"I don't want to belong to any club, that would have someone like me as a member." ~ Groucho Marx

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After the breakfast dishes are done, I head to the bathroom to get cleaned up for my big Plunging interview. Now comes the moment I hate to face, my bi-yearly haircut. Taking a pair of suture scissors from my first aid bag, I start carefully cutting off the knotted seashell bottoms, that hold my plait braids tight.

Under the shower stream, I let the braids slowly unwind themselves into my almost normal mop of unruly hair. My hair is not straight, nor is it curly, it is more of a wavy unruly mop. So I don't bother even trying to run a comb through it after the shower, because there's no point but pain. I just pull the thick mess back into a ponytail and try to tie it up at tightly as possible. 

After my bi-yearly haircut is complete, I start working on covering my ink up. Peeling off two large circular Band-Aids and cover both of my elbow bone tats. On my left the surfer style lightning bolt for Sunset. On my right, the red solar disk touching the blue horizon of the sea, the Setting Sun Ahket cartouche that marks me as Set for life. My dive watch already covers the third tattoo on my wrist perfectly, probably because I intentionally bought the watch before I got the mark of the lunatic moon.

The full moon tatts are one of the three tattoos that are never intentional shown outside the Set, because it marks me as a Lunatic. One of the crazy ones, those who have surfed Rock Bottoms on a moonless night and lived to tell the tale. Thus the whole lunatic moon tattoo thing. It's a big deal in Sunset Beach where I am from. But just like me, it doesn't mean shit to anyone in San Fallcon.

I pull on the thick white T-shirt with the red cross to cover the rest of my ink. Suddenly the boy in the mirror now almost looks passable, for whatever the hell passes for normal around Tombstone Town? An hour later I walk out of the bathroom dressed out to watch water. A pair of puffy red guard trunks, white red cross swim skin, with my gear bag slung diagonal cross my shoulders. Both Irish and Aces look genuinely shocked at my ability to transform into a real boy.

"Well look at you now." Irish appraises me up and down with a caustic eye. "You certainly clean up well enough for church."

"Much better." Aces mugs approvingly, but I can see that he still thinks we have time for a trip down to Quickie Cuts.

"Yeah, I'm ready when you're ready." I nod to Aces.

"Well, alrighty then," Aces folds his paper down and grabs his car keys off the kitchen hook. "Let's do this thing."

"Yay, doing things." I drone dryly and follow him out through the back kitchen door to his Raisin-mobile.  

Say what you want about the old guys taste in grandmothers, but Aces has great taste in classic cars. In this case, a sky blue 64' Impala with a deathly pale bone white leather interior. Which he takes great care in slowly backing out the driveway. Then makes a wide right for the three streets up and one-half street over to the entrance of the high school campus. 

San Fallcon Hills High sits on top of a hill bluff looking judgmentally down Hill street. For all intents and purposes, the whole place looks like a Spanish slavery Mission, that Teacher 4B forced us to learn about in fourth grade. The one where all the Conquistador guys gave the locals smallpox. Then whipped the shit out of them forcing them to build stucco mansions for praising their Zombie god in the shade. It even tall three stories stucco Spanish copula bell tower things looming large and in charge. Probably to let the locals know when to come in and pay their weekly tax to the high priests of the Zombie gods.

When we hit the school entrance, Aces hangs a sharp left skirting the Conquistador tower. Then heads towards the pool facilities at the far edge of the rolling campus. Of course, Aces feels the need to start explaining that "his buddy Buzzy" is the head lifeguard. Also the swim coach, water polo coach, freshman PE coach, JV baseball coach, and summer school substitute teacher of the year ...for ten years running. I can already tell that Aces buddy Buzzy was the last kid to get picked for anything but water boy. Like that one the team player without a team guy.

When we pull up to the San Fallcon Aquatic complex, I have to admit the place is more impressive than I had originally given it credit for. It's got not just one pool but five, a virtual chlorine addicts dream. One long Olympic lane pool, a separate deep dive pool, complete with a big dive tower and multiple boards, a shallow short course pool, and what looks like a couple of smaller wading pools.

