by Herocious
9
Because of Honeyed Cat, the sliding glass door is open.
We’re snuggly spooning when the sound of someone diving into the pool opens our eyes. It’s 4AM. The Oaks says the pool closes at 10PM, but no one is here to enforce this rule. Once the management office closes, honor code governs the tenants.
This means anarchy.
Three more people ignore the No Diving paint and jump headlong into the pool. The salvo of splashes summons Bridget to the sliding glass door, where she pulls aside a handful of blinds and peers into the floodlit courtyard.
She sees people swimming and climbing out of the pool, running around a little, and then jumping back into the pitiful body of chlorinated water. I don’t get out of bed. I could, but I don’t want to become curious, especially after Bridget says, “They’re all naked.” She peers as close as she can without blowing her cover. “No,” she says, “one girl is fully clothed, and the other is only wearing panties.” She doesn’t say anything more about the guys, but I hear their low voices teasing the girls, who play their part and hit the high notes:
“Marco.”
“Polo. Polo!”
I hear someone catch a breath and swim to the other side of the pool.
“Marco.”
“Polo!”
“Marco.”
“Polo! Polo!”
I hear more splashing and swimming for dear life.
The same girl is saying Polo, shouting it to be better heard. She’s taking their game a little too seriously, and she’s heavily intoxicated. She even manages to slur Polo.
Bridget gets back into bed and cuddles me. A few minutes later, the Marco Polo shouts are replaced with the somewhat restrained moans of rutting. I’m certain they’re using a chaise lounge.
Police sirens blare. They’re getting closer. I picture these nudists discovered inside the conic light of the law. Someone must’ve reported this foursome, I’m sure, but as soon as the sirens peak next to the night swimmers they begin to fade into the other side. The Doppler Effect soundtrack plays in its entirety.
Again, the sounds of people rutting, less restrained. They probably think no one is awake at this hour, and if some one is, what a rush. The guy grunts. The girl is quiet for an interval. Then burgeons her stentorian breathing, her crescendo.
“It must be because of the full moon,” whispers Bridget into my ear.
9
Bridget sees a flashlight shining through the crazy girl’s apartment. The illustrious
life story of Steve Jobs isn’t as contagious as I thought it would be.
“The police are here,” she says, suddenly animated. “Flashlights mean police.”
We put our wine glasses down and walk to the kitchen window, where Honeyed Cat is perched on the sill. Two cop cars, one ambulance, and one fire truck are in the lot. Bridget’s interpretation of the flashlights impresses me. But the crazy girl has been a little more than senseless for a couple hours, making all styles of noise: screaming at the absolute top of her register, sobbing out into the open air, swinging her baseball bat into the futon mattress, slapping her forehead, stomping her feet, howling.
It’s no wonder someone called the police on her. Another cop car arrives on the scene. This one makes three. From the kitchen window, we can see pieces of forced entry on the ground. Clearly, the cops busted into her place, completely unexpected, uninvited.
It seems to me like we should have a right to privacy that no law can take away. That isn’t the way society works, though. Reasonable doubt is all it takes. When there’s reasonable doubt someone is self-injurious or simply causing injury, the power of law can break in and introduce draconian reality. As members of society, we must behave correctly, or at least correctly in the eyes of the written law, which is always changing and growing, mounting the shoulders of the previous generation, the law doesn’t plan to stop this game of piggyback. It’ll get smarter with us, always ahead of the curve. The more time that passes, the more nuanced and expansive the law gets. But I’m a stone philosopher, not the real deal. I never took a class on the philosophy of law. I’ve no right to be writing about this subject. I’m not qualified, it’s beyond my ken.
Getting back to the crazy girl. While Bridget keeps her post by the kitchen window, I return to the balcony and listen for any clues to shed light on what’s happening. I hear the deep voices of the police countered by the shrill voice of the crazy girl. At one point, when Bridget tells me to come because a man is walking into the ambulance, I think he’s going to grab a gurney and cart the crazy girl out of her apartment, all cut up and a broom stroke away from passing the ghost. But he only returns with a little black bag.
“Did she hurt herself?” I ask.
