by Sean McGinty
“What? This is not an interrogation! I am simply asking some questions!”
She began to speak to him in a foreign language, and he answered her in it, and I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but then FUN®’s Universal Language Decoder (YAY!) detected their speech as Basque and began translating it for me:
mr.e: daughter i am most pleasant! not an embarrass of you! can this allow me chat with special fellow/suitor?
katie: papa can it not be we simply to enjoy nice day?
mr.e: yes i am of course! furthermore yet i must hold special desire for a competition of swimming.
katie: papa no one will be special desire for a competition of swimming. please rather to enjoy the sky of yellow sun.
mr.e: already it does daughter but the belief holds true a competition of a swimming is outrank idle pastimes as evidence of for example here. i am restless agitation for swim!
katie: dear papa we communicate in outrageous length. is time arrival for english? he may apprehend our discourse.
mr.e: special fellow/suitor may apprehend our discourse? this can be possible?
katie: yes! have you not observed he is at present having computer simulation eye of amusement/joy?
The two of them snapped their heads in my direction. I very casually examined my fingernail.
“So,” said Mr. E., “you are probably wondering why I have asked to meet you here, at a swimming pool? All my life I have loved to swim, but that is not why. Did you know, I helped to build this swimming pool!”
“You built it?”
“Incredible, no?”
“Um…yeah.” You don’t really ever think about anyone ever building a swimming pool. I don’t. I looked around the pool at the sparkling water. “I really like the tile stripe around the edge there.”
“That we did not do. That was added later.”
“Well, and the slide.”
“Also later.” He ducked under the water and rose back up, dripping like a fish. “Aaron, I come to America age of eighteen with ten dollars in my shoe. After working with sheep for almost no pay, I ask my friend Kepa, I say to him, ‘Where can I find a good job?’ He replies, ‘I am going to build a swimming pool. Do you know how to build a swimming pool, Aitor?’ And I say, ‘No, Kepa. But I will learn.’”
Katie rolled her eyes.
“Together, we built swimming pools all across this land and Idaho. We sold that business and started other businesses. The restaurant. The shoe store. Later, we sold these, too. You see, this is how business works. Always one thing leading to another. Now Kepa, he lives in Las Vegas in a house with three swimming pools.”
“One’s a hot tub, Papa. And one’s a fish pond.”
“THREE pools! I told him, what do you need all these for? One is enough. But that is what I have discovered about life: if you tell a man that he cannot have something, that is exactly what he will want, no?”
“Um, sure.”
“It is so good to meet you, Aaron. You are a gentleman of honor, I can tell.”
“Papa,” said Katie.
Mr. E. clapped his hands together. “OK, then. If not talking, time to race!”
“Papa, no one wants to race!”
“A friendly swim, then. We go down, we touch the other end, we come back. What does Aaron have to say about this proposition?”
They turned to me, the deciding vote.
“I gotta tell you—I’m really not much of a swimmer.”
“You have said this already, Aaron! But if this is true, you are honest, and if it is false, you are humble, and either way it is very admirable.” He winked at his daughter. “Now get out and stand on the edge with me and show me that you are brave. We dive on the count of three.”
So there I was, trying to remember the last time I’d swum an entire lap across a pool. Ever. The wind had picked up, and it was cold against my skin, but the pool looked even colder. A woman was moving swiftly along the far end. I watched her smooth, even strokes as if I might memorize and repeat them.
“One!” said Mr. E.
“Papa, do we really have to—”
“Two!”
I took a breath.
“Three!”
The water was colder than the air—like 10x colder—and the first thing I did was inhale a noseful of it and blow it out in two shoulder-length draglines of snot—only that wasn’t what was holding me back. Terrible form, lack of buoyancy, fear of drowning: that’s what my problem was. I splashed along with Katie and her papa for maybe four strokes, and then I was looking at their feet—and that was the last I saw of them until they were coming back the other way.
The whole thing was pretty weird. Afterwards, in the men’s locker room with Mr. E., it got even weirder. I’m talking about when he whipped off his trunks like it was no big deal and tossed them on a bench. Suddenly I was trying to not look at a lot more than his nipples.
“My daughter, Katie,” he said. “She is a special person.”
“She, uh, she really is.”
He nodded. “She told me about the ring of promise. It was a very special gift to her—you should know this.”
What? There he was, all his parts hanging wrinkly and low, and I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I just nodded like, You bet! and when he hopped in the showers, I scrammed out of there.
Katie was standing in the lobby. It was our first moment alone together all day.
“What’s up with your dad?”
“Yeah, he’s pretty crazy all right.”
“He asked me about the ring of promise.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh God! Sorry. He gets so confused about things.”
“I don’t get it.”
“The mood ring. I lost it when we were swimming at Tahoe. And I was looking for it, and he asked about it, and I told him it was a mood ring. But things can get lost in translation with him.”
“Like how he thought I was in college?”
“Yeah. And, um, he may also think you’re twenty-one…and…” Katie shifted the bag in her hand. “He may also have gotten the idea that—”
“Hello, you two!” Mr. E. came bursting through the doors. “Ah, I do feel refreshed after a swim! So now what is next on our agenda?”