Against my will, Aces accompanies to the pool complex offices and introduces me to "Buzzy" Dietrich. My first impression of Buzzed, is a cocky man with muscular swimmers physic and a slightly receding 80's douche flat top. He reminds me more than just a little of lame footloose Kevin Bacon. The rare kind of guy who is more comfortable in speedos and flip flops than real clothes. Also, the kind of weird guy who tries on speedos at the store without underwear on. Then practices strutting around in the store to make sure his butthuggers fit right and tight.

Buzzy's only redeeming trait in my opine, is a massive anchor away tattoo sleaved over his entire bicep that reads "Honor - Courage - Commitment".  I easily recognize the motif as a pretty standard drunk Navy dude tattoo. But this thing practically screams, I once got really hammered on leave when I was "seeing the world" in the Navy. The upside of this is that if Buzzed has this overly stylized commitment blasted on half his arm, I'm thinking my own ink shouldn't be too much of an issue.

"Buzz, this is my grandson Darren, that I told you about." Aces does the introductions and I can see that he is already worried I am going to talk tats with Buzzsaw. "Darren, Coach Dietrich."

"Hey kid, call me Buzzy." He proffers a handshake which I take. 

Of course, he has to do that squeeze your hand hard to test your manhood thing. I pass that easy with a vice grip squeeze right back, that leaves him a little paler for the effort. I don't lift heavy weights or anything, but I am in the water surfing or swimming six to eight hours a day on the regular. So most of my musculature comes the hard way.    

"So your grandfather tells me you've done Junior lifeguards down there in Los Angeles Beach?" He smiles stupid, trying hard not to rub his finger knuckles from our manly man greeting.

"California State Parks, Sunset Beach." I correct him, but he doesn't know the difference and clearly doesn't care that Sunset is in an entirely different county than LA.

It's such a lame Norcal thing to say "Los Angeles Beach". So it's clear to me that this is not a mistake on his part, but an intentional insult. For some inexplicable reason, Norcal people really don't like Socal people. And trust me when I say the feeling is one way. Cause I am pretty sure most people in Southern California aren't even aware they are hated by their northern neighbors. We have enough local neighbors right next door to hate, without giving anyone else beyond the next freeway exit a second thought.

"So you have all your basic lifeguard certifications? First aid? CPR? Basic water safety?" Buzzy inquires unhopefully.

"Yeah." I show the big red binder in my other hand with the obvious white cross on the front and rattle of my certs. "Red Cross certificates for First Aid, CPR, and AED. I also have my guard qualifications, for shallow water, waterfront skills, ILS Lifeguard Inland Open Water, and all my Beach certs."

I can see a modicum of respect in Aces eye now. Of course, I could care less that my new summer landlord has found something to finally be proud of me for. So I don't even bother to mention the certificates for basic scuba and advanced open water certifications, or the three awards for EPAL. (Extraordinary Personal Action in Lifesaving) Or all the courses and hours logged for my Water Safety Instructor, which I would have received this summer after I turned sixteen had I stayed home.

"So you ever worked any Olympic pools before?" Indicating to the five pools behind the reflective glass window behind. 

Just by the way he says "Olympic" implies that somehow a pool of perfectly still water might actually be more challenging than the sea herself. With no riptides, currents, stingrays, sharks, broken glass, drifting Japanese fishing nets...not to mention oil pollution? Yeah, no contest.

"Yeah, I've guarded an indoor Olympic pool off and on during the winters." I shrug him off.

Truth is I've filled in from time to time at the big hotel pools. Usually when one of the older guards has been too hungover to roll in for a morning shift. The big hotel pools down the coast in Huntington and Newport are more like dangerous daycare with a slight possibility of drowning. Watching the touristas brats to make sure they are all wearing their "floaties". So their tourista parents can sleep off their hangovers while getting off on cucumber ass waxes with whale songs and incense or whatnot.

"Okay, then sounds like you're the right man for the job." He smirks and winks at Aces. "You start tomorrow at 8 am sharp, and don't be late." he pauses to eyeball me hard to make his point. "Don't ever be late.

"He won't be late Buzz." Aces chuckles unhelpfully. "We still live three streets down the hill. And he's got nothing better to do to get away from Irish's latest gardening project."

"Teenagers." Buzz shrugs as if this explains something profound.

"Don't you want to check my certifications first?" I proffer my official lifeguard binder.

"Ah ...sure why not?" He smirks over to Aces, as if actually verifying my training is somehow a joke.

