henrymilesoxfor
01-02-2012, 03:55 AM
I was in no way prepared to defend myself.
“What are you doing?”
A fair question. What had I been doing? Standing under the Floridian sun, barefoot on the scorched white asphalt of the apartment complex’s parking lot. I would have to make an educated guess.
“Sleeping?”
“I know that you were sleeping. What were you doing in my truck?”
He pointed toward the black pickup; while staring at its door still open, presumably pulling me out, I began to piece together the events of the previous night. I must have thought that it belonged to Dennis. It was entirely possible that I had left the apartment in a drunken stupor and couldn’t find my way back, having only just arriving from up north. The beige buildings had all looked the same to my untrained eye.
The five to seven men, who I had believed to be Puerto Rican, were waiting for a damn good excuse.
“I didn’t steal anything. You can check.” I had immediately regretted assuring them of that, not being able to guarantee much of anything at this early hour. I hadn’t remembered much of the previous night after the second bottle of rum had been opened. Indeed I couldn’t even remember waking up, having only come to while standing on my feet and facing their inquisition. Still, I wasn’t much of a thief, and most likely would have assumed that anything stashed in the truck belonged to Dennis.
Who were these men?
They were Puerto Rican. It was early. Perhaps they were the grounds crew. I immediately corrected my racist assumption. They could have been Cuban for all that I knew. I knew that there were Cubans in Florida, though I had been under the impression that they were closer to Miami and not so much in the Gulf.
Moments passed and I became concerned as they wordlessly appraised me. Were they going to kick my ***? A bunch of pissed off, persecuted, Cubo Ricans might not hesitate to curb stomp a cocky Gringo who had carelessly wandered onto their turf. I reminded myself that only the Mexicans used the term “Gringo,” and briefly wondered if they were Mexican.
“What is your name? Which apartment do you live in?”
The nature of my fear began to change. These were management questions that your typical vengeance fuelled immigrant would typically skip over, moving along to the “sound beating” portion of conflict resolution. I would have to lie.
“Mike.”
“Where do you live, Mike?”
They hadn’t let that second question go unanswered, as I had hoped they might. I couldn’t give them Dennis’ apartment. I wasn’t aware of the management structure to this complex. What if they worked in the leasing office? If these guys find out that a serial trespassing napper was crashing on Dennis’ couch, they’d practically have to haul his *** onto the street.
I told myself to calm down and get it together. One wrong move and Dennis would be homeless.
Get it together, man.
It was early. I was manageably drunk. I could handle the situation.
“Where am I sir?”
I briefly congratulated myself on the “sir,” but became less sure with myself as the man asking the questions refused to respond with more than a stoic look of silent defiance.
“Sir? Where am I?”
The chief accuser had appeared to be sickened with the insistence that he play along with what we both knew was a bold faced lie. He made a face as if the words were bile moving from his diaphragm to the tip of his tongue as he spat out “Lake…view…estates.” He spit out the words in short chunks, and seemed to feel like a whore for allowing me to set the terms of the inquisition.
I took in the words and forcefully opened my eyes wide in an attempt to wake myself up. The quick adrenaline of being forcefully awakened had begun to wear off, and I cursed the young day. My head began to ache. Maybe when they tossed me out of the truck I landed on my head. It might explain why I didn’t remember being woken up. Though it was most likely hangover induced. At any rate I was having the hardest time stalling at whatever hour it was.
“What time is it?”
As the man looked to his wristwatch, I realized that I would have to get out of the parking lot immediately. I could see that he was wearing down and may have been on the verge of writing the whole incident off if I could get out before he caught his second wind. I waited for him to finish speaking, never actually listening to the words.
“It is? Jesus Christ, I am so goddamn late.”
I quickly buttoned up my shirt and finger brushed my hair, wondering if the “Jesus Christ” would strike a chord with their statistically probable catholic upbringing, then deciding that it would have more than likely fallen into the “taking the name in vein,” category. I made a mental note to keep away from Christ in times of distress.
“I really want to thank you for waking me.”
Without breaking eye contact I stepped back a few paces, as if to establish some breathing room and to test out an escape.
“Wait what about my truck?”
“Believe me, I get it. I mean, if somebody woke up in my truck…I don’t have a truck, but if anybody woke up in one, I don’t know what I’d do. You know what I mean?”
Again I was operating under an uncalled educated bluff.