“I’ve got rehearsal, remember?”
“Yes, of course! And you, Aaron? Would you like to join me for a late breakfast—my treat?”
“He can’t, Papa. He was just telling me about the work he has at home.”
“Right,” I said. “All the work.”
“Good for you, Aaron. Work is good.”
Back home in my grandpa’s recliner, I sat with my heart all fluttery and confused. What was going on? Katie appeared to have told her father—or at least led him to believe—that I was kind of like her boyfriend. But why? That meant there was some truth to it, right? Maybe she’d thought about things. Maybe she’d searched her heart. You don’t go looking for a lost ring unless it’s special, right? And if it was special, we were special.
Right?
> hey original boy_2!
u r a FAIL!
u have a call from user shiloh_lilly
“Send to voice mail!”
For once, Homie™ did what I asked.
I let out a breath.
Right. Shiloh. What about Shiloh?
Up to that point in my life I’d always thought of the sacrament of confession to be just one more weapon in the Catholic Church’s arsenal of guilt-making and shame. But now I understood. I really needed someone to talk it out with. Someone who wouldn’t judge me too harshly. Who would listen and empathize. Who could offer a way forward.
Instead, I told Homie™.
It hovered patiently while I gave it the story, then it dipped in the air and displayed a single exclamation mark.
> !
Then:
> yow!
u should please totally doink her!
“Who, Shiloh? You didn’t hear me right. We already did doink. Remember? You were there
. And now I’m feeling like crap about it.”
> u r feeling the crap!
“No. I’m feeling like crap.”
> be cool!
“I AM cool.”
> that’s right!
u r cool!
so very awesome cool happy!
yay! for happytimes™!
a coolest new game!
“You aren’t exactly helping.”
Homie™ spun in a circle.
> i can help!
tell me what u want!
what it is that u want?
Good question. What did I want? “I don’t know, someone to tell me it’s all gonna work out OK.”
> it’s gonna work out all ok!
“And to, like, tell me I didn’t screw it all up.”
> u didn’t screw it all up!
“And, I don’t know, to like hold me or something.”
Homie™ hovered there.
> :(
i don’t have any arms!
Days went by and I kept to myself. With Katie it was easy: she was either hanging out with her dad or she had play practice. But as for Shiloh, it wasn’t so easy. She messaged me, asking how I was feeling and if I wanted to go to the motorcycle jamboree with her. But no, I couldn’t go to the jamboree with her because I was going with Katie. Only that isn’t what I told her. I told her I had to help my friend Oso.
This was true. He did need my help. The latest edition of the Daily Intelligencer (YAY!) arrived, and when I sat down to read it—anything to distract myself—I saw something from the police blotter:
Angelo “El Oso” Sandoval was arrested on charges of breaking and entering, resisting arrest, and possession of a controlled substance.
Oso! I’d been so wrapped up in my own worries that I’d completely forgotten about him! I called his number and got voice mail. But then after a minute he called me back from a different phone.
“Hi, Aaron.”
“Where are you?”
“Jail, bro.”
“Jail?”
“Three squares and a bed, bro. This is the right thing for right now. Everything’s been simplified. It’s just me and these four walls. Eat some food, do some push-ups, meditate…My energy feels more in balance than ever! I was just talking to my lawyer. His name is Peter Juliet, and he’s in love with my aunt Rita so he’s going pro bono. He might be in touch with you—he says he wants to involve you in the trial.”
“What, like as an accomplice?”
“Nah, bro—character witness.”
And then came the day of The Birthday Party. It was a day of much significance. Not only was it opening night of the play, it was also the first day of the Antello International Motorcycle Jamboree, and also Katie’s actual birthday. She was turning 23. Nearly a quarter century. I met her that morning for the jamboree—there was no other way around it. I was on full alert for Shiloh. But if I saw her I wasn’t sure what I would do. Run?
Katie was in a pretty good mood and kept talking about what a beautiful day it was. It wasn’t bad. Blue sky, wispy clouds, sun streaming down, cigarette smoke wafting on the breeze. That kind of thing. You could hear the music from three blocks away. I thought we’d be early and beat the crowd, but I was wrong—not even 10 o’clock yet and already the place was wall-to-wall motorcycles.
A lot of it was a weekend-warrior/suburban-dad kind of vibe, but on the other hand some of these people were the real deal. Anyone can put on a leather vest, and anyone can get a face tattoo, and anyone can smoke meth until their teeth fall out—but not everyone does. I’m talking about the locals. In a weird way I was kind of proud of my hometown. Grandmas in leather. Teen moms with Heinekens. Fat dudes in T-shirts with slogans designed to cut through the courtship crap and get right to the heart of the matter:
FREE BREATHALYZER
BLOW HERE
↓
Predictably, the line for kettle corn was about a half-mile long, but it was Katie’s birthday, and that’s what she wanted for breakfast.
I’m not kidding about the line. Endless. The good thing was, no sign of Shiloh. We stood there with the sun beating down, and after a while Katie took my arm. “Help me. I’m an old woman now.”
“Yeah, right.”
