The Respectful Ass Washer

Some days, an altercation occurs that just blows your mind.

It was a rule at the pool that folks who were fresh out of the steam room had to rinse off in the shower before entering the pool or hot tub.

We policed this as best as we could, but it was difficult. Some people would exit the steam room a sweaty mess and quickly jump in the pool before we could even catch them. But one day, a member did my job for me. He spotted someone jump from the steam room to the pool without rinsing off and proceeded to reprimand that member for his infraction.

Here is an almost exact transcription of that altercation.

member # 1: "Hey buddy! You didn't shower off before you got in the pool!"

member # 2: "So?"

member # 1: "So? That's the rule, dammit! I have to get in the pool now with your sweat floating in it!"

member # 2: "That's why the pool is chlorinated! Ahh-mind your own business!"

member # 1: (now oddly enraged) "It is my business dammit! You think I wanna swim around in your sweat cuz' you can't follow the rules? When I woke up this morning I had diarrhea! But I respectfully washed my ass before I came to the pool!"

I guess what blew my mind so much is how member # 1 so freely admitted to member # 2 (and everyone else at the pool that day watching this argument) that he had diarrhea. Also, the fact that he was using diarrhea to prop up his defense was fascinating. The guy was in an unprovoked rage, and to prove what a noble, upstanding, rule-respecting patron he was, he was willing to admit that he had loose bowel movement, but hey-he washed his ass after that! (Well okay then! You win!)

Pardon me, but couldn't he have used a less disgusting, less insane example of how he cleaned himself as an example for member # 2? It seems to me he could have just as easily said "I was dirty after a tough workout but I respectfully took a shower before I came into the pool!" and gotten the same effect. But no, this guy went straight to the diarrhea example.

From that moment on, member # 1 was deemed 'The Respectful Ass Washer'.

D

Hot Tub-ites

Though the Health Club was technically a secular institution, there were many regulars who were fairly religious when it came to their routines. The Intense How Do You Do probably feared Hell in the face of not entering the pool area at blistering pace at 6:45 am sharp, staring and pointing at the lifeguard and shouting with utmost vigor, “How are YOU doing this morning?” at which point, he could not break eye contact until he received an obligatory response. Then and only then could he “relax” in the hot tub. Neither of the Bald Foot Dippers (there were two, and we'll get into both of them later) ever deviated from their course from the door to the 3.5 foot section of the pool to dip their toes in the water, only to ignore the temperature report from their respective tootsies and get into the hot tub instead. Hat Man, despite repeated warnings and reprimands, always and without fail would shave his face (with his hat on) in the hot tub.

There was something magical about that hot tub. It wasn't attractive (the bromine sanitizer it used oxidized the copper pipes, giving the water a puke green hue), often stunk of too many bodies sweating in it at once, and had paint chips and chunks of plaster missing from it in rather uncomfortable places for one's feet and derrier. Yet for whatever reason, the hot tub brought out the zealots at the Health Club.

Twice a week, we were required to drain and re-fill the hot tub in order to maintain basic sanitation. The hot tub-ites, however, prevented us from doing so, insisting that we drain it only once a week, preferably when they weren't there. We decided that since Sundays were our slowest days we'd drain it then. The only safe days to use the hot tub were Mondays and Tuesdays. On Wednesdays, the hot tub would start to get slightly more than questionably cloudy. Thursdays and Fridays, you couldn't see the bottom of it and the acrid, chemical and body fluid smell would begin to permeate the Health Club. On Saturdays, the thing looked like a bubbling cauldron of vomit with 5 morons pretending not to notice while sitting in its hideous belly.

On Sundays it was closed to be drained, cleaned and re-filled. Naturally, our Sunday hot tub fanatics were up in arms. They'd refuse to believe that their precious hot tub could possibly be closed. They'd see their deity half-empty, surrounded by orange cones and believe that it was a test of their enduring faith. They'd rush to its side, move the orange cones and climb in, the water barely covering their kneecaps.