By the bored expression on his face, I can already tell that this dude doesn't really give a crap about anything other than corpse kissing and chest-pounding skills. I can clearly see he could care less as he casually flips through fifteen training completion certificates and rescue certificates for saving lives, like he might a Playboy with no pictures. I can already tell that Buzz is definitely a Playboy kind of guy ...at least in his own mind. 

He does stop at the last merit certification for a Shark Save. Last year on the Fourth of July weekend, watching for hazards off the pier with binoculars. I saw a lot of girls lose bikini tops and one very harmless sand shark. But still, I spotted the shark, so ergo the Shark Save certificate.

"You fought a shark?" He looks up at me suddenly doubtful.

"No." I point at the actual language of the certificate right up at the top. "I spotted a shark in the water with binoculars from a pier."

"Oh, okay." Buzz snaps the binder closed and hands it back. 

"Well, everything looks great. Welcome to the Plunge." He offers me his hand to shake to seal the deal and adds the hook to the deal. "Just do what you're told to do, when you're told to do it and will get along just fine. And don't be late. Don't ever..." He lets the last late hang out there for me to finish.

"...be late." I end dryly.

"See there ya go kid, now your cooking with fire." Buzzy friendly fades and it's right back to business. "When you get here before your shift starts, just check in with Brad Weston."

"Brad's going to be your training guard for the duration." I points to some swimmer dudes infinitesimally small picture on the wall of water watchers. "So he will explain everything you need to know about your duty station, and any questions you might have regarding guarding? Brad's also in charge of the day shift and hands out the schedule. So you signup with him for your shifts, pending my final approval, of course."

"Of course." I nod him along.

"Okay well, that's it for today. So we will see you tomorrow morning, bright and early at 8 am sharp." Buzzy brushes me off easily. "And Aces, I'll see ya on Friday at the VFW for our regular...meeting?" Buzzy touches two fingers to his temple and swipes over.

"Never miss it."  My grandfather guy gives him back what I now recognize as the two-finger John Wayne warplane salute.

With that we are done, and heading back to the house of the Rising Raisins, for another day of death under the blazing sun. I will only find out much later, that I just missed something important in the final exchange between the two former card combatants. Something that Aces will clue me in on in the months to come, is that Ol' John Wayne warplane salute thing wasn't about respect at all. What it was about was a debt being wiped away between buddies.

Turns out that Friday night poker at the VFW is a not so secret "weekly meeting". Three months ago in a game of Texas hold'em, Buzzy had been fifty short on a big pot. But instead of making him fold out Aces let him call the hand for a "favor to be named later". Buzzy of course, made the mistake of playing a full house against Aces straight flush and got his ass handed to him sideways.  

So yeah, you guessed it ..."the favor to be named later" ...is my new job as a Plunger. But in all fairness to the old war criminal, Aces was right when he said I have nothing better to do than to be on time. Not even sleep, as my old friend insomnia has returned with a vengeance, not to mention the night terrors. So fun ...fun ...fun.

For the first time in my life, I wish I could smoke weed like Gromit and his girlfriends do when they need to sleep. They always look so well rested for school and at school. Instead, I've taken to checking the online surf cams at the pier and watch the small night waves roll in. The sound of the waves breaking is settling me some as I drift on the sea in my mind. And then...

CRASH! BANG! BOOM! It's Irish O'clock! Time for another battle in the never-ending war with the Celestial Egui Kitchen Daemons.

So thanks to Aces big poker win, my job interview as a "Lifeguard" at the Plunge was a blazing joke. Which is good in a sense, seeing that the actual job itself is a bigger blazing joke than the interview was. 

Two days later into my first official week at the Plunge into hell, I am already an expert at my job. When I get to the Plunge at "don't be late" sharp in the morning, the first thing I do is clock in early, to prove that I am on time. After that my first duty of the day is to turn the faucet on and start filling up the kiddie pool, aka The Toilet Bowl.

While the toilet is filling up for the day's drownings, I start to walk the pool exterior and do the daily "Deck Check". Checking for any broken glass, rusted nails, or any possible Insurgent landmines on the pool deck. While this sounds glorious when it was explained to me by my supervising Lifeguard Brad Weston, former high school swimming star and all-round pool stud. But the reality is I scrape gum off the concrete that's been solidified overnight with a dull putty knife.