I return to the balcony and hear a bubble of laughter burst. The fire truck leaves. The police cars leave. All that remain are the ambulance and the crazy girl. Part of me is sad that she’s so crazy. Another part is concerned that if the proper steps aren’t taken to treat her craziness, she might go crazy on her neighbors.
I wasn’t the one who called the cops, however, and Bridget wasn’t either. We both agree it was the mindless Mohawk, who had an incident with her only the other day, and he warned us afterward that he was going to call the cops on her if things got even a little bit out of hand.
8
For the first time in Austin, we have a bottle of whisky in the freezer. I ask Bridget if she wants to watch the storm roll in and enjoy a tot on the balcony.
“A tot?” she asks. My stuffy-white-guy word choice must confuse her.
“Yeah,” I say, “a tot of whisky.”
She approves of my idea with an endearing blush. I make a move for the kitchen, but she beats me there. The 750 ML bottle looks elegant in our freezer. It has been there long enough for the glass to get frosty. Bridget pours our share with a tumbler. Then she flavors it citrus with a squeeze of freshly cut lemon. I take mine straight, with no ice even. I want my tot as stiff as possible. Bridget has hers on the rocks.
For background music, we play a copy of Abe’s CD, Dreaming of Open Water, which he gave us shortly after I complimented his succulents, but not a second before I expressed interest in hearing him play guitar. His CD is a solo release, him and his acoustic, all sixteen compositions arranged by the jack-of-all-trades himself. Although they don’t appear in this CD, Abe also knows how to sound the sax, banjo, and oud. These are additional tools he uses to touch the tones of his soul.
“I’m trained as a painter though,” he says, “I see everything as a painter.”
As the storm rolls over South Austin, straight off the Colorado Rockies, I throw back some whisky and look at my little world. Two hot-pink floats are scattered poolside. The giant live oak sways gently in the gusts. I study a smallish bird hanging in the air currents, not once flapping its wings, it hangs in the same spot, a westerly facing logo of freedom.
The whisky makes Bridget talkative. I love listening to her enchantment with the world. A lot is going perfect in her life. She’s very aware of how everything kind of fell into proper order, and she’s thankful and prepared to get the most out of this time in Austin.
It begins to rain. Water collects in the gutters and is piped down to the grass. Bridget lifts her toes on the chair to keep her legs dry. I briefly put down my whisky to scoot the piano bench I’m sitting on farther back. The wind gets strong. The table umbrella next to the pool blows right over the wrought-iron fence and is in danger of ruin. Out of the blue, Abe materializes next to the umbrella and uses the crank to tuck it in. His gray cotton tee gets wet. But rain doesn’t bother him. It’s only water. It’ll dry once he gets sheltered. No biggie. Dreaming of Open Water, that’s what he decided to title his solo release, yet he has never been to Miami Beach. What does this tell me? Well, I know that people instinctively want the open water. We’re drawn to the sea. In the very marrow of the smallest and most vital cogs in our body lives salinity, even if we have never visited the most beautiful swimming water this country has
to offer.
Abe sets the tidied umbrella flat on the Chattahoochee. With the deed done, he goes back to the cover of his succulent balcony. I notice a subtle limp in his gait. Abe stutters and limps. In the face of his own frailty, he lights a thin rod of cancer. I don’t see him. I only see a carcinogenic smoke signal blow from the depths of his balcony, letting everyone in the area know a frail man willingly pollutes himself under this tempest.
6
Bridget has finished her IPA. I’ve finished my Steel Reserve. We’re nicely buzzed and walking back south on Congress Ave.
There’s no sign of the injured bum on our return to The Oaks. We bend down to look at the sidewalk, check for signs of hemorrhaging from that gaping head wound, and find the corner opposite the beer-and-wine mart clean and desolate. Where did he go? Where does a bum burrow for the night?
“Are you hungry?” I ask, glancing at the waxing moon. I ask again, “Are you hungry?”
Bridget spins on her feet. Her reddish gold hair blooms in the AM. I catch her by her waist and say, “I’m hungry, Love.”
“I can always eat,” she says. “What’s open now?”
“I don’t know. We can check the pizza joints.”
But the only two on Congress Ave are closed. Even Taqueria Arandas on South 1st St closes at midnight. Demons! In Austin, few restaurants are open late, at least we don’t know of any yet within walking
