Poolside Politics
by Adam "Bucho" Rodenberger
My head rested against the hard rock holding the water deep within the ground. I had stretched my arms out, Christ-like as the moon beat down on the backyard. Brick enclosures imprisoned the cacti standing watch over the backyard, and I could see lizards scampering through the dirty, shadowed crevices in search of food with wings not quick enough to escape their lightning tongues.
I kicked my legs out slowly, as if backpedaling into my imagination, and let the ripples wash over me, slapping against my neck and splashing up along my chin. A dry heat had covered the county for several days, and this had been my home for a week, my only companions a warm bottle of liquor and a grimy pink raft left by the previous owners. The lizards appeared at the same time every night from the same dirty crevices and never bothered to come close enough for conversation.
A shower seemed redundant as I’d spent more time in the pool in three days than I would’ve spent at work in a week. The hours whispered by on the rare breeze that swept over the water as I sat akimbo on the raft, drink in one hand and cigarette in the other, draping my arms over the headrest. My skin hadn’t gone leathery yet, but another few days of this do-nothing religion would change that, and I wouldn’t concern myself with it until then.
Application of 8 SPF sunscreen once in the morning seemed sufficient, but my cup needed constant refilling. The fans in the house coupled with the AC tuned to seventy-two degrees kept the house comfortable, but I found more solace in the dryness of the outdoors and the watchful eyes of curious creatures acclimated to the desert weather. They didn’t need sunscreen, so I attempted polite mimicry. Between the bourbon, the sun, and the pool, I’ve forgotten what day it is. I have nothing to do but commune with a nature I don’t normally get to enjoy so unabashedly.
I don’t know anything about the family that lives in this house, but their calendar says they’ll be gone until next Friday. I have a week and a half to finish off their groceries, drink every drop from their liquor cabinet, and enjoy the pool they haven’t cleaned since the season started. I found it littered with leaves and dirt as insects swallowing last breaths kicked tiny cilia-covered legs to get out. I stopped trying to save them after the first afternoon. It was like trying to empty a sinking Titanic with a child’s spoon, and I had better things to do; I just don’t remember what they are now.
