Pool Duty

"Miss?"

A squat, pear-shaped woman glared up at me from the other side of the wooden counter top. Her chubby arms were crossed over her chest. Damp gray ringlets clung to her scalp. She dripped water onto the green, heavily trafficked, all-weather carpet.

I held up a finger to indicate that I was in the middle of a conversation with another resort guest.

"No, sir, our massage therapists do not wear bikinis. No, sir, only one massage therapist per customer. No exceptions. Thank you for calling."

I made a few notes, added a package of Bic plastic razors to the glass fronted display case, filled a wicker basket with hand towels, and placed three pens and one pencil in a precise line before I replied.

"Yes? How may I help you?"

"There's something black in the pool," the pear-shaped woman stated.

"Something...black?"

"Yes," she sniffed. "I'm not sure what it is, but I want you to go and investigate. It could be you know...poop."

"Poop?" I repeated.

I followed the dimply thighs of the pear-shaped woman to the 75 foot indoor lap pool at a popular resort in southern Vermont, where I was employed as "Front Desk Girl." Mostly I whisked carts of bagged dirty towels from the women's locker room to a large closet alongside the indoor tennis courts. I dumped the dirty towels and loaded up the cart with stacks of clean white towels tied in bundles with red string. Then I raced back.

The pool, enclosed in a paneled room with vaulted ceilings, had a wall of large sliding glass doors, clusters of green plastic tables and chairs (from which I removed droplets of water during my rounds) and groupings of plants. Squeaking children with bright orange swimmies tight as blood pressure cuffs cavorted with their parents. Small boys cannonballed into the water, whooping, and screeching Geronimo! A few dutiful lap swimmers churned back and forth, black swim caps poking through the water like the heads of dolphins.

"There! See! Right there." The pear-shaped woman pointed to the deep end.

 I peered into the wavering sunlit surface.  There were several amorphous black shapes clumped on the bottom of pool.

"Hmm," I said.

"Yes, and there are more over there and over there."

"Poop usually floats," I told her, "But, I'll check it out."

Against one corner of the room leaned a 60-foot long-handled aluminum pole with a squeegee attached to one end. I began to lower the pole, backing carefully along the side of the pool. I balanced the pole in my hands like an aerialist on a tight rope, veering away from the wall of sliding glass doors. I swung it over the heads of the unsuspecting swimmers. Next, I replaced the squeegee head with a blue rimmed pool strainer.

"What's she doing, Mommy?" called out an observant little girl in a lavender two-piece.

"She's looking for poop," the pear-shaped woman stated loudly.

"Poop? Poop? Poop in the pool?" Frenzied voices bounced off the ceiling.

"Poop usually floats," I called out. "No cause for alarm."

"I think everybody should evacuate the pool area," the pear-shaped woman advised.

"Nobody has to evacuate until I say so," I said. "I'm in charge here."

"EVERYBODY OUT! Poop in the pool! Poop in the pool!" the pear-shaped woman shouted.

Swimmers churned to the edge of the pool in a blur of thrashing arms and legs as if someone had suddenly yelled out, "SHARK!" Mothers shrieked.

As I swung the long arm of the pool skimmer around, the pear-shaped woman ducked. I plunged it deep into the water, scraping it along the bottom until it came in contact with the first black clump. I pulled it towards me, deftly scooped it into the skimmer and lifted it aloft.

"Is it poop? Is it poop?" the crowd of towel draped onlookers chanted.

"Hey, if it is poop, does my Dad get his money back?"

I flipped the pool skimmer so that the troublesome black clump landed at the feet of the pear-shaped woman. She jumped back.

I bent down.

"It's not poop," I announced.

"Definitely not poop?" interrupted the pear-shaped woman.

"Not," I said."Just some leaves from those plants over there."

"Well," she sniffed, "that's a relief, but I don't feel like swimming anymore anyway. You need to clean the pool."

"And you," I suggested, "need to go towel off."