At the Pool

By noon I knew the life stories of a widow from Montana, a man from San Diego with a laugh like a barn door, a woman plotting the perfect fortieth birthday surprise, and a boy who had once swallowed an entire hot dog whole. We all arrived at the Crockett Hotel as strangers, yet by lunchtime it seemed inevitable that I would know these things about people I had never met. There is something about gathering around water that persuades strangers to set their social armor in a neat little pile beside their towels. The water faucet handle in my hotel-room shower broke off and, since my first instinct in situations like this is to inconvenience myself rather than someone else, I didn’t pursue changing rooms. Checkout was at noon, so I had timed my morning to be back in the room at 11:30 to shower and pack. I lined up my toiletries along the marble vanity, admiring the old hotel's determination to remain elegant, then reached for the shower knobs. I tried the hot first, but it spun around freely with no sign of water. I decided to turn it with more force, hoping it would catch. Instead, the “H” button in the middle of the knob fell off and went down the drain, leaving the handle in my hand. Too bad I'd spent the morning outside in 105-degree heat. Maybe they had a pool.

I went to the front desk to check out and explained my incident with the faucet. The receptionist apologized and asked if I wanted the $20 parking fee put on my credit card on file. That struck me as an odd segue. I said, “Yes.”

Crockett guests were allowed to use the pool across the street at the Menger Hotel. I asked the receptionist if there was a locker there with showers, and she said that she didn’t know, which I took as a safe way of saying “no.” I said I’d give it a shot and left.

I had already filled my morning with strolling and taking pictures at the River Walk, picking up a few souvenirs for the kids, and having a big breakfast. I didn’t intend to have a big breakfast, but they had a waffle maker shaped like the state of Texas and it was irresistible. I started with my usual: huevos rancheros. Normally I'm not one to post pictures of my breakfast, but a Texas-shaped waffle seemed worthy of documentation, so I went back to the waffle station. I waited in the waffle line with my cup of batter. A waffle maker is one of those things that, when you're waiting in line for it, can make two minutes seem like an hour and a half. One father was making waffles for all his kids, which meant I had to stare at the timer count down repeatedly. I finally got my turn - there were two waffle makers side by side, and the kid next to me was coating his with cooking spray. A little cooking spray is a good idea, so you don’t “mess with Texas” trying to get your waffle out of the machine. But a young boy takes great pleasure in the opportunity to use an aerosol can unsupervised. When my waffle was done, I found a grape on the fruit bar and plopped it into a crevice near Austin to represent the capital. Then I used syrup to suggest the oily Gulf and Caribbean, both suffering from an unfortunate spill. Satisfied with my creation, I took my photo and uploaded it, which took me about 20 minutes on the slowest wi-fi on the planet. Back at my table, I didn’t want to waste the waffle, so I tried it and found it to be surprisingly good. I finished practically the whole thing.

Walking toward the Menger now, I thought that I should’ve asked for the hotel manager at checkout, explained what happened with the shower-less room, and asked her to comp me the parking fee in exchange. I’m not too adept at thinking quickly or confronting people.

The Menger is a beautiful hotel and, according to one pool guest (Mr. San Diego, to be introduced shortly), the oldest in the state. I walked through the lobby and halls and admired the old phone booths and display cases. I found the fitness center and got on a stationary bike just long enough to decide that I didn’t feel like riding it and noticed a fruit bowl and an ice-cold water dispenser. I filled my water bottle with cold water after dumping my warm water outside in some plants.

I followed the arrows to the outdoor pool and first saw a man in a lounge chair with pure white, very straight hair and long front bangs that he pressed down over his face. I really wanted to tell him I could give him a marvelous haircut. I'd watched enough YouTube videos to become unreasonably confident in my ability to cut men's hair. This was after using an electric shaver on a partner after forgetting the comb attachment, and having him shout, “You’re not shearing a goddam sheep!” It wasn’t pretty – a co-worker of his actually stopped in his office the next day and asked, “What happened to you?”

He said, “I got a free haircut at home.”

And his co-worker said, “I think you get paid enough that you can go to a real barber.”

There was one chair open next to the white-haired man, but he was talking to himself, and I wasn't quite ready to spend my afternoon wondering whether I should answer. I took a chair further away and the white-haired guy fell asleep for a very long time. I thought he may have died, but luckily he didn’t. Afterward a very talkative, touristy, middle-aged man took the chair next to the white-haired guy and very loudly asked him where he was from. The white-haired guy said, “San Diego.” Maybe a lot of people leave San Diego to head to San Antonio? This was the third one I’d met in 24 hours.