“The Hot Tub is closed.”

This statement was always followed by a look of bewilderment.

“I don't see no sign saying it's closed!”

“The hot tub is green and half-empty. The murky water your feet are dangling in isn't even hot. There are orange cones all around it to alert you to its closure.”

“It don't say nowhere in the rules that I can't be in here.” The rules did say just that.

“It's closed. I work here and I'm telling you it's closed. Please exit the hot tub. It will be open tomorrow. Come back and enjoy it when it's clean.”

“Man, your mother never taught you manners. You need some home training, that's what you need.”

The above was a loose transcript of an actual conversation I had with an actual hot tub-ite. I distinctly remember him talking about my mother and the “home training” remark. I'd have a similar conversation once a week, though they usually did not insult Mom's ability to raise me.

The hot tub's supernatural powers attracted some wacky ones. When Drunken Master wasn't doing the Evan Williams two-step (question: who the hell comes to a Health Club plastered?) he'd be in the hot tub, loudly moaning. I could never tell if he really enjoyed it or if he was in pain. Either way, I was pretty sure he could have used some intravenous fluids.

One of the most memorable hot tub-ites was Jamaican Hot Lady Who Does the Jets. A crude name, yes, but befitting. She had a terrific, curvy figure and loved to show it off. She'd wear something skimpy and lay on a chaise lounge, adopting inappropriate position after inappropriate position. Spreading her legs, arching her back, she'd draw the attention of the male Health Club patrons. When they came by to chat her up, though, she never responded. She was only there for the hot tub, and apparently put on that ridiculous show just for him. She just kept on going with her routine until the call of her lover was to great to bear.

With the hot tub singing her favorite love song, she would come to him. She'd enter the water slowly, standing for a few minutes, basking in his warm embrace until eventually she would find one of the stronger jets and sit down. There she would silently and sensuously gyrate until the hot tub fulfilled her needs. She would then return to her chaise lounge and gratuitously run through her poses for him again.

I wonder if the hot tub ever took pictures?

P.

More Ghosts

I also feel the need to weigh in on ghosts.

My favorite part of the ghosting experience was the sound it made. You didn't have to actually see it happen to enjoy it (though it certainly helped. It wasn't uncommon for us to watch someone head outside and start leaning to one side, hoping that patron would hit the glass, like a bowler praying he picks up a spare). It sounded like a quick drum fill on a deep tom tom, and you could hear three parts of the ghost hitting the glass in rapid succession: foot, knee, face. You'd turn around and there would be the ghost who met her match, rubbing her forehead and trying to look like it never really happened as she scurried through the actual door.

One of the great things about ghosting was how humbling it was for the Health Club types. You know the kind of people I'm talking about. Type-A personality, go-getters... these are the people who speedwalk wherever they go, who take life by the HORNS, goddammit, and when they want to relax, they WILL RELAX, and they'll FINISH the book they brought because they DO what they set out to do and nothing, NOTHING will get in their way (bumpbumpthud!) except a nice thick sheet of freshly cleaned glass. Ahh... it'll make your day.

My award for Top Ghost goes to a prospective member touring the facility with one of the Health Club's salesmen. This added a wonderful new twist to the inelegant hilarity of the situation, because there were two rather stunned reactions to enjoy when she foot-knee-faced the glass wall. She was dressed to the nines, too. She had a nice skirt and blouse, high heeled shoes, lots of jewlery and LOADS of makeup. I hope you can see where this is going.

The salesmen led her through the indoor pool area to the outdoor pool, where he stepped through the open door and the ghost attempted to engage her superpowers and tried to walk through the glass door. Bumpbumpthud!

Damon unfortunately wasn't there that day, but my co-worker, Mario, instantly jumped up and left the pool area at a full sprint so he could laugh at her as whole-heartedly as the situation deserved. The salesman was obviously more than a tad bit befuddled, and tried to see if she was okay. She was, and it didn't take long for her to collect herself and for the salesman to awkwardly finish his tour.

