There are not many Saturdays left in this curiously temperate summer. I think yesterday might very well have been the most beautiful days I can remember: perfect temperature, low humidity, high cirrus clouds to block the glare but provide plenty of light to warm the skin, water in the pool perfect refreshing temperature. I was in the pool three times- a half hour treading water after lunch, then an hour after a conference call, and a dip before closing.
It was magnificent. Doc and Alec were there at the table in the corner that we call the clubhouse- our place to park our towels and flip-flops when we are swimming, and the place to sit and gossip about everyone who isn’t there when not actually in the water. I was interested in hearing about who had been led out of the building in handcuffs- not surprising, I suppose, but still interesting.
Then the matter of the pool politics. I am positioning myself to be the last one out of the pool again, as I have for the last fourteen years, but it is a ticklish matter that requires intricate planning. I am normally the last one out of the pool every day. That is neither a challenge nor a requirement- I am always out in plenty of time so that the Mattias or Pavel will be able to lock up a few minutes before formal closing time and ride their bicycles off into the dusk.
The last time out of the water for the entire season of darkness, though, that is a matter of some gravity. We have all been a little agitated about major construction project required to fix the pipes buried under the concrete of the pool deck. It is going to particularly impact The Queen of the Dogs, since the pipes lead under her patio and it going to require digging underneath it.
The only thing to mar the perfection of it all is the knowledge that it is coming to an end. If there is a case for the Summertime Blues, it is exactly that: two weeks to go before the Polish lifeguards fly off to their adventures in North America before returning to middle Europe, and no certainty that the Board will offer the two bonus weekends of an open pool after that.
So, Management had published a calendar showing that the pool was going to close on Monday the 7th of September, and not be open for the bonus two weekends that follow when the Poles are gone and actual Americans have to do the lifeguarding. We are used to that, though Doc naturally would prefer that it was open during the week, too, since that is when she likes to swim.
I am totally onboard with that, and view those extra four days as cruel reminders of how good it feels to exercise, feeling nearly weightless, suspended in space. I really have to get serious about finding another low-impact way to get my cardio. I always say I am going to walk or use the fitness center and it just doesn’t work out that way.
Anyway, the uncertainty of the closing date revolves around a vote to be held next Wednesday at the monthly Board meeting. I have ascertained that the construction project does not require a complete closing on Labor Day, though I will have to be the last one out, if only to cover the streak for the regular season. We will see if I have to be there in the gloom of September 20th.
No one brought up politics of any scope beyond the ones in the building, which was a relief. Everyone seems so angry about everything, left right and middle, that it is making me uncomfortable. The answer to that was, of course, a sortie over to Willow to confer with the regulars. I drove the police cruiser under those sunny skies, and of course there was a spot at the curb right in front of the restaurant to slide it right into. The perfect day continued.
I had left Big Pink just before the news began to spread about the American Air Force guys who stymied another loony Jihadi on the French high-speed train, and Chanteuse Mary mentioned that and the fact that the Dow-Jones was down another 550 points, ninth worst day ever on Wall Street, and bringing the week to a real disastrous end. I made a mental note to not check the portfolio and did anyway on my idiot phone when Jim went off to the head. But even the shock at the plunge in value couldn’t unhinge the beauty of the day.
An interesting young entrepreneur named Rob was holding court at the far end of the Amen Corner, and he expressed interest at the “reserved” signs that mark our places at the apex of the bar to insure no other riff-raff occupies them in our absence.
He was shortly joined by another well-dressed young man who revealed that he was one of the “maths,” the slang term for the Quantitative Analytics Specialists who do the algorithms that control the stock market. It was a fascinating and scary conversation all at once, since no one except the algorithm seems to be in charge.
In between, Jim had also conducted a clinic on the life and times of Jimmy Breslin, the great Irish writer for the New York Daily News, Pulitzer Prize winner and drunk.
Rob had never heard of the gifted and irascible writer, and kept referring to him as “Jimmy Dresden.”
I had to correct him. “Rob,” I said, “get it straight. We bombed Dresden in the War. You get bombed with Breslin.”
Jim smiled. “Yeah. I had drinks with him one time and it was getting on to tomorrow morning and he called home to say that he probably wasn’t going to be home last night.”
Rob must have liked the discourse, and be one of the 1%ers we hear so much about. When Brett the bartender brought my check, he waved it back and stunned us by springing for free drinks for all the regulars at Willow, completely out of the blue. Just because.
It was, I thought, preparing to take that last plunge into the pool a half hour later, in almost all respects, a splendid day to be alive in a glorious world!
We will get back to reality shortly, I presume. But in the meantime, I intend to have a nice day today, too.
Already the sun is well down by the time I straggle back to the unit, and that means…well, you know.
The next thing people will be talking about pumpkins and Halloween. There ain’t no cure for that.
Copyright 2015 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303