They continued to have a very loud conversation about women’s nail polish. Tourist guy said, “Women used to wear red or pink nail polish; that was it. Now they’re wearing blue, black, white, even nail polish with stars on it.”

Mr. San Diego replied, “HAW, HAW, HAW,” in his very hearty and loud laugh. I’d never literally heard a HAW HAW laugh before, but he was doing it most naturally and full of gusto. I wished I had taken the chair next to him. He’d probably just had too many mimosas at breakfast and needed to sleep them off.

Tourist guy said, “My waitress last night had black hair, but she dyed it – what’s that color that’s a cross between blue and green?” A younger couple had taken the two lounge chairs between me and Mr. San Diego and the woman chimed in, “Aqua.”

I thought aqua was a fair answer, but Mr. San Diego said, “Turquoise!” (And men say they don’t know all the crazy color names.)

Tourist guy said, “Yeah, turquoise! The waitress asked me what I thought of her hair and I said it looked good, but it really looked terrible.”

“HAW, HAW, HAW.” Mr. San Diego had one hell of a laugh.

I found it odd that the married couple that took the two seats in the middle sat with the man on my side and the wife opposite. I like a nice, secure wife who doesn’t mind letting her husband sit next to another woman. It’s actually quite rare. I’m sure he appreciated getting to sit in the middle too. Eventually her husband got in the pool and I asked her, “Do you know a good discount designer shoe store around here?” Nice to talk shoes with another woman to clear the deck. Plus, I really wanted to wear different shoes to dinner with Auntie than what I wore all over to Hell and back when I got lost the night before ending up with blisters.

She told me she had gone shopping earlier for a purse to match her outfit and proceeded to tell me what her evening plans. This didn’t surprise me because I found when I previously lived in Texas that women often matched purse to shoes or events.

She said, “Today is my husband’s 40th birthday and the in-laws have our kids. He thinks we’re going to dinner, and he knows I have a plan, but he doesn’t know that 35 of our friends are checking in right now. We’re going to dinner at 5:30 while they all set-up here in the hotel and when we come back, they’re going to surprise him.” Is this a heck of a spouse or what? If I were a single guy and she got divorced, I’d ask her out in a heartbeat. She said she brought him to the pool so that their friends could all check in and get settled without him happening upon any of them. Brilliant.

Tourist guy left and two older ladies came in looking for lounge chairs together. There was one next to me and I said, “That one on the end is open, I’ll get it for you.” I don’t know what business it was of mine to get the chair for her. I think it’s a personal problem. Plus it was heavy and bulky as hell, and when I brought the chair over, she laughed and said, “We could have gotten that.” No doubt.

They settled in with their books, one in the shade and one pulled her chair out into the sun. A waitress came out and the women ordered Fuzzy Navels and one of them asked me if I wanted a drink. I was trying not to spend any more money, and I can’t stand fuzzy navels, but I like the camaraderie of having a cocktail with the other ladies at the pool, so I told the waitress I’d have the same thing, and we all laughed for some reason. I’d prefer a rum punch or even a gin & tonic with lime. A frozen strawberry daiquiri would be nice at the pool, but then there’s the calories. More than in orange juice, I wondered? I don’t really know. Then the waitress asked the married couple if they wanted a drink. The husband asked the wife what she wanted and she said, “Get me whatever you’re having.”

He said, “Well what would you like?”

She said, “Get two of whatever you like, maybe a beer or a vodka tonic.” Note to men: in this situation where you were just given two specific choices, pick one of them.

Husband ordered something from the waitress and she walked away. The wife asked him, “What did you order?”

He said, “I got two margaritas.”

She asked in disbelief, “FROZEN margaritas?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever in your life seen me drink a frozen margarita?”

“I thought you’d like it, so deal with it.”

“I just think it’s funny that you would order that because you’ve never known me to have a frozen margarita in my life.” She really did think it was funny, she wasn’t saying that sarcastically, she was laughing.

He said, “I wasn’t thinking straight.”

I wanted to tell her that all husbands do that. The only way he would know that she didn’t like frozen margaritas was if they were dating. Marriage is a ticket to stop paying attention.

Our drinks came and the waitress asked me, “Are these three together?” Why did she ask me first? Ordering the damn fuzzy navel was not my idea but I didn’t want to say “Put it on their room,” so I said no, and paid for my own drink. I wasn’t staying at that hotel and couldn’t charge it to my room like everyone else.

I walked over to dip my toe in the water, because I never jump into a cold pool, and I think they’re all cold. A Spanish woman in the water asked me, “Can you swim?” No one has ever asked me that before at a pool.