She left a monument, however, and a warning to all would-be ghosts from then on. There was a four inch streak of light brown foundation running horizontally on the glass about 5'7" from the floor. Directly underneath was a vertical strip, about nose width, followed by a perfect kiss print in light pink.

P.

Ghosts

Our health club pool had an indoor pool and an outdoor pool that was only open from Memorial Day to Labor Day.

When the outdoor pool was open, we had members who gravitated between the indoor and outdoor pools. What separated the two pools was a wall of paned glass with a glass doorway that was usually propped open during the hotter days.

Some people, apparently, thought they had magical powers as ghosts, because they liked to try to walk through the glass wall to get in or outside.

Never mind the fact that the propped open doorway was right there to use to walk in between pools, these people would rather walk through the wall. Sort of like when someone says "Ahh, I'll take the stairs instead of the elevator", we almost imagined that these people said "Ahh, I'll take the wall instead of the doorway."

I have to say, there's nothing quite like seeing someone walk smack dab into a wall to lift your spirits. But the real funniness of this was the frequency that this happened. One time, maybe I can see. You're not paying attention and mistake a glass wall for an opening. You laugh it off and would be on your way. But this happened often. It sucks for them, but is ferociously funny to anyone else watching. I used to feel embarrassed for them, but still have a laugh at their expense. Honestly, who wouldn't?

That probably sounds mean, but I always felt sorry for the person, asked them if they were okay, and got them through the proper doorway in one piece. My sympathy usually went out the window though when instead of the person laughing at themselves with humility, they found some way to blame us.

"Those walls shouldn't be here, it's a safety hazard!"

Yes it's our fault you chose the wall instead of the door like one of the ghosts in 'A Christmas Carol'. What were the construction people thinking, putting a glass wall there, and that blasted glass door right next to it?

We never had a case of broken glass though. Thank goodness no one ever walked through with that kind of force. But I think that would have even been funnier, after the scrapes and cuts were cleaned up of course.

But never underestimate the supernatural powers at hand at your local health club pool.

D.

The Army of the Oblivious

[Notice: Before any of you reference Bill Engvall's "Here's Your Sign" routine, we noticed the Army of the Oblivious long before the Blue Collar Comedy tour came on the scene, so I don't want to hear it.]

It seemed like every day at the pool, someone had to ask, "Are you the lifeguard?" It would take nearly every ounce of my being to restrain myself from responding, "No. I just really love the apparel, and this floating safety tube is kind of like a stuffed animal to me. I bring it everywhere I go. Especially to swimming pools. Where I lifeguard. However, I'm not the lifeguard here. If I find him, I'll let you know." With a shirt emblazoned with the word, LIFEGUARD, red shorts and a large red tube stating the same, what the hell else could I possibly be?

I suppose I could be mistaken for one of the regular freaks that came into the Health Club. After seeing a guy bring FULL SCUBA GEAR AND A SAMURAI SWORD (I wish I was making that up), to a health club's 50 foot long indoor swimming pool, pretty much anything is possible. I could just be a guy who likes to pretend to lifeguard. Heck, Pointy-Breasted Karate Guy thought, despite his rotund figure, that he was a kung fu master. Why couldn't I just be another poser? Oh, I know why. Because I'm the f@#&ing lifeguard!

It didn't end there. They'd point to the clearly labled steam room and say, "Steam room?" No, Mr. Tumnus, it's the doorway to Narnia. Be sure to grab a winter coat before you go in there.

Then they'd stand there looking at you like a dumb barnyard animal until you verbally satisfied their curiosity by saying, "Yes. Steam room." But that wasn't enough. It was never enough. They had to go and open the door and see the steam in the room. This was the only thing that could have slaked their inability to read or comprehend English and it was this that made me loathe and despise the entire human race; why the hell did you need to ask me your inane little question if you weren't going to believe me no matter what I said? You knew damned well what that little room was! And you knew damned well you were going to look anyway! I know damned well that I hate you for making me think less of myself for being the same species as you.

