THE NAKEDNESS OF OZONE
The little boy stood shirtless before the gaping mouth of an open locker. His hands hesitated at the waistband of his jeans. He was scared of this place. He winced at the unfamiliar noises. The echoing shouts of the bigger boys made him jump and the slap of their bare feet sounded like monsters. He wanted to swim, but he had to change into his swimsuit. That meant being naked in front of the big boys.
When his mom brought him to the swimming pool, he wore his bathing suit in the car and the hot seats burned his legs. Today he was with his dad, and Dad said big boys change in the locker room. The little boy wondered if that meant he was a big kid. He didn’t feel big. All these noisy kids were bigger than he was.
His father’s hands rested on his shoulders, and it was the nice dad touch, not the hurry up shaking the boy sometimes got if he were dawdling. That was a word his parents used. It meant something like hurry up.
“It’s okay, Kiddo. This is what we do in the locker room.”
His dad’s voice was huge, louder than the big kids slap-walking past the bench. Dad was bigger than anyone, so it had to be okay. Those big hands fell around him, and he let his dad unsnap his jeans. The boy stepped out of them, breathed, then slipped out of his undershorts. He grabbed his swimsuit and pulled it over his feet and legs as fast as he could. A smile broke across his face. He had done it. Nothing bad had happened. He was acting like a big kid and his dad was smiling the proud smile, which was a good thing.
“See, the lock goes through this hole. Can you snap the lock shut?”
The boy grabbed the lock with both hands and squeezed it hard. The lock snapped closed under his grip and he knew that was right. He smiled up at his dad and his dad smiled back and then they were walking hand-in-hand up the aisle between the lockers.
They reached the open doorway, and he saw the swimming pool shining in the sun. He wanted to run but he knew running was against the rules. Another rule was that you had to step into the cootie juice.
The juice in the tank was like slippery milk and you had to wade through it. He liked the way his feet disappeared under the white stuff. The boy was glad he was a big boy alone with his dad and no bratty little brother. His brother was a stubborn crybaby who hated the cootie tank. He always made a scene, claimed that there were monsters in the cootie juice who would bite his toes. But the little boy wasn’t a scaredy cat like his brother. He stepped ahead of his dad and waded into the tank. Two splashes and the cooties died.
Then they were outside, and the sunbaked concrete burned against the soles of his bare feet. He was excited to swim but then his dad stopped, and the little boy hit the end of his dad’s arm like a leash. The lifeguard was yelling through his big cone and everyone was climbing out of the pool. Beyond the pool, out over the trees of the forest preserve, the boy saw big black clouds filling the summer sky. It was funny how the sun was bright and hot over the pool, but the lifeguard was pointing at the dark clouds.
His dad led him away from the pool and back towards the locker building. People sat with their backs against the long brick wall and looked out at the empty pool. The boy and his dad spread their towels on the concrete and sat down. They leaned back against the rough wall. The dad pointed to the edge of the roof above their heads.
“We have to sit here under the overhang. That way the lightning can’t get us.”
The little boy knew about lightning. Clouds bang together and then bright electric forks shoot down from the sky. His grandpa told him about it, and about how they lived in a thing called Tornado Alley. It was a science name, not like a real alley where he played with his friends.
They waited under the safe overhang. The water in the swimming pool was shiny like a wiggly mirror and the boy saw the dark clouds reflected in it. The clouds pushed the sun away and the air turned thick. It was like when he walked into the bathroom after his mom had taken a long shower and the air felt heavy in his mouth.
Then the big clouds rolled overhead. They rumbled the same way Grandpa snored, loud but without the crack of lightning. Everyone was quiet the way adults are when the curtain opens at the movie theater. The little boy looked up at the sky and he knew they were all waiting for something.
The first drops of rain were big as marbles and the little boy saw each one of them as they fell. The drops hit the hot concrete and splashed back into the wet air, hot dust lifting from the pavement. The hot summer air, sweet and electric and wet and thick, tingled on his bare skin.
The rain began to fall in sheets, and the little boy no longer saw the individual marbles. The lifeguards blew whistles and then the people began to gather their towels. His dad rose to his feet and reached a big hand down. The boy took the hand and his dad pulled him up.
“Sorry, Kiddo, I guess no swimming today.”
The boy shrugged his narrow shoulders, but he did not let go of his father’s hand. Dad led the way back inside the locker room. They splashed back through the cootie pool and down the aisle to their locker. He changed out of his still dry suit. This time he was not afraid of the bigger boys seeing him naked.
Five decades could not dislodge that memory from his brain. Let him smell the first hard drops of rain on hot summer pavement and closing his eyes, he is once again a little boy sitting beside his father, the heavy electric air washing over them both.
***
Marco Etheridge lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His stories and essays have been published in journals and magazines and in Canada, Australia, The UK, and the USA.
