To Open the Pool

It’s 7 a.m. and I open one bleary eye. I have to be at work within the hour, (though I’m usually a little late).

“It’s too early for this crap,” I grumble to my father, who chuckles, same as he does every morning.

I slip a well-worn guard suit on over my body, a t-shirt over my head, and a pair of athletic shorts on.

Commuter traffic is a sea of chaos, cars weaving in and around each other, and taking chances in the breakdown lane. I trail behind angry red break lights, each set following the next.

It’s 8:05 when I pull into the parking lot. I cast a rueful glance at the tennis director, whose caught me coming in late on numerous shifts.

“Maybe tomorrow I won’t stop for coffee,” I lie to myself.

Droplets from the morning sprinklers splash my feet as I walk towards the clubhouse to clock in. I bid a bright good morning to the humorless receptionist.

After punching in my employee number, I place my index finger across the scanner reluctantly. It never lets me clock in the first time.

As I make my way down to the pool deck, I wave to the other lifeguard who is just arriving. I set my bag down, and I begin the morning work. The lounge chairs scrape as I move them from the concrete to the grass. I make sure that they are in groups of four, and arranged diagonally across the lawn. I drag the chairs for the tables with umbrellas across the grass. My co-lifeguard can lift a stack of four, but that’s a little outside of my personal fitness. The stack of chairs jostle and clang as they hit the bumps in the lawn.

Once the chairs are set up, I walk over to the pool and begin pulling the bright blue coil that is attached to the vacuum. It loops around the top part of the machine until the whole thing rises to the top of the pool. I place the vacuum (which we call Wall-E) in its case, and wheel it away.

If it rained the night before, my next step is probably my least favorite. I shudder slightly to myself, and then I go inside the pool house to grab a pair of latex gloves. Scrunching my hands into a fist, I head reluctantly to the skimmers, which collect anything that winds up in the pool.

Hands shaking, I pull the top off the skimmer, and two frogs leap out. A pair of bulgy-eyed frogs, covered in slime and mucous hop around the pool deck. I gingerly go around to the other pool skimmers, beckoning my fellow lifeguard over if any dead frogs need to be extracted. (I have my limits).

After that hideous deed is done, the red lifeguard tubes are pulled from an eternally messy shed filled with pool toys. I drop one at each chair, and I head back inside to the pool house. After pulling a dry erase marker from the drawer, and the day's schedule up on my phone, I record who will be guarding for the day.

It’s been fifteen minutes since I arrived at the pool. I plop down in a chair at behind the pool house desk and tilt my head back.

“Maybe I can catch up on some sleep,” I mumble to the other lifeguard.

At least the pool is open for the day.