The Army of the Oblivious are a stubborn bunch and they are everywhere. They refuse to engage their brains in any given situation, dismissing the possibility of figuring things out on their own, preferring instead to be told where they are, what objects are nearby and whether or not they can eat those objects.

Please note that I'm not talking about STUPID people. We had our share of those at the Health Club. One such moronic patron, a bearded gentleman pushing fifty years of age, came down to swim in a collared polo shirt and his tighty-whities. When informed he needed to wear a bathing suit, he responded, "I have to wear something?" He trudged back up to the locker room dejected but determined, and the following day he came to the pool in khaki shorts which was close enough for me. Not knowing how to swim but really wanting to, he experimented with different kinds of helpful floatation devices until he finally settled on the neckbrace for the backboard. It was an odd choice being that the neckbrace itself did not float, but he tried tying it to his head to keep his nose and mouth above water and nearly drowned. I didn't see him much after that.

But the Army of the Oblivious are not stupid people. They are capable of figuring things out for themselves but choose not to. They are so lazy that they make everyone else do their thinking for them and as such, they should have most of their privileges taken away. They are a burden on society. They shouldn't drive, go out unaccompanied by a social worker or feed themselves. Asking questions as easy to self-answer as they do, The Army of the Oblivious should be in a home for their ilk and stay there, leaving the rest of us to go about our business unencumbered by their defiance of basic cognition.

If you know a card-carrying soldier in the Army of the Oblivious we'd love to hear about it. Post a comment with your story, and please feel free to subscribe to this blog if you like what you read.

P.

Food Acknowleder Association (the other F.A.A.)

What you got today, Stan? Tuna?

Picture the scene. You're pulling an 8 hour shift sitting in an indoor pool, inhaling the chlorine and bromine fumes, with whiny complaints from oddballs about the hot tub temperature or the steam room's amount of steam bouncing off you like bullets off of Superman. Slowly, you're becoming more annoyed as each minute of your day goes by and you're getting hungry. There were no real discernible lunch breaks at this job. Occasionally another staff member would watch the pool while we were able to run across the street to grab some food, but picking it up was all the break that we got. So we had to eat our meals at our lifeguard desk, while watching the pool, or reading a magazine (safety first!).

We came to discover that in this atmosphere, people seem to always want to acknowledge your food. I can't explain it, and I don't condone it, but it will happen. Like death and taxes. Maybe they think it's folksy small talk, a relatable topic between two people. But to us, it was just annoying.

We were never able to finish our meal without someone walking past and interrupting it with an annoying comment about the food. Whether or not they thought they were just being folksy or not is beside the point. These people were members of an association that Phil and I deemed the F.A.A.-The Food Acknowledger Association.

People love to say something about what you're eating, especially at this job; it was almost like a requirement that we could not go through an entire meal without at least one comment.

Some of the comments included:

"Taste good?"
"Are you feeding the rabbits?" (if you had food that looked healthy)
"Come on man we're in a gym you can't be eatin' that!"(if you had food that looked unhealthy)
"Bring enough for me?"

One gentleman seemed to almost examine and keep track of every meal I ate.

"Ahh I see you got the sub today, last time you had the salad, this time you got the sub!"

We were always mid bite too. And we inevitably had to stop eating to acknowledge their acknowledgement.

In case you're wondering, no one had an interest in letting us eat our meal in peace. Even our so-called heroes (people we liked) were part of the Food Acknowledger Association, so we sort of had to be polite and respond somehow.

I've come to learn now, several years removed from the lifeguard business, that this group is not limited to pool jobs. F.A.A. members are everywhere. You probably know one at your job right now, sitting and waiting to stand over you and breathe a pointless comment about your meal of choice for the day.