“And think about how I feel, right? I mean, that’s not who I am believe me. A guy who just nods off in another man’s truck? Please. So I feel real bad, but I’ve gotta be out, so…later?”
The men watched as I kept stepping back, breathing shallowly but hopefully suspiciously so.
“Cool. Later guys.”
And with that I turned about-face on my bare heels; the strange young man was exiting harmlessly from the premises.
On the way out I’d noticed the blacktop starting to bake underneath my soles as I wander past buildings 4,3,2,1 and onto the street. I stepped onto that greenish-brown stubby growth that passes for grass in this jungle state. A deserted and unkempt park lay across the street. I wonder if the men are still gathered around the truck or had begun to fan out half anticipating my return.
Back in the apartment Dennis must still have been asleep, though I wondered if he hadn’t wandered out with me the night before. Or kicked me out himself. Had I worn out my welcome in less than a week? I still had a few hundred bucks from my manic induced impromptu trek down the Atlantic. There was a room available in St. Petersburg, but the neighborhood wasn’t the greatest and the landlord was pretty adamant that there would be no visitors over. It was a possible move that I might have to make eventually. It’s not as if Dennis’ offer to crash on his couch was valid indefinitely. That being said, I couldn’t believe that he had meant to drunkenly evict me either. I’d most likely wandered off again.
I was hungry and food options were limited. Outside of a barefoot mile long walk to a 7-11, or hopefully some grocery store that I hadn’t yet discovered, I’d probably go hungry. And as I thought about it, considering my bare feet, I probably would have gone hungry anyway. No, I would have to reenter the complex somehow.
There was a lake behind a row of buildings at the complex. It seemed possible that I might walk around the block and find access to the muddy banks that would lead me back. Down the sidewalk there was a tree canopy covered dirt road, which went in the direction of that lake. I stepped on the vines of surfaced roots and the larger smoothed over stones, careful not to stub my toes. It was quiet. And dark. The vengeful sobriety of sunlight was caught in the shrubbery, preventing so much as a flare of reflections in the stagnant puddles. I would have been comfortable laying the ground and napping off the premature hours of the unemployed morning, were it not for the abundance of Floridian wildlife and the very real possibility of being run over. Wisely, I thought to myself, I would have to press on.
Unfortunately a chain link fence greeted me at the end, as I realized my poorly maintained public access was in fact a private drive. The light at the end of the drive had completely washed over the impediment, and its discovery had caused me to pause at its face. Behind the semipermeable structure I saw a power blue house and matching shed flanking the still waters behind.
There was a sign posted on the fence with the silhouette of a dog and the passive/aggressive warning, “I can make it the fence in 2.8 seconds. Can you?” I had seen these signs before. Oddly the 2.8 seconds had stuck with me. There were different versions of this sign, with more and less elaborately drawn dogs, but with the exact same phrasing. 2.8 seconds. Regardless of the size of the lawn and the supposed speed of the breed, the message was the same. Not under 3 seconds, but a timed 2.8 seconds. The notion that all dogs of threatening variety could make it to the fence in no more than 2.8 seconds seemed absurd.
From the bowels of my subconscious I could remember hearing a statistic that the majority of home security stickers were placed as a bluff by homeowners too cheap to purchase the actual service. The lake was my way back into the complex with the soft hill along its bank providing me a position to observe the movements of any authority. Other homes along the shore, while not as well fortified, would be that much further along the way. And my intentions were not as nefarious as that of a home invader.
I decided to call their bluff.
Climbing the fence, I cringed with the squeals and whinnies the rusting mesh made underneath my weight. I exhaled lightly in an absurd attempt to quiet the fence. I paused atop its frame, spent observing my landing area, then dropped to the ground, twisting my ankle and falling to my side.
I used to get shin splints as a child. I still do, but as this is something that many people associate with the elderly, I tend to emphasize that I used to get them at such a young age. And while one leg might become sore I would moderately and rhythmically slap the front of my other leg, figuring if my left leg hurt that much more, my right one would that much less. Lying on my side I realized this theory was bull****, as the new sore spot on my hip and twisted ankle did absolutely nothing to relieve my swelling headache.
Lying on my side, I observed the surface of the lake, rising from the dirt, vertically past the bridge of my nose and on past the corner of my left eye. I lifted myself cautiously and attempted to wipe a small trail of dirt off the side of my mouth with a soiled hand, which only exacerbated the problem. Forcefully exhaling out the side of my mouth I stepped past the house and made my way to the water. For a brief moment I no longer feared being spotted by a homeowner, and only cared for the lake, which would lead me home.
