Jed Wolf

It’s 4:00 AM and I can’t sleep. Ever since my recent, long overdue physical where I was prescribed Cipro and some other strong antibiotic horse pill, twice daily to address a high PSA and a UTI, my gut growls non stop.

At least after six weeks selling swimming pools, I’m no longer stressed about it, I think tossing and turning. The hot sun and sweaty masks, not so bad if I weren’t so sleep deprived, I hope.

I was in a couple’s back yard on this island, not far from me yesterday on “Marshview Terrace.” “At least it’s a real marsh,” I murmured as I pulled into their driveway trying to remember their names.

“I’m Jed,” I said enunciating the D behind my mask. Though I was on time, they treated me like I wasn’t. When they didn’t introduce themselves, things descended from there. About twenty minutes in, I swatted, “isn’t it too hot for mosquitoes?” “That’s why the oaks are coming down,” he said. “They perch in ‘em. We’re screening the whole yard.”

I was wondering if the ugly man smugly gazing at me from his back porch was not when I recalled the pre-cancerous-looking thing on my left ear which surely I remember my doctor saying I needed a referral for ASAP, when my client barked, “what about hydrostaumn?”

“What?” I said. “Hylostayshe, what about Hydrophlum phylum?” “I’m sorry sir,” I said. “I’m having difficulty understanding you with the mask. I read lips more than I realized since this Covid thing,” I said wryly.

He pulled down his mask, bared his teeth and barked, “HYDROSTATICS. What about HYDROSTATICS?”

I was right.

“Um, I’m not familiar with that term sir,” I said. “When pools pop out of the ground,” he groaned re-tying his black mask.

“Oh that,” I said liltingly. “‘Cause your in a flood zone.” How’d you know that,” he stammered. “We are Burt, we are,” his wife demurely chimed in. “I can assure you,” I inturrupted, “as long as your pool stays filled with water, which it will during hurricanes. It’ll stay put.”

Burt glared at his wife. “You never told me we’re in a flood zone Patsy.” “Yes I did.” “No, you didn’t” “Yes I did,” she stammered then Patsy turned to me with a curtsy chuckle and said, “We’re not from here.”

When I suggested they might remove the rotten part of their deck and make way for a perfect patio, Burt groaned and looked away. When I said that in order to get equipment in, their crepe myrtle might have to go, he threw up his arms saying, “that’s the only fucking tree we wanna’ keep!” Clearly it was time for me to go.

I’m increasingly forgetful these days but sweating bullets in a rush to return to my air-conditioned truck, I’m apt to leave things behind. This was no different, but when Burt silently pointed to my half-erect, 30’ tape measure earnestly bent in the bromeliads and shook his head, I knew I’d never return.

“I’ll have to come back with my boss,” I said, “‘cause there might not be enough room to get his track hoe in here even with that myrtle gone,” I said passing by him again dragging the 20’ left of my my slowly recoiling tape measure noisily behind me.

I wondered what was wrong with me as the cab of my truck began to cool. It’s shocking how difficult it is to sell pools with masks on. I did my best but who am I without my strategic wry smile? What if my masked tan and heavy eyebrows made me look like an Arab?

The truth was I hated Burt, and Patsy’s deference to men was gross. Their yard was too small and low for a pool and their house was a piece of shit so why did I feel ashamed?

As I headed home, memories of being held under swimming pool water flooded into my head. I tried to shake them off but was reminded of older boys laughing hysterically while pushing me toward soaking wet dogs about to shake.

May Everman’s older brothers enjoyed pulling my bathing suit down in front of her and doing cannon balls on me. When other adult’s weren’t around and sometimes when their sadistic parents were, those boys used me as an opportunity to prove themselves.

Forty years later my best friend May revealed that one of her brothers had been mollesting her at the time. “Those kid’s had it hard,” I thought. Even beautiful May never met her parents’ expectations.

That’s when I decided to pay her a visit. Schizophrenically revolving between obsequiousness and viciousness, I let 47 year old May conduct my every move from her southern California porch for a time with her wine. “You should stay here forever” she’d say.

“All rescue attempts fail,” I thought heading home from the marsh. I’ve never kept in touch with May nor heard from Her since. Last I heard she was rubbing elbows with Madonna. Twenty five years later, maybe I should call her,” I thought as I turned onto my lovely Florida circle with it’s circle of adult friends.

“I’ve never been to a dermatologist,” I recalled then distracted myself thinking about my historic obsession with people-pleasing.

My heart sank as I pulled into my driveway picturing how much m extra room there was to get through that side yard on Marshview Terrace but when I remembered, “not enough for me,” I smiled.