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Abstract

hat you did all those summers.”I’ve jumped over fences into outdoor pools and snuck past froofy front desk clerks into fancy hotel pools. I don’t like entrances. I’m honest about most things, but I get crafty when people try to keep me out of places.I used to sneak into the Hotel Intercontinental downtown pool when I was a grad student. The Hotel Intercontinental is like a classy Trump Tower if you haven’t been. It’s gilded but it doesn’t smack you on the head with gold toilets.I wore my swimsuit beneath my clothes and carried my towel, goggles, and swim cap in my bookbag. I walked right past the front desk up the 14th-floor pool which was located in the Executive Tower.I don’t look like an executive but I do walk like one. Who else would have the chutzpah to march right past those prissy hotel front desk people like I owned the place? The Hotel Intercontinental pool made an appearance in one of Godfather’s movies. It’s a junior Olympic built in 1929 and when I swam in it, I was Diane Keaton.If I wanted to look like an executive, I would have to get one of those makeovers Sandra Bullock got in Ms. Congeniality. I can look French but only because I love lipstick and I don’t shower every day, but no one’s ever mistaken me for an executive. Not to my face.I do look like an executive’s dog walker. I know this because I’ve been an executive’s dog walker, but that’s another story. This one is confusing enough.The pool on the 14th floor resembles an oasis for the wealthy in 1920s Spain. Classic Spanish architecture — hand-carved terracotta fountain, hand-painted majolica tiles, marble pillars, stained-glass fish scale windows, and terracotta tray ceilings. Schmancy.It’s for members only but every time I ever snuck in, the person next to me also snuck in and they weren’t all poor college students. I met doctors, lawyers, Art Institute curators, waiters, and old ladies who didn't believe in paying for anything. I agree with the old ladies. You live long enough, shit should be free.It’s funny that the security is better at the YMCA than at the fancy-schmancy Hotel Intercontinental. Growing up, I didn’t need to sneak into the pool because we had the Lake. Sometimes a curfew was enforced but only after a string of

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assaults or a murder. Otherwise, it was all ours.I also swam for free at the pool I lifeguarded at. It was a small pool in a hotel called The Flamingo, which was about as campy as it sounds. It was a right out of Dirty Dancing as was our clientele. Me and the other lifeguards, all swim team girls, lived on popcorn and diet pop so we could stay skinny since our itty bitty red suits shirked on fabric. It was a cush job.The only downfall was when we got stuck lifeguarding when the crab lady came in. The crab lady swam vertically and took tiny little breaststroke pulls on the surface of the water, her face sinking then slightly emerging. Her head was never completely out of the water and she resembled a crab who’d heroically risen to the surface, gasped for air then returned to the sand. Multiply that by 60 minutes.I only had to save someone once that summer, though I’m not sure what I was saving him from. He dove into the water in a navy blue suit, a cotton pink shirt, a polka-dotted tie, and sank. He was probably in his mid-60s which looked like 80 to me as a 17-year-old.His hair glistened whitish-yellow. His skin was leathery and tan. I jumped off the chair into the pool and dragged him to the stairs. Another lifeguard helped me yank him all the way out. He wasn’t waterlogged yet. He was soggy, but not in imminent danger. He laughed it off and sloshed away in his wet suit. I can’t remember his shoes.None of us were emotionally intelligent enough to suggest a mental health assessment. Life used to be so much less fragile than today. Nowadays, we’d probably call the police, a social worker, and his nearest relative. Then, we watched him squish away like Beetlejuice.Being allowed to walk into the pool every day at the YMCA, without proof of my existence, reminds me of the good old days. The less serious days when I would have snuck into the pool without a second thought. I think some of us are made to sneak and some of us are not. It’s wiring.Since I didn’t have a car after my swim, I walked home. I’d forgotten a hat and my hair was frozen by the time I arrived. I’m heading back tomorrow. I’ll wear my suit under my clothes and walk right in. Screw checking-in. What are they gonna do? Ban me? I don’t even exist.</article></body>

Sneaking Into Ritzy High Rise Pools to Feel like Diane Keaton

Swimming in a first world country

Photo by 7inchs from Pexels adapted by Canva

This morning my car wouldn’t start so I got a ride to the pool. I had 8 am reservations for lane four and if I didn’t show, they’d penalize me and I wouldn’t be allowed to swim for a week.

That’s not true. I make up fake rules because it motivates me. In another life, I might have been a high-powered executive who hires dominatrixes to keep me competitive. In this life, I can change in and out of my swimsuit without anyone seeing an inch of my naked body. Multiverses, ya know?

When I showed up for my swim, the YMCA couldn’t find my name in the system again. Fifth time this week. This is our script now.

YMCA: You’re not in here.

ME: I’m in there somewhere.

YMCA: Go ahead and swim and when you’re done, go to the front desk and clear this up.