As I stepped closer I could hear the sounds of what Chuck Jones would playfully name “Invaderous Devouracis;” a vigilant Rottweiler, which approached me menacingly. He shifted his side slowly as if giving me a brief moment to explain myself, only with considerably less patience than an upset Latino who had found his truck defiled. My mind drifted back to my childhood Doberman, which would bark ferociously but submissively rolled on her back when I ordered her to behave. Reasoning that a Rottweiler was pretty much just a big Doberman I puffed my chest out and pointed my finger at its noise.
“Stop it. No. Bad. Baaaad”
The dog obeyed, sitting down on the driveway and cocking its head while following my swaying finger. At that moment I might have been able to hold my ground and command it back to the shed that it came from. I didn’t. Instead I ever so slightly dropped my shoulders. The animal quickly regained its sense of purpose, stood up and barked.
I made a quick assessment of my surroundings. Lake, me, dog, fence. I reminded myself that the dog could make it to the fence in less than 2.8 seconds. My own personal best would probably be 3 to 4 minutes considering I would most likely be carrying a 120 lb. snarling dog, ripping at my flesh and doing it’s very best to kill me on the spot.
My panicking mind drifted back toward the lake, some 20 yards behind me, as a safe zone. It was not due to my being an exceptionally strong swimmer, of which I was not. I was fairly sure that a dog could easily catch me in the water. But in all my years, not once have I ever seen one of them submerge. With that baseless theory, I took off and sprinted for the water, leading the beast on a desperate chase.
As I heard the footsteps rapidly approaching my own, I reached the water and jumped high in the air, preparing to dive as deep as possible. I would go as far down hoping to lose the dog in the murky water, in one of the most serious rounds of Marco Polo that I could imagine. Unfortunately the lake was unnaturally shallow. About six inches below the surface, my chest slammed against the various rocks and branches resting along its floor. Meanwhile the Rottweiler continued toward me. I lunged forward, hands and knees, praying for a suitable depth where I could slip out of reach. As I felt his paw graze my bare heel, I miraculously reached the shelf and dove under, kicking for my life.
Furiously pushing the water apart, swimming beneath the surface, my lungs burning, desperately testing my constitution. My clothes had created drag, but considering the shot of adrenaline that was rushing through my body I had probably managed to swim 15 feet away from the shore before reemerging for air.
I lifted my head. The water was still probably only five feet deep, but I made sure to keep as much of myself underwater as possible. Several boats gently slept, bound to their familiar docks. As I turned around I could see the dog making its way back to the house; it’s owner scolding it. I grew tired from treading water, and finally dipped my feet on the soft bottom of the lake and watched the man as he looked in my direction.
“Sorry about that.”
“No worries.”
“What are you doing out there?”
“Oh, I’m just getting a quick dip. Before the boats come out.”
I waved to him as he looked at me, a bemused expression flashed across his face. I myself wondered how anybody could stand to swim in this muck, before slowly realizing that I had never actually seen anybody try to. It occurred to me that the man on the porch might not have as well, and even if he had, those swimmers would not be wearing the tasteful blue button up shirt that rose from the grime, falling just off my wrist.
“What are you wearing in there?”
I tucked my sleeve beneath the water. I wanted to come up with an answer for him.
Guys tossed me in. I’m just swimming back to my place.
Oh, this is for resistance. I’m training for a triathlon.
What shirt?
But I just stood there, hunched in an upright quasi-fetal position; frozen, waiting to see how he’d respond if I just didn’t take my turn.
He picked up an old cordless phone, and started dialing. With that I took off and ran past the cattails, madly dashing back to the apartment complex. Sloshing about, I wondered if it would be quicker to run or swim, so I made sure to thrash my arms at my sides, stroking while my legs pumped up and down in the sludge. Eventually I stepped into a sinkhole, and dropped forward suddenly. The filthy water filled my still open mouth, forcing me to begin gagging up remnants from the last night’s binge drinking session. Still desperate that the police were surely on their way, I slapped the vomit away from my path and continued on before reaching the brown bank.
I would clear his line of vision in a few feet, but the baggy jeans, now caked in mud clung to my legs and did their traitorous best to trip me. Quickly I pulled them off my waist and slid out from underneath my shirt. Standing in the sun, white torso, legs and arms with mahogany hands, feet and face, I clutched my ball of clothes and lay against the backside of a hill.
