A White Coat Is My Closet (7 page)

Though I understood the point Declan was trying to make and appreciated his support, I couldn’t help but to poke a little fun at the intensity of his lecture. “Does he really eat porridge?” I asked while trying to look appropriately confused.

It took Declan a second to register that I was being facetious, but when he did, he whacked me on the back of the head. “You know what I mean, Zack. You’re your own worst enemy. You either bring most of your disappointments on yourself or you blow them way out of proportion.”

A
S
I
made my way down the stairs from the locker room at the gym to the cement pool patio, I noticed that the pool was pretty crowded. All the lanes had at least one swimmer, and most of them had two.
Great
.
Just what I needed: an opportunity to give someone a piggyback ride
. Though I was in damned good shape, I wasn’t a strong swimmer. Invariably, when I had to share a lane with someone, they would overtake me, and I would either have to allow them to pass or end up having them swim over me. On crowded days, it seemed I spent more time trying to avoid the faster swimmers than I did swimming.

My motivation for getting into the pool was that I had aspirations of participating in a mini triathlon. Though I was excited about the prospect and had the best of intentions, the swimming part of the competition was definitely going to kick my ass. I was a natural runner and could bike with the best of them, but swimming? My goal was just to survive. Some guys would enter the pool and their stroke was effortless. They would glide through the water like a knife slicing soft butter. They’d barely make a ripple. Watching them reminded me of seeing a shark’s fin cutting through waveless surf. Theirs was a sharp contrast to my style. As smooth as I tried to be, to an observer it probably appeared as if I were drowning or that I was trying desperately not to be sucked to the pool floor by a giant vacuum. No wonder I swam slowly and fatigued quickly. For me, it was more a battle for my life than it was a sport.

My friend Gary had once suggested that I should be filmed swimming so a network could use the footage on a
Jerry Lewis
telethon. He was confident if an audience were to see my antics in the water, the viewers would be persuaded to donate money to help the handicapped. As I lowered myself into the pool and adjusted my swimming goggles, I reminded myself that next time I had dinner with Gary, I would mix some extra-strength chocolate ex-lax into his dessert. Asshole wouldn’t think he was so funny if he shit himself in public.

My goals were to concentrate on my breathing and on my stroke. When I watched more experienced swimmers, I noticed that they only breathed every third stroke. For me, it required significant concentration, and I invariably felt that with the exertion of swimming, I had to hold my breath for longer than I was capable. It was almost impossible for me to take three strokes without taking a breath. Then, by the time I rolled my head out of the water to breathe, I ended up releasing an explosive gasp and felt forced to try to take two or three deep successive breaths while my mouth was still above the surface of the water. I felt pretty certain that to an impartial observer, the whole performance looked more like a near drowning incident than a display of athleticism.

For me, it was an accomplishment to swim three consecutive laps without having to stop and rest. It was absurd. Swimming a mere three laps had me standing at the end of the pool gasping as if I’d just sprinted five miles. Pathetic! How would I ever succeed in finishing the mile swim required in the mini triathlon if I couldn’t swim more than three laps? I envisioned them having to drag the bottom of the lake for my body.

If nothing else, I was persistent. I refused to be discouraged by my uninspiring aquatic skills, and eventually I succeeded in completing my goal of twenty laps. Miraculously, I even pushed myself to swim four laps at a time without resting. I felt a sense of accomplishment for not having given up prematurely, but I was definitely beat. When I finished, I was so winded from the effort that even climbing the ladder out of the pool was a challenge. I tried to console myself by repeating over and over in my head that practice would result in impressive improvement. Or alternatively, as I ran my towel over my chest, practice would secure me a spot in the Special Olympics. “Damn Gary for planting that picture in my head.”

It was a sunny weekend day, so in addition to the pool being crowded, most of the patio lounge chairs were also occupied by guys sunbathing. I circled through the throngs of lazy sun worshippers, hoping to find a vacant lounge. The exertion of my water escapades left me eager to lie down and soak up some rays. Finally, I saw someone getting up on the far side of the pool, and I navigated quickly through the maze of chairs, hoping no one standing closer would snag it.

Thankfully, I had no other immediate competition for the empty chair, and I succeeded in walking over to it and covering it with my beach towel. I sat down lazily and reached into my backpack. I pulled my sunglasses out, put them on, and then proceeded with my sunbathing preparations. Once my eyes were shielded with the dark lenses, I could look at all the golden bodies on display without fear of being detected. I squeezed some suntan lotion into my palm and began to rub it over my arm as I carefully surveyed the crowd.
Let’s see, is there anyone on today’s poolside menu who looks particularly delicious?

My initial preview was generally disappointing. A guy a couple chairs down from me was wearing a bright-yellow thong, but I wasn’t sure what kind of attention he was hoping to attract because his stomach was so big it pretty much engulfed his cock. I thought the point of wearing a thong was to display your jewels to the world. It had never occurred to me it could be substituted for a sausage tie. On him, the thong was reduced to little more than a flash of yellow that disappeared between his rolls of fat. Maybe he was hoping a chubby chaser would wander down to the pool craving a hookup with Oscar Mayer. I shook my head in disbelief. What was he thinking?

