Thanks for being such a faithful reader. I have a new one called, “In the Shimmering Lights” that I just wrote this weekend. I am hoping to get it posted tonight. You should check that one out. I think you’ll like it.
Short Story / La Piscina (Analysis)
“Una Polar, por favor,” I say to the nubile nymphet in the cocktail waitress outfit – a red miniskirt with a tight-fitting white spandex top. Her perky young breasts provide an exaggerated neon effect to the Regional Cerveza logo spanning the width of her chest. Her nametag identifies her as “Carmelita.” From the way she carries herself, it is clear that Carmelita is ashamed of nothing, and from my vantage point behind chrome-lensed Bollés, rightly so.
“No Polar, Señor. Solomente Regional. ¿Está bien?” she says, flashing a million watt smile that is further illuminated by her perfectly smooth brown Venezuelan skin. She twists her shoulders from side-to-side as she awaits my response. How could I have been so stupid as to ask for a Polar when she is wearing a shirt that clearly says Regional all over it? As if I hadn’t noticed.
“Sí. Perdona me. Regional está bien. Gracias.”
I feel a pang of empathy in my heart for this young girl’s father. What anxiety he must have suffered starting at about the time she turned sixteen, or perhaps even earlier. Personally, I am thankful to the man for bringing a little beauty into this harsh world.
Recorded jazz pumps rhythmic sounds from the loud speakers mounted near the helado bar just off the pool of the Hotel Del Lago. The patently American music is locked in mortal combat with the Venezuelan disco blaring from the boom box belonging to the group of young local men standing in the pool just to my right.
“¡Hola, Esteban! ¿Cómo estás?” shouts Andrés, one of the young locals from the Chevron facility in Maracaibo with whom I have been working.
“Hey! How’s it going, Andrés?” I respond, wasting a prime opportunity to practice my Spanish. The affluent young Marachuco’s, like Andrés, pay a membership fee to the hotel for the right to use the pool and the fitness facilities. They wear nothing but Polo, Tommy Hilfiger, Nike, and Reebok, and talk incessantly and ostentatiously on their omni-present cellular phones. Among the affluent in Maracaibo, it is considered bad form to be caught without one’s cellular phone or to be wearing clothes without a designer logo.
Earlier in the day, as I walked down the block in a limited tour of the neighborhood around the Hotel del Lago, a hand-painted fire engine red 1972 Chevy Impala, with two doors caved in on one side, pulled up to the stop light in front of me. Through the cracked purple window tinting, I noted that the teenage woman in the passenger seat was talking on a cellular phone that was, no doubt, worth more than the car.
I drag a pool chair from the grass and take up a position beneath a tall palm tree. A stunning Venezuelan woman appearing to be in her late thirties, wearing a red thong bikini, and lying in a chaise lounge a few feet away, greets me with a smile of gleaming white teeth surrounded by full painted red lips. I recognize her as also being from the Chevron facility and I return her smile and then settle my things around my chair. Casting pride to the wind and ignoring the fact that yo soy muy gordo, I remove my T-shirt and slather a liberal coating of sun block. I open my book and attempt to read.
Across the pool, a Venezuelan version of Arnold Swarzenegger grips the bars of the pool ladder. In a remarkable gymnastic feat, he braces himself and pulls his body to a rigid horizontal position. Then, he lifts himself in one fluid motion to a full vertical handstand. He holds the handstand for three seconds and then does a back flip into the pool. Magnificent. At my advanced age and in my despicable physical condition, I would give my left nut to be able to do that. Either that, or to be able to tie a knot in a cherry stem with my tongue. At this point in my life, I think the latter might be of greater value to me.
As the group of young Venezuelan men with the boom box emerges from the pool, I am convinced that they must all be competitors in the Mr. Venezuela contest. Broad chests and shoulders, bulging biceps, flat bellies, and narrow waists accentuated by minuscule Speedo’s. The Americans at the pool are easily identifiable by their California Baggies, while the men from every other country in the world are wearing Speedo’s. The tinier the better, the shape of their physiques apparently not being a criterion in selecting their swimwear. Americans, on the other hand, are either more conservative, or more self conscious, or perhaps just more inhibited. As for myself, I prefer to leave something to the imagination. Whereas, a Speedo leaves nothing to the imagination, not even one’s body temperature or state of mind.
The sun burns down on my fish belly white Irish skin, broiling me to a brilliant shade of lobster. The deep coating of sun block is having no real effect. The heat, compounded by the humidity, is absolutely merciless. Beads of sweat gush from my pores and drip down my chest and stomach as if it were raining on my body. Carmelita serves my Regional with a beaming smile. “God bless you, my dear,” I think to myself as her coconut brown shoulder length hair shines in the sunlight and blows in the breeze. With one hand she pulls the hair from her face and hangs it over one ear.
“Gracias,” I say, taking the half-filled plastic cup from her hand. The cerveza is chilled to the point of being almost a slush. It cools my throat on the way down and offers hope that I will survive the imminent threat of heat stroke.
La piscina, the pool, must be over fifty yards in length and thirty yards wide. The water ripples, cool and blue. A peninsula cutting two-thirds of the way across separates the shallow end from the deep end. The pool area is surrounded on all sides by palm trees, heavy with coconuts, swaying in the wind.