Dennis’ building was one of the ones off in the distance. I couldn’t be sure which, but I knew it was near the pool. Taking note of any groundskeepers, or other potentially troublesome Latinos, I quickly dashed toward the pool. In my haste, I had made the mistake of landing on the spikey seeds from the sweet gum trees, and quickly stopped to brush my feet and howl louder than I should have.
As I approached the pool I could hear the voices of children. The little bastards were already up, and messing around. On any other day I would have been content to run out of the door and yell at them and curse their parents for not stopping them from screaming at whatever ungodly hour it may have been. However, it seemed to me that running around children, with no clothes, and my penis unintentionally falling out of my boxers, was bad for my look.
I hid in the bushes and tried to figure out which apartment belonged to Dennis. Quickly thereafter I realized that lurking the bushes, with no clothes on and a penis unintentionally falling out of my boxers was not much better of a look, but at this point I was running out of options.
I scanned the layout as the children played on. Finally to my left there was a familiar looking door, with a coconut wind chime. Could it belong to Dennis? Sure. I dashed out of the bush, running. One boy looked out of the pool, pointed and laughed.
“Pee-Nis.”
“Go **** yourself kid.”
I ran to the door not knowing if Dennis had locked me out the night before. Not knowing if it was the correct apartment after all. I would run in and deal with whatever the consequence were later. And if it was locked, I would desperately bang on the window and get that bastard to wake up and let me in, praying that it was Dennis in bed and not some soon to be confused stranger.
But no, there was no need for that. As the boy’s parent tried to reprimand me from long distance for swearing in front of their child, I opened the door and say the familiar mess lying before me.
Home.
Exhausted, I slammed the door behind myself and stepped over the discarded bottle of Bacardi’s, and walked past Dennis’ room. He lay face down with his feet hanging off the bed.
I stepped into the shower dropping my soiled clothes at the far end of the tub and turned on the steamy water. Slumped over with its steam slowly massaging the twigs and grime out of my hair, I closed my eyes and sat down. I may have fallen asleep for a brief moment in that tub. Spend enough time without a bed and you’ll find yourself sleeping in the strangest places. The trick is to be prepared to deal with the consequences.
“What are you doing?”
A fair question. What had I been doing? Standing under the Floridian sun, barefoot on the scorched white asphalt of the apartment complex’s parking lot. I would have to make an educated guess.
“Sleeping?”
“I know that you were sleeping. What were you doing in my truck?”
He pointed toward the black pickup; while staring at its door still open, presumably pulling me out, I began to piece together the events of the previous night. I must have thought that it belonged to Dennis. It was entirely possible that I had left the apartment in a drunken stupor and couldn’t find my way back, having only just arriving from up north. The beige buildings had all looked the same to my untrained eye.
The five to seven men, who I had believed to be Puerto Rican, were waiting for a damn good excuse.
“I didn’t steal anything. You can check.” I had immediately regretted assuring them of that, not being able to guarantee much of anything at this early hour. I hadn’t remembered much of the previous night after the second bottle of rum had been opened. Indeed I couldn’t even remember waking up, having only come to while standing on my feet and facing their inquisition. Still, I wasn’t much of a thief, and most likely would have assumed that anything stashed in the truck belonged to Dennis.
Who were these men?
They were Puerto Rican. It was early. Perhaps they were the grounds crew. I immediately corrected my racist assumption. They could have been Cuban for all that I knew. I knew that there were Cubans in Florida, though I had been under the impression that they were closer to Miami and not so much in the Gulf.
Moments passed and I became concerned as they wordlessly appraised me. Were they going to kick my ***? A bunch of pissed off, persecuted, Cubo Ricans might not hesitate to curb stomp a cocky Gringo who had carelessly wandered onto their turf. I reminded myself that only the Mexicans used the term “Gringo,” and briefly wondered if they were Mexican.
“What is your name? Which apartment do you live in?”
The nature of my fear began to change. These were management questions that your typical vengeance fuelled immigrant would typically skip over, moving along to the “sound beating” portion of conflict resolution. I would have to lie.
“Mike.”
“Where do you live, Mike?”
They hadn’t let that second question go unanswered, as I had hoped they might. I couldn’t give them Dennis’ apartment. I wasn’t aware of the management structure to this complex. What if they worked in the leasing office? If these guys find out that a serial trespassing napper was crashing on Dennis’ couch, they’d practically have to haul his *** onto the street.
