Billionaire Beast

“Come in,” she says. “I’d like to introduce you to some people.”

This just got weird.

I walk through the door, and while I’ve known Wrigley long enough to expect this sort of thing, I am wholly unprepared for what I see in front of me.

“Welcome to skinny swimming night,” she says, and sets her briefcase on a table. She opens it up and pulls out the bottle. “Don’t worry,” she says, “there’s always plenty to go around.”

“Hey there, Bliley!” a naked man in his 50s, but easily in better shape than me says. “We didn’t think you were coming.”

“You know me,” she answers as we walk over to a table holding about 20 different bottles, “swimming naked with you degenerates reminds me not to take life too seriously.”

I’m not quite sure what she means, but I’m far too absorbed with the whole scene to ask about it.

“Don’t stare,” she says. “That’ll get you kicked out.”

“What happens if someone walks in here?” I ask.

“It’s the middle of the night,” she says, placing our bottle on the table and immediately picking up a different one. “That, and we’ve got a couple of guys on watch.”

“You don’t mean—”

“Yeah, the guys in the suits: they actually do work here. We struck a deal with them—well, one of us did. I think it was Robinson. She’s the one over there with the pixie cut—”

“The guys in the suits,” I interrupt, trying to get her back on track.

“Right,” she says. “They let us come here once a week, and in exchange, they get to join us in rotating shifts. The hard part was getting the security guards in the front to buy that we all work in the building and that it’s not weird they only see any of us once a week and always after midnight.”

There are about 20 people in the pool. There are men and women, almost in equal distribution.

“Don’t get the wrong idea, though,” she says. “It’s not a sex club or anything weird like that. It’s just a bunch of people who like swimming naked, but don’t want to swim in polluted shit. Take your clothes off.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I said take your clothes off,

” she repeats. “You’re not getting in the pool dressed like that.”

I take off my shirt, but before I can get to the pants, Wrigley stops me.

“A few rules first,” she says. “First, don’t stare at people. When you’re talking, look them in the eyes like you would at any other time. Otherwise, it’s just disrespectful, and let’s be honest, pretty fucking creepy.”

“Got it.”

“Rule two,” she says. “Everyone showers before they get in the pool. It’s a hygiene thing. Yeah, it’s not really different than if you were wearing a bathing suit, but it’s just best to be clean. Oh, and with that, if you have to pee, get out of the pool and go to the restroom. It’s possible that no one would notice if they didn’t put a chemical in the pool that changes color in the presence of urea.”

“That’s an urban legend,” I tell her. “There’s actually not a chemical that detects urine in swimming pools. That one’s been around since the 50s.”

She just raises an eyebrow and glares at me.

“Not that I’m going to pee in the pool, though,” I tell her.

“Rule three,” she says, still giving me that look, “is that while you’re here, you don’t get completely wasted, and belligerence will not be tolerated.”

“That’s simple enough.”

“Finally,” she says, “keep your hands to yourself. Any kind of touch that you wouldn’t perform in a business meeting is off-limits. Handshakes are fine, so are high fives and the occasional pat on the shoulder, so long as there’s context and you don’t overdo it. Other than that, no touching anyone, got it?”

“I got it,” I tell her.