Blowout

How It Will End

3 How It Will end We’re walking on the boardwalk but stop when we see a lifeguard and his girlfriend fighting. We can’t hear what they’re saying, but it is as good as a movie. We sit on a bench to find out how it will end. I can tell by her body language he’s done something really bad. She stands at the bottom of the ramp that leads to his hut. He tries to walk halfway down to meet her, but she keeps signaling don’t come closer. My husband says, “Boy, he’s sure in for it,” and I say, “He deserves whatever’s coming to him.” My husband thinks the lifeguard’s cheated, but I think she’s sick of him only working part time or maybe he forgot to put the rent in the mail. The lifeguard tries to reach out and she holds her hand like Diana Ross when she performed “Stop in the Name of Love.” The red flag that slaps against his station means strong currents. “She has to just get it out of her system,” my husband laughs, but I’m not laughing. I start to coach the girl to leave her no-good lifeguard, but my husband predicts she’ll never leave. I’m angry at him for seeing glee in their situation and say, “That’s your problem—you think every fight is funny. You never take her seriously,” and he says, “You never even give the guy a chance and you’re always nagging, so how can he tell the real issues from the nitpicking?” and I say, “She doesn’t nitpick!” and he says, “Oh really? Maybe he should start recording her tirades,” and I say, “Maybe he should help out more,” and he says, “Maybe she should be more supportive,” and I say, “Do you mean supportive or do you mean support him?” and my husband says that he’s doing the best he can, 4 that’s he’s a lifeguard for Christ’s sake, and I say that her job is much harder, that she’s a waitress who works nights carrying heavy trays and is hit on all the time by creepy tourists and he just sits there most days napping and listening to “Power 96” and then ooh he gets to be the big hero blowing his whistle and running into the water to save beach bunnies who flatter him, and my husband says it’s not as though she’s Miss Innocence and what about the way she flirts, giving free refills when her boss isn’t looking or cutting extra large pieces of pie to get bigger tips, oh no she wouldn’t do that because she’s a saint and he’s the devil, and I say, “I don’t know why you can’t just admit he’s a jerk,” and my husband says, “I don’t know why you can’t admit she’s a killjoy,” and then out of the blue the couple is making up. The red flag flutters, then hangs limp. She has her arms around his neck and is crying into his shoulder. He whisks her up into his hut. We look around, but no one is watching us. ...