I told myself to calm down and get it together. One wrong move and Dennis would be homeless.
Get it together, man.
It was early. I was manageably drunk. I could handle the situation.
“Where am I sir?”
I briefly congratulated myself on the “sir,” but became less sure with myself as the man asking the questions refused to respond with more than a stoic look of silent defiance.
“Sir? Where am I?”
The chief accuser had appeared to be sickened with the insistence that he play along with what we both knew was a bold faced lie. He made a face as if the words were bile moving from his diaphragm to the tip of his tongue as he spat out “Lake…view…estates.” He spit out the words in short chunks, and seemed to feel like a whore for allowing me to set the terms of the inquisition.
I took in the words and forcefully opened my eyes wide in an attempt to wake myself up. The quick adrenaline of being forcefully awakened had begun to wear off, and I cursed the young day. My head began to ache. Maybe when they tossed me out of the truck I landed on my head. It might explain why I didn’t remember being woken up. Though it was most likely hangover induced. At any rate I was having the hardest time stalling at whatever hour it was.
“What time is it?”
As the man looked to his wristwatch, I realized that I would have to get out of the parking lot immediately. I could see that he was wearing down and may have been on the verge of writing the whole incident off if I could get out before he caught his second wind. I waited for him to finish speaking, never actually listening to the words.
“It is? Jesus Christ, I am so goddamn late.”
I quickly buttoned up my shirt and finger brushed my hair, wondering if the “Jesus Christ” would strike a chord with their statistically probable catholic upbringing, then deciding that it would have more than likely fallen into the “taking the name in vein,” category. I made a mental note to keep away from Christ in times of distress.
“I really want to thank you for waking me.”
Without breaking eye contact I stepped back a few paces, as if to establish some breathing room and to test out an escape.
“Wait what about my truck?”
“Believe me, I get it. I mean, if somebody woke up in my truck…I don’t have a truck, but if anybody woke up in one, I don’t know what I’d do. You know what I mean?”
Again I was operating under an uncalled educated bluff.
“And think about how I feel, right? I mean, that’s not who I am believe me. A guy who just nods off in another man’s truck? Please. So I feel real bad, but I’ve gotta be out, so…later?”
The men watched as I kept stepping back, breathing shallowly but hopefully suspiciously so.
“Cool. Later guys.”
And with that I turned about-face on my bare heels; the strange young man was exiting harmlessly from the premises.
On the way out I’d noticed the blacktop starting to bake underneath my soles as I wander past buildings 4,3,2,1 and onto the street. I stepped onto that greenish-brown stubby growth that passes for grass in this jungle state. A deserted and unkempt park lay across the street. I wonder if the men are still gathered around the truck or had begun to fan out half anticipating my return.
Back in the apartment Dennis must still have been asleep, though I wondered if he hadn’t wandered out with me the night before. Or kicked me out himself. Had I worn out my welcome in less than a week? I still had a few hundred bucks from my manic induced impromptu trek down the Atlantic. There was a room available in St. Petersburg, but the neighborhood wasn’t the greatest and the landlord was pretty adamant that there would be no visitors over. It was a possible move that I might have to make eventually. It’s not as if Dennis’ offer to crash on his couch was valid indefinitely. That being said, I couldn’t believe that he had meant to drunkenly evict me either. I’d most likely wandered off again.
I was hungry and food options were limited. Outside of a barefoot mile long walk to a 7-11, or hopefully some grocery store that I hadn’t yet discovered, I’d probably go hungry. And as I thought about it, considering my bare feet, I probably would have gone hungry anyway. No, I would have to reenter the complex somehow.
There was a lake behind a row of buildings at the complex. It seemed possible that I might walk around the block and find access to the muddy banks that would lead me back. Down the sidewalk there was a tree canopy covered dirt road, which went in the direction of that lake. I stepped on the vines of surfaced roots and the larger smoothed over stones, careful not to stub my toes. It was quiet. And dark. The vengeful sobriety of sunlight was caught in the shrubbery, preventing so much as a flare of reflections in the stagnant puddles. I would have been comfortable laying the ground and napping off the premature hours of the unemployed morning, were it not for the abundance of Floridian wildlife and the very real possibility of being run over. Wisely, I thought to myself, I would have to press on.