ME: Roger. Roger.

End scene.

I try not to let life’s icky obstacles dive into the pool with me, but it’s hard. Some days Debbie Downer barnacles herself onto my goggles and transforms yesterday's luminous Hearst Castle pool tiles into dingy gas station tiles.

The sun, which only yesterday shone like God backlighting Jesus, was hiding behind thick clouds that promised a solid arctic frost by the time my swim ended. I felt like I was swimming 3.7 kilometers below the pool’s surface and any moment I might crash into a fierce toothed angler fish.

I reminded myself the YMCA folks had let me into the pool despite my electronic non-existence. I do have a history of sneaking into pools. Was this some jacked-up diluted karma? Not a huge punishment from the universe but a snarky nudge from punitive fairies, who were like, “We know what you did all those summers.”

I’ve jumped over fences into outdoor pools and snuck past froofy front desk clerks into fancy hotel pools. I don’t like entrances. I’m honest about most things, but I get crafty when people try to keep me out of places.

I used to sneak into the Hotel Intercontinental downtown pool when I was a grad student. The Hotel Intercontinental is like a classy Trump Tower if you haven’t been. It’s gilded but it doesn’t smack you on the head with gold toilets.

I wore my swimsuit beneath my clothes and carried my towel, goggles, and swim cap in my bookbag. I walked right past the front desk up the 14th-floor pool which was located in the Executive Tower.

I don’t look like an executive but I do walk like one. Who else would have the chutzpah to march right past those prissy hotel front desk people like I owned the place? The Hotel Intercontinental pool made an appearance in one of Godfather’s movies. It’s a junior Olympic built in 1929 and when I swam in it, I was Diane Keaton.

If I wanted to look like an executive, I would have to get one of those makeovers Sandra Bullock got in Ms. Congeniality. I can look French but only because I love lipstick and I don’t shower every day, but no one’s ever mistaken me for an executive. Not to my face.

I do look like an executive’s dog walker. I know this because I’ve been an executive’s dog walker, but that’s another story. This one is confusing enough.

The pool on the 14th floor resembles an oasis for the wealthy in 1920s Spain. Classic Spanish architecture — hand-carved terracotta fountain, hand-painted majolica tiles, marble pillars, stained-glass fish scale windows, and terracotta tray ceilings. Schmancy.

It’s for members only but every time I ever snuck in, the person next to me also snuck in and they weren’t all poor college students. I met doctors, lawyers, Art Institute curators, waiters, and old ladies who didn't believe in paying for anything. I agree with the old ladies. You live long enough, shit should be free.

It’s funny that the security is better at the YMCA than at the fancy-schmancy Hotel Intercontinental. Growing up, I didn’t need to sneak into the pool because we had the Lake. Sometimes a curfew was enforced but only after a string of assaults or a murder. Otherwise, it was all ours.

I also swam for free at the pool I lifeguarded at. It was a small pool in a hotel called The Flamingo, which was about as campy as it sounds. It was a right out of Dirty Dancing as was our clientele. Me and the other lifeguards, all swim team girls, lived on popcorn and diet pop so we could stay skinny since our itty bitty red suits shirked on fabric. It was a cush job.

The only downfall was when we got stuck lifeguarding when the crab lady came in. The crab lady swam vertically and took tiny little breaststroke pulls on the surface of the water, her face sinking then slightly emerging. Her head was never completely out of the water and she resembled a crab who’d heroically risen to the surface, gasped for air then returned to the sand. Multiply that by 60 minutes.

I only had to save someone once that summer, though I’m not sure what I was saving him from. He dove into the water in a navy blue suit, a cotton pink shirt, a polka-dotted tie, and sank. He was probably in his mid-60s which looked like 80 to me as a 17-year-old.

His hair glistened whitish-yellow. His skin was leathery and tan. I jumped off the chair into the pool and dragged him to the stairs. Another lifeguard helped me yank him all the way out. He wasn’t waterlogged yet. He was soggy, but not in imminent danger. He laughed it off and sloshed away in his wet suit. I can’t remember his shoes.

None of us were emotionally intelligent enough to suggest a mental health assessment. Life used to be so much less fragile than today. Nowadays, we’d probably call the police, a social worker, and his nearest relative. Then, we watched him squish away like Beetlejuice.

Being allowed to walk into the pool every day at the YMCA, without proof of my existence, reminds me of the good old days. The less serious days when I would have snuck into the pool without a second thought. I think some of us are made to sneak and some of us are not. It’s wiring.

Since I didn’t have a car after my swim, I walked home. I’d forgotten a hat and my hair was frozen by the time I arrived. I’m heading back tomorrow. I’ll wear my suit under my clothes and walk right in. Screw checking-in. What are they gonna do? Ban me? I don’t even exist.