The Last Week of August¶
The comparator block is held together with electrical tape. The yellow standard has faded to the color of a bruised peach. The pink standard looks like watered-down Pepto. I know because I've memorized them. I know because the logbook says 1.5 ppm free chlorine at 6:00 AM and the block says 0.8, and the logbook is what the health department sees.
"Just sign it, Marty," Dave says. He's standing in the lifeguard office doorway, dripping on the linoleum. "Councilman Velez's grandkids are here Tuesday through Friday. The heater's been dead since July. If we close, he closes us."
I don't look up from the test kit. The water sample in the vial is the wrong shade. It's the shade of a lie.
"Log says 1.5," I say.
"Log says whatever we write." He steps closer. His whistle catches on his chest hair. "You're the only one with the CPO cert. You're the only one who can sign. I'm asking you to sign."
This is the favor asked badly. This is how it always starts.
Attendance: 247. Incidents: 3 nosebleeds, 1 lost Band-Aid, 1 vomit event (deep end, 2:15 PM). Chlorine: 1.5 ppm. pH: 7.4. Temperature: 78°F.
The heater hasn't worked since the second week of July. The temperature probe reads 78°F because I hold it against the steam pipe in the filter room for thirty seconds before I dip it. The water is 68°F. The kids turn blue-lipped in twenty minutes. The old ladies in the water aerobics class wear two swim caps and complain about the draft.
Councilman Velez's grandchildren: two boys, six and eight. The eight-year-old failed his swim test last week. I watched him dog-paddle to the wall, gasping, while his grandfather stood at the fence checking his watch. I put "Passed" in the logbook. The six-year-old screams when water touches his face. I will put "Passed" tomorrow.
The filter room hatch warps in the humidity. You have to shoulder it open. Underneath: the chemical feeders, the sand filters, the main drain suction that killed a boy in 1987 — before my time, but the grate still has the wrong spacing. I know because I measured it. I know because I wake at 3 AM and drive here and shoulder the hatch and adjust the feeders by hand because the automation failed in 1993 and the city never replaced it.
I keep a list in my head. Every child who failed. Every child I passed.
Marcus Chen, eight, dog-paddle. Jasmine Torres, seven, sank like a stone. The Velez boy. The Velez boy's brother.
Dave doesn't know the list. Dave knows the schedule. Dave knows which councilman's wife runs the PTA and which one owns the car dealership that sponsors the swim team banners. Dave knows the unwritten rules.
The written rule: 1.5 ppm minimum. 78°F minimum. Pass the swim test or wear a life jacket.
The unwritten rule: The pool stays open the last week of August.
"You signed it last year," Dave says. His voice drops. "You signed it the year before. You signed it when the main drain cover cracked and we duct-taped the grate. You signed it when the feeder pump caught fire and we ran liquid chlorine in buckets for three weeks. You know how this works."
I know how this works. I know the cost.
The comparator block sits on the counter. The electrical tape is yellowing at the edges. The color standards are ghosts of themselves. If I hold the vial to the pink standard, the water matches. If I hold it to the yellow standard, it doesn't. The logbook requires both readings.
I could drive to the supply house in Trenton. They open at 7:00. I could buy a new comparator block, new reagents, test the water honestly, close the pool when the numbers fail. I could call the health department myself. I could wake the councilman at 3 AM and tell him his grandchildren can't swim in 68°F water with 0.8 ppm chlorine.
I could.
The logbook sits open. My pen hovers.
Attendance: 247. Incidents: 3 nosebleeds, 1 lost Band-Aid, 1 vomit event. Chlorine: 1.5 ppm. pH: 7.4. Temperature: 78°F.
The Velez boy's name is Roberto. He likes the diving board. He's afraid of the deep end. He failed his swim test because he panicked halfway across and grabbed the lane line, and the lifeguard on duty — not me, never me — pulled him out and said "Good job, buddy" and marked "Passed" because the councilman was watching.
Roberto doesn't know he failed. His grandfather doesn't know. His mother drops him off at 9:00 AM and picks him up at 4:00 PM and works the register at the Pathmark on Route 33.
I write: Chlorine: 1.5 ppm. pH: 7.4. Temperature: 78°F.
Dave nods. "See you tomorrow, Marty. 5:30 AM. Feeder adjustment."
The hatch warps worse every year. The tape on the comparator block stretches thinner. The list in my head gets longer.
Roberto will come back next summer. He'll be nine. He'll jump off the diving board. He'll swim to the wall.
I'll be there at 3 AM, adjusting the feeders, shoulder-deep in chlorine gas and wet concrete, making sure the water is safe for the lie we all agreed to tell.