Unfortunately a chain link fence greeted me at the end, as I realized my poorly maintained public access was in fact a private drive. The light at the end of the drive had completely washed over the impediment, and its discovery had caused me to pause at its face. Behind the semipermeable structure I saw a power blue house and matching shed flanking the still waters behind.
There was a sign posted on the fence with the silhouette of a dog and the passive/aggressive warning, “I can make it the fence in 2.8 seconds. Can you?” I had seen these signs before. Oddly the 2.8 seconds had stuck with me. There were different versions of this sign, with more and less elaborately drawn dogs, but with the exact same phrasing. 2.8 seconds. Regardless of the size of the lawn and the supposed speed of the breed, the message was the same. Not under 3 seconds, but a timed 2.8 seconds. The notion that all dogs of threatening variety could make it to the fence in no more than 2.8 seconds seemed absurd.
From the bowels of my subconscious I could remember hearing a statistic that the majority of home security stickers were placed as a bluff by homeowners too cheap to purchase the actual service. The lake was my way back into the complex with the soft hill along its bank providing me a position to observe the movements of any authority. Other homes along the shore, while not as well fortified, would be that much further along the way. And my intentions were not as nefarious as that of a home invader.
I decided to call their bluff.
Climbing the fence, I cringed with the squeals and whinnies the rusting mesh made underneath my weight. I exhaled lightly in an absurd attempt to quiet the fence. I paused atop its frame, spent observing my landing area, then dropped to the ground, twisting my ankle and falling to my side.
I used to get shin splints as a child. I still do, but as this is something that many people associate with the elderly, I tend to emphasize that I used to get them at such a young age. And while one leg might become sore I would moderately and rhythmically slap the front of my other leg, figuring if my left leg hurt that much more, my right one would that much less. Lying on my side I realized this theory was bull****, as the new sore spot on my hip and twisted ankle did absolutely nothing to relieve my swelling headache.
Lying on my side, I observed the surface of the lake, rising from the dirt, vertically past the bridge of my nose and on past the corner of my left eye. I lifted myself cautiously and attempted to wipe a small trail of dirt off the side of my mouth with a soiled hand, which only exacerbated the problem. Forcefully exhaling out the side of my mouth I stepped past the house and made my way to the water. For a brief moment I no longer feared being spotted by a homeowner, and only cared for the lake, which would lead me home.
As I stepped closer I could hear the sounds of what Chuck Jones would playfully name “Invaderous Devouracis;” a vigilant Rottweiler, which approached me menacingly. He shifted his side slowly as if giving me a brief moment to explain myself, only with considerably less patience than an upset Latino who had found his truck defiled. My mind drifted back to my childhood Doberman, which would bark ferociously but submissively rolled on her back when I ordered her to behave. Reasoning that a Rottweiler was pretty much just a big Doberman I puffed my chest out and pointed my finger at its noise.
“Stop it. No. Bad. Baaaad”
The dog obeyed, sitting down on the driveway and cocking its head while following my swaying finger. At that moment I might have been able to hold my ground and command it back to the shed that it came from. I didn’t. Instead I ever so slightly dropped my shoulders. The animal quickly regained its sense of purpose, stood up and barked.
I made a quick assessment of my surroundings. Lake, me, dog, fence. I reminded myself that the dog could make it to the fence in less than 2.8 seconds. My own personal best would probably be 3 to 4 minutes considering I would most likely be carrying a 120 lb. snarling dog, ripping at my flesh and doing it’s very best to kill me on the spot.
My panicking mind drifted back toward the lake, some 20 yards behind me, as a safe zone. It was not due to my being an exceptionally strong swimmer, of which I was not. I was fairly sure that a dog could easily catch me in the water. But in all my years, not once have I ever seen one of them submerge. With that baseless theory, I took off and sprinted for the water, leading the beast on a desperate chase.
As I heard the footsteps rapidly approaching my own, I reached the water and jumped high in the air, preparing to dive as deep as possible. I would go as far down hoping to lose the dog in the murky water, in one of the most serious rounds of Marco Polo that I could imagine. Unfortunately the lake was unnaturally shallow. About six inches below the surface, my chest slammed against the various rocks and branches resting along its floor. Meanwhile the Rottweiler continued toward me. I lunged forward, hands and knees, praying for a suitable depth where I could slip out of reach. As I felt his paw graze my bare heel, I miraculously reached the shelf and dove under, kicking for my life.
