THE SKATING POOL - A Short Short Story

THE SKATING POOL

It was a phenomenon of the times and random acts of nature and man that California was in a drought for most of the 1970’s. Conservation efforts eventually forced the draining of the State’s ecology of swimming pools. In Southern California, urethane wheels popularized skateboarding, and the ready-made half-pipes of empty pools created an Olympic sport.

We were five average teens who aspired to be above average skaters, The Tomcats, spending our time scouting empty pools to skate…until one August night.

"We gonna hit that pool that Marco set up” I reminded Slider, passing a poorly rolled joint. I turned onto a residential road, up a steep winding hill with cul-de-sacs to each side. We pulled into one of the circles and parked behind a redwood fence.

Skid and Buzz were already there, and piled out of their Bug, swinging their boards above their heads. Marco was to meet us there.

We heard the swish of the Copter flying overhead and dove to the bottom of the fence as the Copter’s beam searched the neighborhood. Peering through the redwood fence boards, I saw a shadow race around to the front of the house with the empty pool and out of site. We stayed quietly until the Copter was gone.

Marco wasn’t to be found so we jumped the fence, passing the skateboards overhead. I hit the ground and scratched my elbows on lava rock as Slider landed next to me. We stood in thought and examined the shape and depth of the pool, as if we were expert Olympian athletes about to go for the Gold..

“Marco!” Buzz called out in a loud whisper. No answer.

I peered into the dark pool. It sloped sharply in the deep end, so that it was impossible to see the bottom. A black film of algae and water and waste had settled that may have been three inches or three feet.

I placed my board first with my left foot, took a swift push with my right foot and placed it on to the back of the board. I curled around the shallow end, carving a figure eight and controlling the board with my back foot, pushing the trucks up the pool sides, three or four feet. On the next run, the tip of my board hit the tiling at the five foot mark and I crouched and leaned into the turn with the same moves that surfers make. Around the rim, my body twisting to make the next left and cross my path again in a figure eight, this time a little deeper.

I was close to the dark stagnant water and I felt the wheels slide on algae. The board slipped from beneath me, and I flew into the blackness of rancid and stale water. My back hit the bottom, knocking the air out of me and drawing dirty water in. The chemical smell of fermentation burned in my nose.

I struggled in the mess, trying to figure which way was up, when my flailing arms hit against something. I grabbed hold, it was an arm, and I pictured Slider leaning over the muck to help me. It slipped away and I grasped for him again, wheezing for air. I caught on and pulled my face out of the water, still holding tight to that which had saved me. Once again I could hear the swish of the Copter, circling, sounding closer and louder and surreal until it was directly over the pool. The light circled around until it held the entire scene in its beam. A gasp of terror heaved from my chest as the rest of the gang stood motionless on the pool steps. Tight in my grip was Marco, cold, blue, and dead.

I MISS YOUR KISS

I MISS YOUR KISS




I miss your kiss on my body


On my lips, and on my breast,


On that place at the back of my neck,


Your lips finding new places to rest,


Like a weary sojourner traveling through places


Exploring the landscape of love’s enlaces,

You learn by heart my geography


As your kisses memorize my topography.


c 2010 K Rojas