thank you for responding to my ad. I shall see you tomorrow at noon.”