Furiously pushing the water apart, swimming beneath the surface, my lungs burning, desperately testing my constitution. My clothes had created drag, but considering the shot of adrenaline that was rushing through my body I had probably managed to swim 15 feet away from the shore before reemerging for air.
I lifted my head. The water was still probably only five feet deep, but I made sure to keep as much of myself underwater as possible. Several boats gently slept, bound to their familiar docks. As I turned around I could see the dog making its way back to the house; it’s owner scolding it. I grew tired from treading water, and finally dipped my feet on the soft bottom of the lake and watched the man as he looked in my direction.
“Sorry about that.”
“No worries.”
“What are you doing out there?”
“Oh, I’m just getting a quick dip. Before the boats come out.”
I waved to him as he looked at me, a bemused expression flashed across his face. I myself wondered how anybody could stand to swim in this muck, before slowly realizing that I had never actually seen anybody try to. It occurred to me that the man on the porch might not have as well, and even if he had, those swimmers would not be wearing the tasteful blue button up shirt that rose from the grime, falling just off my wrist.
“What are you wearing in there?”
I tucked my sleeve beneath the water. I wanted to come up with an answer for him.
Guys tossed me in. I’m just swimming back to my place.
Oh, this is for resistance. I’m training for a triathlon.
What shirt?
But I just stood there, hunched in an upright quasi-fetal position; frozen, waiting to see how he’d respond if I just didn’t take my turn.
He picked up an old cordless phone, and started dialing. With that I took off and ran past the cattails, madly dashing back to the apartment complex. Sloshing about, I wondered if it would be quicker to run or swim, so I made sure to thrash my arms at my sides, stroking while my legs pumped up and down in the sludge. Eventually I stepped into a sinkhole, and dropped forward suddenly. The filthy water filled my still open mouth, forcing me to begin gagging up remnants from the last night’s binge drinking session. Still desperate that the police were surely on their way, I slapped the vomit away from my path and continued on before reaching the brown bank.
I would clear his line of vision in a few feet, but the baggy jeans, now caked in mud clung to my legs and did their traitorous best to trip me. Quickly I pulled them off my waist and slid out from underneath my shirt. Standing in the sun, white torso, legs and arms with mahogany hands, feet and face, I clutched my ball of clothes and lay against the backside of a hill.
Dennis’ building was one of the ones off in the distance. I couldn’t be sure which, but I knew it was near the pool. Taking note of any groundskeepers, or other potentially troublesome Latinos, I quickly dashed toward the pool. In my haste, I had made the mistake of landing on the spikey seeds from the sweet gum trees, and quickly stopped to brush my feet and howl louder than I should have.
As I approached the pool I could hear the voices of children. The little bastards were already up, and messing around. On any other day I would have been content to run out of the door and yell at them and curse their parents for not stopping them from screaming at whatever ungodly hour it may have been. However, it seemed to me that running around children, with no clothes, and my penis unintentionally falling out of my boxers, was bad for my look.
I hid in the bushes and tried to figure out which apartment belonged to Dennis. Quickly thereafter I realized that lurking the bushes, with no clothes on and a penis unintentionally falling out of my boxers was not much better of a look, but at this point I was running out of options.
I scanned the layout as the children played on. Finally to my left there was a familiar looking door, with a coconut wind chime. Could it belong to Dennis? Sure. I dashed out of the bush, running. One boy looked out of the pool, pointed and laughed.
“Pee-Nis.”
“Go **** yourself kid.”
I ran to the door not knowing if Dennis had locked me out the night before. Not knowing if it was the correct apartment after all. I would run in and deal with whatever the consequence were later. And if it was locked, I would desperately bang on the window and get that bastard to wake up and let me in, praying that it was Dennis in bed and not some soon to be confused stranger.
But no, there was no need for that. As the boy’s parent tried to reprimand me from long distance for swearing in front of their child, I opened the door and say the familiar mess lying before me.
Home.
Exhausted, I slammed the door behind myself and stepped over the discarded bottle of Bacardi’s, and walked past Dennis’ room. He lay face down with his feet hanging off the bed.
I stepped into the shower dropping my soiled clothes at the far end of the tub and turned on the steamy water. Slumped over with its steam slowly massaging the twigs and grime out of my hair, I closed my eyes and sat down. I may have fallen asleep for a brief moment in that tub. Spend enough time without a bed and you’ll find yourself sleeping in the strangest places. The trick is to be prepared to deal with the consequences.