I said, “Yes.” I’m from the Great Lakes state and thought just about all adults could swim. Especially if they were in the water. She and her daughter were clinging to the side of the pool.

She said, “My daughter lost her hair band to the bottom and she really wants it but we can’t get it.” They were in the deep end, just the place for non-swimmers, and I could see the hair band resting comfortably right there at the bottom, a little gold glint catching the sunlight. The girl tried to go under and reach the hair band with her foot and didn’t even come close. She must have very dexterous toes like me. She tried again and I could see she was getting nowhere, so I slid into the water. Here it is a goddam heat wave, and the water was cold. How the hell can it happen? They must be running a hose right out of their well into the pool. I asked her to show me again where the hair band was, because I was wearing my contacts and once I went under, I wanted to go straight for it and not have to open my eyes. She pointed to it, and I dove under and grabbed it no problem. I was pretty relieved it only took one try. Boy, they were overjoyed. And this was a hair band, I mean, one of the little elastics. I could’ve just given her mine for that matter, but I didn’t think of it soon enough. The Spanish mom read my mind and said, “It doesn’t have any value, but she really wanted it.”

I asked the mom, “Are you visiting from Spain?”

She said, “No, I’m Mexican.” Duh. I’m like three steps from the Mexican border asking a Latino person if she’s from Spain.

She said, “We lived in Montana for my husband’s job but he just died, so we’re here to visit my mother. My mother and sister live here and now that I have no reason to live in Montana, I’m going to move back to El Paso to be near them.”

I said, “I’m sorry about your husband.”

She said, “That’s OK.”

I hoped he was a real asshole and that she was better off because she seemed like a really sweet person, and I didn’t want her being broken hearted over this guy. My friend Valerie said one time a woman told her that her husband died and when she said, “I’m sorry,” the woman said, “I’m not, he was an asshole.”

The widow asked me my name, and I said, “Kay.”

She said, “Kay, like Kay Jewelers?”

I said, “Yes, I wish I was that Kay.”

She replied, “You have the diamonds here,” and pointed to her neckline in the same place where my pendant sat on my neck. My pendant had a tiny diamond in it – really tiny – and I was surprised she could see it from where she was in the pool. I swam back and forth a couple times and then the widow said to me, “When you said you wish you were related to Kay Jewelers, I told you that you have the diamonds here, in your heart. You don’t need the jewelry store.”

Some people are sure good at noticing how slow other people are at figuring out things. It sure was nice of her to explain what she said. I was very touched and thanked her.

I swam to the side where one elderly couple was sitting as a younger couple approached them with kids. As the kids and the mom were getting chairs organized, the older man said to the younger, “I see you got a shirt at Mount Rushmore, how was it?”

The younger man said, “It was great. We spent most of the day there and went over to the Sitting Bull monument too. The damn Indians. You know, they refuse to pay a dime for their own damn monument, they want the government to pay for the whole thing for them.” That caught me by surprise, I’m going to have to look it up. I assumed the monument was paid for by private donations and income from the visitor’s center.

The older man said, “The Indians are just like the blacks. They don’t want to do any work, and they want everything handed to them because they think they’re entitled to get whatever they want for free.” I wondered how we'd gone from talking about a monument to condemning millions of people we'd never met. I went under water and swam with my eyes squeezed shut until I about thought my chest was going to burst and then got out and went straight for my towel.

One of the Rushmore dad’s kids was getting a towel near a girl from another family when he told her, “Last summer, at the beach, I started eating this hot dog, and I don’t know what happened, but all of a sudden, I swallowed it. I mean the whole entire hot dog went down my throat.” The girl and I were staring at him in horrified fascination. I’d take a kid’s gruesome hot dog story over some adults’ conversations any day. He continued, “I was afraid that swallowing a whole hot dog was deadly, so I forced it back up. I didn’t throw it up, I just pushed it all the way back up somehow, and the crazy thing was that when it came out it landed right back on the bun.” I'm not making this up. The kid purposefully regurgitated an entire hot dog, and it landed smack dab on the bun. What are the odds? Some stories are easier to swallow than others.

I dried off and noticed I was running out of afternoon, so I told the other old ladies, “Have a great evening,” and headed off in search of shoes, where I ended up getting some raspberry pumps with the highest heels I’ve ever worn. I couldn’t get back into my hotel room and had to change in my rental car, which felt like an oven. As I changed clothes in the sweltering car, the people from the pool were gradually doing the same. One by one, we became strangers again.