Lost & Found

No Running Near the Pool

(A Short Story)

           The day's first pack of brats go whizzing past the NO RUNNING sign by the edge of the pool when Nancy leans up to me with, "Dustin, lick my forearm."

           "Lick your what?"

           "Forearm. My sweat tastes like Mountain Dew."

           If I'd known this at the start of the summer I'dve developed a sick habit. Makes sense. I have never seen Nancy drink water. But I did see her lick beads of sweat off her hand once.

           From my booth I've seen things you can't think of seeing. I'm dead center next to everything except the entrance/exit. Centrally located. Eq-ui-dis-tant to all. Most people come up to me because:

           A. They've lost something, or

           B. They've lost their kid.

           But mostly they don't come up to me at all.

           I had a lady ask me if I'd found her son. Big lady—looked like a jar of mayonnaise with legs. I asked her what age. What kind of shirt her son wore. When I asked this lady the color of her son's hair, she said, "how am I supposed to know?" before dropping her ice cream cone.

           On the official record scratchpad I wrote, "lost boy - lady wants free ice cream."

           These official records are for liability purposes. Does the park do enough to help? Does the staff show a concerned and devoted effort to support the park goer? Do we care?

           Just there, under the new wooden roller coaster, a father tended to his son's skinned knee. "You didn't even cry this hard when mom died. Come on, buck the fuck up, buck-o."

           In the scratchpad I wrote, "we need bigger bandaids."

           Nancy leans into me with, "Dustin, please lick my forearm."

           Behind the soda machines, across from the ring toss, a boy and a girl tongued into each other. Five minutes into their makeout session he threw up in her face. I'm talking fire hose vomit. Peanut butter pumped through a hydrant vomit. Horizontal Yellowstone geyser vomit. 

           To make up for it he proposed to her with a RingPop.

           In the scratchpad I wrote, "she said yes."

           The day's second pack of brats go sprinting past the NO RUNNING sign by the edge of the pool.

           "Dustin, I'm telling you, it tastes just like Mountain Dew!"

           A boy shat his pants. Right over there. Dad held him by the arms over that widemouth trash can—mom yanked at his dripping jeans. The boy slid through his dad's hands and disappeared into the mess.

           For official record I wrote, "check trash for lost and found."

           I've played tick-tac-toe against myself so many times that he's starting to get very good.

           You'll find proof of this in the official record.

           I once saw a seagull fly into our wave pool and never come back out. Same wave pool they're not supposed to run around, but whose stopping them? They asked for Godzilla waves and we gave them Godzilla waves.

           Maybe a week ago, or maybe a month ago, a man holding a corndog asked me for an extra large BigGulp cup. I directed him to concession, right there. Picture this. He shuffled over. He put the empty BigGulp under the yellow mustard pump-action steel spigot. One hand on the pump, one hand on the corndog stick. And he pumped. Like pumped. Pumped for two whole minutes into the BigGulp. He pumped to the point of perspiration. Arm pit stain strain, ok? There was sweat dripping from his lips. He filled that BigGulp up to the brim with yellow mustard. Not smiling, mouth open, he dunked his whole corndog up to the hilt. 

           And oh dude did he hobnob on his corndog—my God the hobnobbing.

           "Dustin, seriously. Mountain Dew."

           He left a trail, a treasure map trail, of yellow spotted Heinz mustard dots: concession stand to Big Dipper to Fun House to bathroom to bench to bathroom to back to concession. 

           He then bought another corndog. And this ritual repeated.

           Twice.

           "Dustin. Forearm. Liiick."

           I scratchpad, "summer summer summer summer summer summer summer summer summer."

           From this booth I see soda machines, food stands—their signs marbled plastic, glossy and awesome. I see hordes of swimsuited, beer bellied, sun burned, zinc nosed, bikini clad, stoned out, bright eyed, summer dweller kickbacks. You get to do this with an Oreo Cakester in one hand and a Coke in the other.

           Ryan comes up to me wiping his shaggy hair from his eyes. Not unlike me, he smells like a wet animal.

           "Dustin, have you tasted Nancy's arm?"

           The day's third pack of brats go whizzing past the NO RUNNING sign—and this boy slips. 

           The smallest boy in the back of his pack goes arms akimbo and legs up.

           His sunburned head pops off the slick wave pool tile. I feel the crack of his skull in the meat of my jaw.

           My tongue, a mind of its own, checks my rows of teeth for any gaps. I know there's no blood in my mouth but it's remembering the taste of blood.

           The boy slides into the Godzilla wave pool.

           "Oh fuck."

           My eyes dart to the lifeguard chair. It's empty.

           My eyes dart back to the slick tile. And to the pool, and back to the empty high chair.

           My job was created for liability purposes. Does the park do enough to help? Does the staff show a concerted and devoted effort to support the park goer? 

           Do I care?

           "Dustin?"

---

           When the sun sets over the park, cicadas from surrounding grasslands rub their legs together composing a humid, dense song for the hazy dusk light. And everyone starts walking a little slower. And wouldbe couples too afraid to hold hands start holding hands. And the lights from the HOT DOG signs, the string lights round the ring toss and BB rifle range fill the space with electric yellow, firework blue, neon red. Damp black pavement reflects the light.

           This is when I leave lost and found to go home.

           A woman I don't know touches my arm and asks me if the boy is ok. I tell her that when the season's over, when all of this is over, make no mistake—he'll tell everyone about the scar. 

           Even though my clothes are still soaked through, this woman hugs me. 

           She pushes her head into my neck. She's gripped me tighter than I'd ever felt in my life. Chlorine scented pool water seeps into her clothes. 

           She pulls away. You can see an outline of me in pool water all across her t-shirt. 

           She presses an open palm against my chest and you can't tell if she's laughing or crying. It's the last night of summer. Around us, the haze drifts on and on forever. Rollercoaster howls join cheers from games just won.

First published here on Substack, September 27, 2021