"Looks yummy! Whatcha' got?"

D

Is it hot?

Almost everyday, a somewhat disheveled man in his late 30's to early 40's who sort of resembled 'Oscar' from 'The Office' would walk past our lifeguard table and ask the same question as he pointed towards the hot tub.

"Is it hot?"

(He waited for a cab everyday after he sat in the hot tub, so we formed him the directory name "The Is It Hot Cab Rider," thus you can see how we formed random nicknames. Given the crudity of his nickname, however, I believe Phil and I decided on the new nickname, "The Moocher.")

Everyday, it was the same question. Asking if something really is what its name says it is sort of always perplexed me. To me, it's like walking into a Toys 'r Us and asking the first clerk you see, "Are there toys in here?"

But apparently, somewhere along the line, he lost confidence in the hot tub's ability to be hot. That, or he was just insane.

Some days I wanted to answer back, "No, it's freezing. We just call it a hot tub to f*ck with you guys."

On some days, he would ask us if it was hot as he zipped past us, not even really waiting for our response, then he'd proceed to ask people already in the hot tub the same question.

What the hell?

That was pretty much what we thought the entire time we worked there.

These odd folks crossed our paths each and everyday. You really start to wonder why these quirky people are at their health club's pool at 2pm on weekdays. Shouldn't they be annoying co-workers somewhere? We came to sort of gather that a lot of these folks had no jobs. And what we presumed, most of the time, is that the time they spent at our pool was just a daily bus trip from the mental institution.


D

An Introduction

Welcome, friends, to a new literary effort inspired by the absurd behavior exhibited by those who frequent health club swimming pools. We understand that health club swimming pool patrons are not often recognized for their behavior, absurd or otherwise, but as seasoned lifeguarding veterans, we feel it's time for their comeuppance.
I'm Phil. I worked as a lifeguard in the pool area of a Health Club in Catonsville, Maryland for most of my late teens and early twenties. Most of those years were spent working with the co-author of this blog, Damon. You can read my personal blog at http://philbertun.blogspot.com and Damon's fitness blog at http://yourtrainerdamon.blogspot.com
As I mentioned on my other blog, as lifeguards at a Health Club, Damon and I kept rather meticulous records. This is odd for two people who were attracted to a job that required little more than a pulse and slight positive bouyancy, but we did.
We realized early on that we knew all of the same lunatic patrons and, as Damon put it, we figured we needed a way to keep track of these oddballs and if one of us didn't know the reference, we could look them up on the list. Sort of like a nutjob card catalog. And thus was born The Directory.
The Directory contained a detailed list of our regulars and a brief description of what made them stand out. A few of them (whom we referred to as The Heroes) were the people we liked to hang out with (Ray), were wacky and fun (Carlos) or had interesting stories to tell despite their proclivity for random acts of public nudity (Big Al). Each entry had a paragraph outlining their basic personalities and those qualities which made them memorable.
Most of The Directory, however, discussed The Heels: those people who drove us near the point of madness. These included anyone who perplexed, angered or irritated us, especially those with bizarre appearance or apparell (Wash Cloth Bathing Suit Lady), those with over-the-top personalities (The Intense How-Do-You-Do) or particulary whiny individuals (Most Obnoxious Woman on the Face of the Planet Who Deserves to Die 100,000 Horrible Deaths). Some of the Heels simply confounded us with their incorrigible regularity (The Bald Foot Dipper), others with their pointy man-boobs (Pointy-Breasted Karate Guy).
Often, instead of an individual with a particular charicter flaw, we'd lump together groups of perturbingly like-minded folks who, for whatever reason, could not resist performing the same aggravating maneuvers as their equally oblivious bretheren (Chair Re-Locators, Loogie Hockers Incorporated).
These stories, the story of that time when Ghetto Fabulous ate my pizza, and more when we return. Stay tuned, dear readers. Stay tuned.
P.