By Leigh Novak
Previously: “Pool Daze: It Happened One Summer.”
*
“That sounded like a pool falling!” observed Joanne Kimzante, an almost-daily poolie who never once lived in the pool’s apartment complex. Joanne was referring to one of the many construction clanks and bangs that sounded during Chicago summer days; although this particular noise, in my ears’ opinion, was no different than any other to occur that morning. Joanne’s comment was just one of the batty remarks I heard pass her vampiric mouth in all the summers of her polluting our pool.
Joanne got through our sturdy gates on account her niece actually rented an apartment there and had a pool pass that we never checked. Her niece, Kim, was one of our favorite poolies, who frequently brought us snacks and invited us to use her bathroom. So Joanne was at first considered cool by association.
Now, it’s one thing to accept this “in” and stop by on occasion when visiting a niece, but Joanne took her allotted coolness and spent it in about two weeks of constantly showing up to bathe. There were many days that Kim didn’t even know her aunt was there; Joanne wouldn’t even bother to stop by and say Hi to Kim on her way to Kim’s pool. Often, we would inform Kim of her presence in the afternoons, well after Joanne had left.
We didn’t mind Joanne because there was typically a lot of silence during the days. Kathleen and I couldn’t keep each other company on every shift, so Joanne e often filled the conversation void. And boy, did she have a lot to say! Joanne was notorious for striking up conversations with any old pool-dweller; even the small children who were mostly petrified of her.
You see, Joanne was like no woman you’ve ever beheld. Or maybe you’ve seen her in caricature form – like the really tan old woman in There’s Something About Mary. Joanne made that woman look pale.
And it wasn’t just because she spent countless hours at our poolside, oil dripping from her long boney toes, fucking up the pH. Joanne showed up the first week of June raisin-dark and ready-to-wrinkle. We always wondered what her winter tanning routine entailed since she never seemed to skip a beat, nor get any darker throughout the summers. It seemed as though the oil she constantly slathered was not to increase her tan, but to soften her chocolate-brown leather skin – true tanning, in the ancient sense of the word.
Her hair stood a good two feet off her head; a stark black nest of immovable teasing and Aqua Net. She was careful not to let water near her head, and if it came close, by some cannon-balling teen, for example, she was certain to cause a scene and move her towel. During these huffy moments, we were able to catch a glimpse of Joanne’s true colors. As she bent down to retrieve her Harlequin romance novel from the deck, we saw the creases where Joanne’s buttocks met her legs – stark white streaks, completely untouched by the sun.
Joanne provided us with endless entertainment, even though she could be pesky at times. One day, intrigued by our school system, she wondered aloud, “How many black people are at your high school?” As if Kathleen and I kept racial pie charts in our pool totes. One summer, we battled murky pool waters for at least a month; no amount of chlorine could fight the cloudiness in the pool. We attributed the dirty water to a combination of incredibly hot temperatures and Joanne dipping her oiled legs into the pool.
In spite of all the ways in which Joanne was tacky and knowingly abusing her privilege to bathe at our pool, it was my own actions that eventually severed our good terms. One afternoon I came to the pool on my day off to kick back and not worry about not worrying about the short list of pool attendant duties that usually didn’t plague my shifts. It was a busier day and I pulled up the vacant long chair next to Joanne, and proceeded to drift into a well-needed nap.
An hour later, I was awoken by Joanne, who frantically alerted me that someone was drowning. I jumped up and quickly turned to the deep end to see a semi-regular poolie flapping about in the water. Being familiar with this woman, I dismissed it almost immediately. She was a towering blonde woman who stood at least 6-foot-3, making it almost impossible for her to drown in calm six-foot waters.
But Joanne continued on hysterically. I assured her the woman was okay and perhaps mentioned that I was not on duty, which did not please Joanne. Besides, I told her, even if I was on duty, I was not a lifeguard. There was even a sign that said “No Lifeguard on Duty;” how much clearer could it get? And furthermore, who did she think I was? My 17 year-old, 115-pound stature would have crumbled under the weight of that 200-pound woman the instant we rose above the water’s surface. I was not about to attempt heroics in this situation . . . even if I did graduate from the same high school as David Hasselhoff.
The large woman in the pool eventually realized she could touch the bottom and made it out safely within a minute. But that minute of my neglect was enough for Joanne. Kathleen overheard her repeating a version of the story to another disgusted poolie the following week. Things were never the same with Joanne. Never again did she probe into the minority ratios of my school, nor offer me her special sun oils, in hopes I would crisp to the beef jerky texture that she had.
Luckily the near-drowning occurred my final year at the pool, before I began college and started working harder for less money; so the awkward silent moments spent with Joanne were limited. Unbothered by her turned-shoulder, I was actually satisfied with her new disdain for me. I saw Joanne as one of those people I was happy to displease; her disliking me was my confirmation that I was an okay chick, by my own and most standards.
I wonder about her whereabouts today, but if my inkling is correct, Joanne is still dipping herself into somebody else’s pool and many people’s personal lives. Although it ended sourly, Kathleen and I will always remember and laugh at those long summer days, stuck behind the gates, listening to pools falling with Joanne, Kim’s auntie.
To be continued.
Posted on September 5, 2007