“Years, maybe. Looks that way. Years.”
“Hut, two!”
“Three, four!”
A church clock nearby struck noon; time to open the pool liquor bar. “Company... harch!”
A parade of two, the man and boy strode across the tiles toward the half-locked gates on the open-air bar.
“Company, halt Ready! Free locks! Hut!”
The boy snapped the locks wide.
“Hut!”
The boy flung the gate aside, jumped back, stiffened, waiting.
“Bout face, forward, harch!”
When the boy had almost reached the rim of the pool and was about to fall in, the father, with the wryest of smiles, called quietly: “Company—halt!”
The son teetered on the edge of the pool.
“God damn,” whispered Sid.
The father left his son standing there skeleton stiff and flagpole erect, and went away. Sid jumped up suddenly, staring at this. “Sit down,” I said. “Christ, is he going to leave the kid just waiting there?!”
“Sit down, Sid.”
“Well, for God’s sake, that’s inhuman!”
“He’s not your son, Sid,” I said, quietly. “You want to start a real fight?”
“Yeah!” said Sid. “Dammit!”
“It wouldn’t do any good.”
“Yes, it would. I’d like to beat hell—”
“Look at the boy’s face, Sid.”
Sid looked and began to slump.
The son, standing there in the burning glare of sun and water, was proud. The way he held his head, the way his eyes took fire, the way his naked shoulders carried the burden of goad or instruction, was all pride.
It was the logic of that pride which finally caved Sid in. Weighted with some small despair, he sank back down to his knees.
“Are we going to have to sit here all afternoon, and watch this dumb game of—” Sid’s voice rose in spite of himself “—Simon Says?!”
The fattier heard. In the midst of stacking towels on the far side of the pool, he froze. The muscles on his back played like a pinball machine, making sums. Then he turned smartly, veered past his son who still stood balanced a half inch from the pool’s rim, gave him a glance, nodded with intense, scowling approval, and came to cast his iron shadow over Sid and myself.
“I will thank you, sir,” he said, quietly, “to keep your voice down, to not confuse my son—”
“I’ll say any damn thing I want,” Sid started to get up.
“No, sir, you will not” The man pointed his nose at Sid; it might just as well have been a gun. “This is my pool, my turf, I have an agreement with the hotel, then-territory stops out there by the gate. If I’m to run a dean, tucked-in shop, it is to be with total authority. Any dissidents—out. Bodily. On the gymnasium wall inside you’ll find my jujitsu black belt, boxing, and rifle-marksman certificates. If you try to shake my hand, I will break your wrist. If you sneeze, I will crack your nose. One word and your dental surgeon will need two years to reshape your smile. Company, tenshun!”
The words all flowed together.