When I point out to Brad that this glorious Deck Check duty is janitorial in nature. Brad merely sighs and shakes his head at me, but his reply is an education in Plunger wisdom.

"Buzzy doesn't trust the janitors with the Deck Check. He says the only way to be sure there is no broken glass to cut up the kiddies is to scrape up all the gum ourselves. Then look underneath for any glass that might be there?" Brad also adds almost thoughtfully. "Look I know this detail sucks because I did it too when I first started working the Plunge. But the low man on the totem pole always gets Deck Check. So sorry to say, but this summer you're it."

So after the Deck Check is finished, my next important lifeguarding duty is to unstack the stacks of plastic chaise loungers piled up haphazardly in the corner by the closing shift. Then line the loungers up and wipe them down with an almost clean towel. And of course, scrape off any more deadly "gum-glass" I find hiding underneath the stack of loungers.

Once I've accomplished this crucial lifeguarding task, I head over to the communal showers. To ensure that the pink soap is buoyant, and crank handle dispensers are no less than two thirds full of all-purpose pink wonder soap. The pink all-purpose soap looks suspiciously a lot like watered-down off-brand generic dish soap to me. Knowing Buzzy, he probably uses the cheap stuff because he thinks the janitors stealing the "good stuff" to take home with them. But he just hasn't been able to prove it ...yet.

Next I hit the pool laundry room, to safeguard the lives of the towels coming out of the dryer for at least an hour. After making sure that all the towels are safely folded and properly stacked in neat little rows on the shelves for the "Snack Shack" to sling out for a quarter a pop. After these all these crucial lifeguarding duties are complete, I take my first fifteen-minute break.

Where I stretch out on an almost clean chaise lounger, while the "Snack Shack" staff rolls in to start the day. Which as far as I can tell pretty much consists of firing up the slushy machine. In order to slang out the frozen blue sugar water to the sugar-addicted brats, along with a few towels.

The Plunge pool officially opens promptly at 10:01 A.M. when the surging throngs of deathwish children come streaming and screaming into the Plunge pool. Upon their arrival, most head right into the water to relieve their full bladders in the shallow end of the wading pool. Maybe it's just my sleep-deprived imagination, but I can literally see the aqua blue water turn sickly green in those first ten minutes. Before the filter system has a chance to kick in and start working its magic.

It's at this precise moment that my real lifeguarding day begins, for this will be the first time of the day I utter the phrase "No running please!" at other people's deathwish kids. Over the course of the next five and a half hours of Plunging, I will repeat these three words approximately three hundred and twenty-three times.

During my twenty-minute "Welcome to the plunge" orientation, Brad regaled me with a tale about not running. According to legendary Plunger lore, one day a former guard from years prior set the record. A senior guard named "Terry Something", who has long since moved on in his Plunger life, worked a double "Shit Shift" one particularly brutal summer day. This kind of "Shit Shift" apparently only happens when someone pulls a no-show, or just walks off the job. Leaving the guard on duty to work a double shift from opening to closing. Brad explained that in the argot of Plunge slang this kind of situation is commonly known as the "Terry Two Shit Shifts" or TTSS.

So in order to keep his mind occupied during this infamous TTSS of yore. Terry Something decided to use a counter clicker in order to count off exactly how many times he uttered the standard "No running please!" warning, from opening to closing at the Plunge. And Terry Somethings TSSS count? Eight hundred twenty-three times.

The legend of Terry Something's infamous running count has apparently persisted for well over a decade. And no one who has ever worked the Plunge since has ever doubted the accuracy of this count. Or has cared enough to do a recount since Terry Something's infamous Two Shit Shifts that dark day? I am personally of the opinion that Terry Something's count is short by at least a hundred sixty-seven. But like every guard before me, I just don't care enough to challenge the legend by pulling a TTSS to do a running count to find out.

So after the floodgates open, I take up my duty station. For me, there will be no epic dives from the high shaded tower chair overlording the teen bikini rota to save cute chicks from cramps. No watch on the dive tower pool, with its kamikaze high flying divers trying to break their bones and stones. Or even the "Little Olympic" pool with all its open lanes of lappers, eternally chumming back and forth. Nor the first aid station to patch up cuts and scraps for "slipping while running", or chin splits and head wounds as kids miss the diving board and "thunk off". I don't even rank the wading pool of three feet deep danger, where the two-year-old's learn to swim their "real swimmie" strokes, until they can control themselves enough for the real pool. No, there is none of that for me.