At one end is the helado, or ice cream bar, where a buffet is also available and warming in large spherical copper pots. Between the pool and the beach is El Bahio, an outdoor patio restaurant serving rodizio, an all-you-can-eat Brazilian bar-b-que dinner. Its conical grass thatched roof is suspended on vertical poles. Patio tables and chairs surround the bar. Locals and expatriates from the major oil companies populate the tables and stand at the bar drinking cerveza and frozen drinks and smoking cigarettes. Each one carries a cellular phone hanging from a holster on their belt. Each one makes and receives calls constantly. It presses one’s mind to imagine to whom they might so urgently need to speak on such a balmy Sunday afternoon.
The gentle waves of Lake Maracaibo wash up on the beach behind El Bohio. It is forbidden to swim in the lake because of its pollution level. From a distance, the lake is quite lovely. However, on closer examination, one can see that the water resembles diluted green paint. As opposed to normal Caribbean waters, it is opaque and not in the least translucent.
The sun blares down on this whole scene, its rays unimpeded by clouds or ozone. The humidity hovers at near absolute. Every body glistens with sweat and suntan oil. My brain is boiling. I must have relief. In three quick steps I am in the water, immersed in the life-saving coolness, bathed in soothing wetness, baptized in solitude, quietude, and peacefulness. I tread water toward the shallow end until I can touch the bottom and keep my head above water. I float on my back and then on my stomach. I dive under the surface, touch the bottom, and do handstands in the water. With the support of the water, I find it easy to replicate the Venezuelan gymnast’s feats. I wonder why I was so impressed. After I tire of playing, I drape my arms over the side of the pool and position myself to observe the specter from this opposite vantage point, and still the scenery is bravura.
I must say though, that these extended work assignments to exotic foreign locations are exhausting. There are too many choices offered by this life of weekend leisure in this South American location. ¿Polar o Regional? Sunbathe or swim? Read or count thongs? Too much to do. Too much to see. Too many responsibilities.
I climb out of the pool and return to my chair. After toweling off, I retrieve my book. I note that after an entire afternoon of reading, I am still on the same page as where I first started. My mind flashes back through the day. Did I have my book turned right-side up? Who knows? Who cares?
“Perdona me, Carmelita. Una Regional mas, por favor.”
THE END
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clele75 reviewed Version 1 -
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Much like another piece I reviewed on Urbis--the main character muses as he sits at a restaurant--your piece is not a short story. It’s definitely a travel-related journal entry/essay—heavy on description, the piece evokes a locale and the narrator has an epiphany at the end. A short story, however, requires character development, dramatic tension, resolution, etc. In your piece, they are nowhere to be seen. That doesn’t mean that this piece can function as a chapter in a longer work/novel. The idea of an expat (at least a temporary one) who feels dislocated yet pleasantly at ease in a foreign land is both a viable and compelling one. Still a novel will need some sort of conflict, some sort of story arc.
That said, if you decided to turn this piece into a non-fiction, personal account of your travels, then you have something to work with. In this case, I would offer up a little more about the character’s mindset—why they are in Venezuela, how long they plan to stay there, and some other reasons why he feels alienated (not just cell phone use, which strikes me as typical of many countries where the upper class brandish these devices as status symbols.) What else about Venezuela had a profound impact? This is where I can imagine your piece going.
(pg.1) “nubile nymphet”—by definition both words mean comely and sexually mature.
-So as is, your phrase is redundant. Instead, maybe give some other description, e.g. bronze-skinned nymphet.
(pg. 1) “the patently American music is locked in mortal combat with the Venezuelan disco blaring from the boom box belonging to the group of young local men standing in the pool just to my right.”
-I like the imagery. He’s creative and funny. The sentence, though, does run on a little too long (both “blaring” followed by “belonging”), especially without the help of commas. Your writing generally has good pacing so I would definitely shorten this one sentence.
(p.5) “the specter”—This confuses me. Which specific fear are you talking about. Him diving into swimming pool?
Otherwise, good job with the description and I’m curious to see what you do with this.
“quite lovely”—I don’t think this consistent with the narrator’s voice. A beer-guzzling, nymphet ogling middle-aged guys does not gush like this.
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Sweettouch reviewed Version 1 -
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Almost too quiet a piece. I enjoy the reflections on the day and see a life that I almost envy. Sitting by the pool in a beautiful South American country sipping drinks and watching the scenery. Beautiful. Does the stroy stand on it’s own? I am not sure it does as there is no real point to it. As a part to a greater work – it holds great merit. Having read prior stories of yours it all mkes perfect sense.
derekosborne reviewed Version 1 -
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In the future, try to limit your criteria to two or three. I would suggest for this one Short Story Overall and Atract an Agent.
The writing is good, nice level of diction throughout. You did well with the Spanish, I never got lost. Your description moved the exposition nicely but then nothing much happens. Personally, I like stories like this. More of a setting and character study that result in an overall impression. Where I think it falls down is the relevance of the subject. In the end, you gave me nothing to hang my hat on. I thought maybe the woman in the Chevy Impala might show up and rob him, or the Chevron Thirty-something might make a play and the narrator would wrestle some moral dilemma, or the buff local might challenge the overweight milk white Irish and find out the hard way why the IRA is still a force to be reckoned. Alas, this did not happen.
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