Living with Snakes

The Contrivance

The Contrivance ay after day I watched the old man swim. We always swam in the same lanes, side by side, and once we were started we always maintained the same relative positions. Some ofthat was conscious on my part. I don't know about him. We would usually arrive at the pool at about the same time and would wait for the door to open. For months we each pretended to be alone. Then finally one of us said something, perhaps about the guard's being late or perhaps about the cold draft in the hall. After that we always had the weather or the hope that the pool wouldn't be too crowded. Never more than that. I spent the time psyching myself up for swimming. I didn't want to be there at all. I wanted a drink and I wanted my supper. But I just stood there and listened to the thud, thud, thud at the base of my skull. I also yawned a lot. On land he was a brisk, round man who moved with short quick steps. You might almost say he was chubby and plump except that he wasn't really jolly. He didn't have a big white beard either—a thick white mustache, but no beard. If we had ever walked together he would have quickly left me behind, for I have always moved very slowly— walked slowly, swum slowly, and it takes me twice as long to dress as anyone else. Why, the old man could whip into his one-piece BVD's (or long Johns), shirt, tie, pants, vest, D 94 Living with Snakes coat, shoes, rubbers, and be out of the gym while I was still trying to find the right way into my undershirt. When the lifeguard opened the door—there was a wire mesh at the bottom of the door through which we could see her legs, and they were very nice legs indeed—when she opened the door, we would go to our favorite lanes. I would ease into the water, bracing myself against the corner of the pool. I had hurt my back once diving in, and now I preferred to honor the small yellow sign that said No Diving. Meanwhile, the old man would be exchanging a few words with the guard. She had walked away from us—very nice bathing suits she always had—to open the women's door and then back to her post. I would be tonguing spit into my goggles to keep them from fogging—at least someone once told me that spit keeps them from fogging. And it is important that the glass be clear. For one thing, I think I'm smothering when my goggles fog. For another, I like to do a lot of looking when my face is in the water. Swimming is so boring. I look at the girls as they swim past me—within arm's length—I could almost bite them. Sometimes they kick me as they go past. There was a girl once—she always kicked me. I think she liked me. Lovely red toenails. But the girls always came late. For ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, sometimes even longer, the old man and I would have the pool to ourselves. And it was the old man I watched. I call him old because he struck me as an old man, although in truth he probably wasn't so much older than I was. But I don't think of myself as old even if I can plainly see that many men my age are old. Even some who are younger are old. But I seem to have got stuck somewhere. I can't assign an age to myself. Somewhere in my prime, though. At my best. Of course I know I'm tired in the evening , unable to do that extra work needed to make a career. Even so, the old man is old and I am not. I pull my goggles down and take a deep breath. Just then The Contrivance 95 there is a shattering crash as the old man hits the water. There is no other crash like his. If he is late and I am already settled into my treadmill trance, I know that crash. I check my bearings to learn where to expect to see him coming past. And there...