Never Marry Your Prom Date
The water in the hot-tub is circulating an off-white sheen of bubbly foam, which floats around the tub like a pollution slick in a river eddy. The only thing missing from the scene is a fish floating upside down, but the guy across from me, who keeps nodding off and jerking awake, might go under pretty soon and fulfill this role. I’m trying to ignore the chemical stench when the woman sitting next to me strikes up a conversation.
“My friend and I went on a slide like that,” she says, looking at the winding slide next to the pool, “when I visited her in Utah…she was working for Fox News.”
I wince but keep my cool.
“Fox, huh…good organization,” I reply, without a hint of irony.
She glances over at me, brushing away a pile of foam, and says, “Yeah, it was a good scene… until the divorce.”
I stay silent. Whenever a stranger mentions a friend’s divorce you remain quiet and listen, like a mute counselor. It’s grieving-by-extension time, and you’re just here to listen.
“Yeah,” she continues, “married for ten years. Three kids and then bam, done.”
In the ensuing silence I think back to something a friend once said: marriages are like pancakes – you always screw up the first one.
My tubmate unleashes a toothy grin and says, “Married her high-school prom date.”
When she looks at me I raise my eyebrows in mock alarm. I refrain from asking her how it started — was there an unplanned pregnancy, a wine-cooler fueled tryst between youngins’ in the back of a rented limo? I think back to Pam, my prom date, and reflect on the fact that she came out of the closet soon afterwards. I’m pretty sure it had nothing to do with me.
I relate my prom experience and ask the woman about hers. My plan, if she gets moody and says she didn’t go, is to quickly exit this cesspool.
She laughs and says, “My date pulled up in a limo and claimed that he left his wallet at home. What did I know? I believed him. Went back inside and got money from my folks.”
It’s silent for a moment. The woman glances toward the slide and says, “Jerk.”
I shift on my seat and brush away some toxic yellow foam, wondering if I just opened up a can of worms. A moment later my suspicions are confirmed.
“So he comes into the store where I work,” she says, “right around Christmas last year. Totally bald with a few scrawny hairs on top and these huge eyebrows.”
The one that got away.
She grins and puts her hand in front of her face to show the wingspan of the eyebrows. My mind flashes to Ernie from Sesame Street. I laugh and say, “Like car-ports for his eyeballs?”
She rasps out a laugh, raises her voice, and says, “Know what else?”
He works for Fox News?
I shake my head and say, “What?”
“The jerk’s wife paid for his shirt. Still a goddam cheapass.”
I ask if she talked to her high school courtier.
She gives me a shocked look and barks, “Hell no, would you?”
I admit that she’s got a point.
“I cruised into the back room and hid. Pretended I was folding clothes. But I was tempted to throw something at the cueball and yell ‘Haven’t found your wallet yet cheap-ass?’”
A lifeguard blows his whistle and announces that the pool will be closing in fifteen minutes. The red-skinned survivors of the chemical bath rise up through the foamy water and head for the steps. Shifting to my feet, I notice a small sign warning guests not to stay in the water for more than fifteen minutes. The chemicals in here can probably kill anything. Except those useless regrets you can’t seem to discard.
Thomas Sullivan is the author of Life In The Slow Lane, a comic memoir about a year spent teaching drivers education. For info on this title, and to view more of Thomas’ writing, please visit his author website at: Thomas Sullivan.