“But you! So young, so innocent. You don’t know what it’s like to ache and putter about.”
Was she flirting? Teasing? It felt like a little of both, and I didn’t want it to stop, but I felt a darkness, too, because it was all so tricky, and what about Shiloh? After we got our popcorn, I convinced her to check out the Gold Angels, a synchronized precision riding ensemble (YAY!). They were in the Bud Lite® Action Arena, which was also the convention center parking lot, which was a couple blocks from the main action, which is why I wanted to be there. The better to avoid Shiloh.
A square, maybe half the size of a tennis court, had been cordoned off with yellow caution tape. Four large men on Honda Gold Wings wove noisily around each other in painfully slow circles while a woman in leather narrated over a P.A.
“…Every move choreographed down to the last second….Right now, if you were to look down on this from above, like from some kind of scaffolding, you would see they are presently tracing a beautifully symmetrical four-leaf clover….”
I crammed my face with popcorn and watched them go. The men were fat and they wore outfits color-coded to their motorcycles—red, white, blue, and gold—so they would never forget who owned what bike. Then it was time for doubles. The motorcycles stopped and four women emerged from the crowd—red, white, blue, and gold—and stepped onto the back of their corresponding machines, which then rolled on forward to trace more complex patterns at even slower speeds.
“Wow,” said Katie. “Like danger in slow motion.”
After the Gold Angels there was a demonstration of a Duratek® T101 Flameproof Suit (YAY!), and then some kids on minibikes who, even if they weren’t on fire, were still pretty cool, and for a moment I almost relaxed. Almost. Then, thank God, Katie had to go get ready for the play. After she was gone, I allowed myself a breath of relief. I’d made it! No Shiloh in sight! But on my way out of there I ran into my dad.
He was sitting on a bench sipping from his canteen and talking to someone on his phone. Bones was there, too. I thought maybe I could sneak by, but the dog saw me and let out a sharp bark. Dad put up a hand, signaling for me to stop. He finished his conversation and returned his phone to his pocket. “Saw you over at the fire demo with Katie. Looked like a good time.”
“It was OK.”
Dad leveled his gaze at me. “Looks like you got a choice to make, buddy.”
I was like, What? How did HE know? “Who told you about Shiloh?”
“Shiloh?” he said. “What about her?”
“What are you talking about, then?”
“I’m talking about your scheduling conflict—the play and the Battle of the Bands.”
He opened a schedule of events and tapped on the part about the Battle of the Bands. His band, the JC Wonder Excursion, was scheduled to play at 7 P.M., the same time as the play.
The man has his flaws, but one thing about my dad—I remembered this now—was he always showed up to my high school basketball games. Which was pretty cool of him, considering most of the time I didn’t even play. Not saying he was always sober when he showed up, and I remember more than once turning around and seeing him straight-up snoozing. But he did come. And this Battle of the Bands thing was kind of like his game, wasn’t it?
“Damn, I didn’t realize. Maybe I can go to both?”
“They’re the same time!”
“Yeah, I see that.”
Dad folded the schedule. “So now what’s this about Shiloh?”
“Nothing.”
He scrutinized my face. “Interesting…”
“I’ve gotta go, OK? I’ve got some stuff to do.”
I could hear his voice behind me. “You got a choice to make, buddy!”
It was true, I did. The world is full of c
hoices. All kinds of choices. Too many choices. I thought about my choices as I hightailed it out of there. There’s just so much crap to choose from in this world. But then sometimes you don’t have a choice. Time keeps moving. Stuff keeps happening. You’ve got to just keep on going on, flamesuit or no flamesuit, as you head on into the fire.
My next stop was the GameCage® Gaming Center, and it was a good thing I had some time on my hands, because I had to play nine million games of Skee-Ball until I got enough tickets for the prize I wanted. But the prize seemed so small on its own, so on the way over to the theater I picked some sunflowers from a vacant lot and made her a bouquet.
When I got to the theater I found a gang of biker chicks having a discussion in the lobby.
“Well, whose party?” one of them was saying.
“I’m not sure,” said another.
“Someone who thinks they’re pretty damn important,” said a third. “To rent out a place like this.”
“Oh, I don’t know. It has a certain charm….”
“But where are the decorations? Where’s the cake?”
“How should I know? The guy just handed me the tickets. He didn’t give me instructions.”
“Tickets to a birthday party! Who raffles off tickets to their own birthday party?”
I headed down the back hallway to where the dressing rooms were, but Katie wasn’t there, so I wandered further until I came to a pair of metal doors and a thin shaft of sunlight. One of the doors was propped open with a woman’s sandal.
There was a little covered walkway between buildings, and Katie was out there in her bare feet Hula-Hooping in full-on Meg regalia: skirt, blouse, shawl, makeup, Meg wig. They’d done a good job aging her—wrinkles, creases, bags, and even a bit of a jowl effect—and it made for a pretty jarring contrast between that and the smooth gyrations of her hips. I watched her, my brain struggling to put together the conflicting visual information.
“Oh, hi, Aaron.”
“Happy birthday.” I handed her the flowers. “There’s another thing, too. I’ll give it to you after the play.”