Well
, I thought as I tried to recover from the visual assault,
after seeing that, the view has to get better
. As was usually the case on sunny days, the gym patio served as a display case for some prime meat. I recognized a few of the guys reclining casually on the chairs from the cover of
Men’s Fitness
magazine. I had to chuckle. Physically, they epitomized the essence of masculinity—strong and muscular, with chiseled abs and sharp features. Ironically, however, for many of them it was all a ruse. They could only pull off being testosterone poster boys until you heard them speak. They’d open their mouths and a purse would fall out. How many straight men who pored over the pages of the magazine, desperate to pick up workout tips, would shudder at the realization that the guys they were idolizing were in fact big old queens? Though I myself was envious of their bodies, I had to laugh at the irony.

I let my gaze continue to wander around the poolside spectacle. There really were quite a number of good-looking guys, but many of them were sitting in groups. Even if I had the courage, there was just no inconspicuous way to walk up to a tight group of good-looking men and try to break into the conversation. I mean, I suppose you could pretend to be taking a survey and approach them about participating, but for that kind of charade, you’d better come prepared with a clipboard and some questionnaires.

I chuckled, embarrassed at even considering the scenario, but spent more time than I’d ever admit letting my brain work out some of the details of implementing such a ploy. Once the object of my desire had been identified, I would boldly grab my clipboard and break confidently into his group. I’d promise that participants in the survey would be eligible to win a big-screen TV, and then I’d single out the guy I was attracted to and proceed to ask him to reveal his favorite movie, what he looked for in a perfect date, and his telephone number.
Oh
, I thought mournfully,
were only I to have the balls, my personal life would be significantly more scandalous and eventful
.

The sun began to lull me into a state of blissful relaxation, and even my daydreams began to slowly disappear into the shadows of my consciousness. I felt like I was floating, fading in and out of even a partial awareness of what was going on around me. I was so out of it that I barely noticed when the guy sitting right next to me evacuated his chair and someone new took his place. It wasn’t until I heard an iPod slide off the chair and clatter onto the cement that I even fully opened my eyes.

When I did, I was shocked. Standing next to me, adjusting a towel over his chair, was the good-looking guy I had seen in the gym a week or two before. I recognized him immediately. His hair was wet from having just gotten out of the pool, but when he gave it a quick shake, it fell perfectly into place. He looked more clean-shaven than he had the first time I’d seen him, and his skin was flawless: olive colored, slightly flushed from exercise, radiant. Shirtless, his body was even more impressive than I’d initially imagined. He had an unbelievably sculpted chest, washboard abs, and a mat of softly curled black hair lightly covering both. A tight waist tucked into the drawstring of form-fitting Speedos and a pair of incredibly muscled legs sprung from beneath. As I drank in the essence of his amazing physique, I had to steady my breathing. I didn’t want to embarrass myself by hyperventilating.

I vacillated over saying anything. I mean, it wasn’t as if his sitting next to me represented an invitation to strike up conversation. His intention might have been to just relax in silence and enjoy a little solitude. On the other hand, he had just shown up. It might appear rude not to even acknowledge him. I silently chastised myself.
Zack, when are you gonna grow a pair. He’s standing right next to you. What do you have to lose by saying hello? Opportunity might only knock once. You never know if you’ll get a second knock… or chance… or what the fuck ever. Just say something.

I repositioned in my chair, giving the impression of only trying to get more comfortable and then, as noncommittally as possible, casually asked, “How was the water?”

He glanced briefly in my direction, seeming confused about whether I was directing the question to him. When he realized I was looking at him, he smiled and offered a single word response: “Good.” Then, after appearing to deliberate whether to continue, he added, “I saw you swimming earlier.” A thick accent accentuated his words, and a kidding smile spread across his face. “My neighbor’s three-year-old son has a pair of water wings. You might consider investing in a pair.”

Forgetting my nervousness, I burst out with a laugh. “Hey,” I said, pretending to be insulted, “I happen to be an incredible swimmer. In fact, it’s seldom that I even enter a pool without someone approaching me about the possibility of being a lifeguard.”

His eyes danced mischievously and his smile broadened. “Listen, I don’t even know you, so I certainly don’t intend to hurt your feelings, but I think that you might have misunderstood their question. I suspect they were actually asking you if they should call a lifeguard. Anyone watching you swim fears for your life.”

My heart soared. He had a sense of humor. “Oh, now I get it.” I tried to inject a little remorse into my voice. “That explains why a life preserver always seems to be randomly tossed into my lane shortly after I start swimming. I thought it was just a coincidental training exercise.” I sat up enthusiastically and faced him. “Where are you from, anyway?”

At that instant, the joking expression faded quickly from his face and his answer was curt. “Why do you ask? Do you think I have an accent?”

I was startled by the abrupt change in his demeanor and immediately tried to compensate for unintentionally offending him. “Man, I’m sorry. Yeah, I noticed you have an accent, but I think it’s great. Your voice sounds like music. I lived in Brazil for a few years and learned to speak Portuguese while I was down there. I never lost my American accent. People said it was part of my charm.” I slowed down. I didn’t want to appear to gush. “Your accent,” I said apologetically, “is part of your charm.”

He continued to look a little offended, and rather than being warm, his expression was now dubious. “I’m from Italy.” He went about organizing his things, then put his earbuds into his ears, giving the unmistakable indication that the conversation was over.

I was crestfallen. I didn’t know what I had said to offend him, but his ethnicity was obviously a sensitive issue for him. I pushed myself back onto my chair. I felt immediately despondent. I really hadn’t meant to insult him and was sorry he had misinterpreted my intentions. I would like to have tried to make amends, but he was clearly not receptive to more conversation.

I tried to console myself and initiated an internal pep talk.
Let it go. You’d be justified in beating yourself up if you’d purposefully been a dick, but you were just trying to be friendly. Give yourself a break.