Turns out that yet another perk of being the low man on the Plunging totem pole is that I don't get to pick my own station. According to Brad, I get stuck with the one station that no one else wants. So of course, I pull the worst duty station ever... the nightmarish unholy horror that is officially known as The Princess Pool. Aptly named after the smiling mermaid princess painted on the bottom, commonly known as "Princess Peepee".

My watery grave is thirty foot round, eighteen-inch deep pond of slightly blue-greenish water. Where the mothers take their toddlers into the water to play for the first time. At least on the good days, on bad days...it is commonly known as "The Toilet Bowl". And to no one's surprise ever, there are no good days in the Princess Pool. So it's almost universally referred to by everyone who works here in proper plunge slang as The Toilet Bowl. Because let's face it, that's exactly what it is, a giant thirty-foot toilet bowl.

Little recognized fact, chlorine doesn't actually "burn" your eyes making them that great shade of red. Rather it's the chemical reaction from the pee in the pool with the chlorine. So the more your eyes burn? Yep, you guessed it ...the more pee in the pool. And that's not even the worst of what can go on in the little green pool of death.

You think I'm kidding about this? Just ask anyone anywhere, who has ever "Plunged a Toilet" about brown torpedo moment? Because I guarantee you that they have horror stories that will curl your hair. Or have witnessed a soiled swim diaper float by with no kid in it, and no apparent owner in the radius of the pool. Or has saved at least twenty drowning toddlers in one day. All of whom were no less than two feet from their distracted mothers, face down in the sewer water flailing away at life.

Part of my job is to make sure that every child has an adult chaperone, usually a mother. A few matronly grandmothers will tough it out for a day or two in the Toliet, before the miasma migraines are too much to handle. But mostly I am there to ensure that the chaperone is not chatting incessantly away with another mother, while the toddler in question drowns in a puddle of their own urine and fecal matter. And that is just the shortlist of posted rules that are obeyed within reason.

Because I also guard against eating in the pool, save for breastfeeding. Which is of course permitted by state law, but thankfully usually occurs under a towel ...but not always. Which in turn draws some of the pervs over to The Toilet for a quick boob shot. Thus the "No cameras" in the Princess Pool rule that I also enforce, but which is universally ignored by grandmothers everywhere. But to be honest, my selective enforcement of the camera rule is pretty much based on gender. If you're a lady, go ahead pic away at your craptastic kid to your heart's content. But if you're some dude? "No cameras in the Princess Pool" so get gone.

I also make sure that these customers do not bring unsafe toys in The Toilet. You know...like used syringes, rusty razor blades, and plastic suffocation bags? Rusty razor blades and druggie junkie spikes aside, I kid you not, I have seen some of these idiots blow up a plastic grocery bag and let a kid in the pool play with it. All the while haphazardly chatting away another day with the other mothers. So what do kids do when left up to their own devices and a plastic bag balloon toy to play with? Obviously, they blazing put it right over their heads and try to suffocate themselves to death.

So fun-fun-fun, in the hot blazing sun. Which of course brings up the issue of heat exhaustion for the little floaters, as well. But thank the stars for those cool blue sugary Slurpees! Which my deathwish kids inhale at an average of about one every hour. Leaving them cracked out, cranky, and wanting more when the sugar rush wears off.

So this is my grand Lifeguard life now, sludging around and around in a never-ending circle of kneehigh deep hell sewage until the night shift shows up "to flush the toilet". Then the whole thing starts all over again the next morning.

The only upside to my life as a Toliet Bowl Plunger is that I have my own keys to the pool. So I can swim anytime I want off hours. Which helps a little with the insomnia, as well as that whole show up for work time thing Buzzy is so keen on.

Brad has told me that it's cool if I swim any time after hours, but to make sure that no one else is here, because of Captain Midnight. The night shift supervisor, Chad Collins aka "Captain Midnight" has a bad habit of picking up anything that moves and offering them his special skinny swimming lessons. What Brad and the other guards commonly refer to as "Captain Midnight killing his future kids in the pool again".

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