Americana
by Sal Moriarty
I'm a misanthropic humanist. Do I like people? They're great...in theory. Bill Hicks
I'm the one guy who says don't force the stupid people to be quiet. I want to know who the morons are. Mark Cuban
When you're born into this world, you're given a ticket to the freak show. If you're born in America, you get a front row seat. George Carlin
Not long ago, I lived in an apartment complex in the suburbs. I kept to myself for the most part, but one Saturday afternoon I was convinced by a neighbor to accompany him to the pool. In retrospect, I have not the slightest idea what I was thinking.
We got there, popped the lids off a couple cold ones, and settled in.
Before us lay a bizarre panorama of colors, images and sounds: vaguely green water, garish ill-fitting bathing suits clinging to glistening, unfit bodies. Tattoos, tattoos, tattoos. They covered all imaginable subject matter: unicorns, Jesus, dragons, Sanskrit, “in memory of”, barbed wire – lots of barbed wire.
There were signs clearly posted reading “No Glass Containers”, but less than ten minutes after we sat down, a buzzed (or stoned) fiftyish woman was sitting poolside, blood streaming from her foot into the water, the result of an encounter with a broken Coors Light bottle.
A half dozen Bluetooth speakers blasted competing musical genres. Everything from god awful bro-country with some idiot singing about girls in halter-tops, to (I guess) hip-hop, promulgating all manner of scatological and chauvinistic roguery. Eventually, all styles melded into one hypnotic, malevolent mantra. Imagine mescaline addled monks subversively chanting.
My pool companion was in his swim trunks but didn't go for a dip. A prudent decision as there was doubtlessly all manner of funk to be encountered in that suburban bastion of filth. If it came in fluid form, it was doubtlessly in the water (you can connect the dots).
In one corner of the pool, a couple was nose to nose, screaming profanities. In another corner, a couple nose to nose, swapping spit.
After half an hour or so, I told my neighbor it was time for me to go. I yelled once, then again, then a third time. Nothing. Finally, I tapped him on the shoulder and pointed toward the exit. He smiled and opened his arms wide, Charlton Heston-like, giving a nod to the psychotic hi-jinks playing out before us in 21st century America.
That very second, in the hot tub (imagine climbing into that cauldron of death with a paper cut), at the far end of the pool, came a drunken...I guess you'd call it a bellow, followed by a profanity laced challenge.
“Get on up you fat #%&*$ if you got the guts!”
The length of the pool away, back to us, a woman in a bikini two sizes too small was standing, yelling at someone I could not see because her humongous buttocks blocked my view. She, of course, was covered in tattoos. They undulated wildly across waves of cellulite, under layers of chlorine and suntan lotion, creating a mesmerizing and nauseating effect.
She had a can of beer in one hand, a wine cooler in the other. When she lurched to the right, I caught a glimpse of the woman she was addressing, seated in the hot tub, head down. Suddenly, no more music, no screams from guardian-less, deranged children. Movement in the pool ceased. Hammered revelers around the pool, playing out their own intoxicated dramas, grew silent.
The woman with her head down, raised it, and slowly stood up.
“Well, what's it gonna be #$&*@ ?” the instigator inquired.
The inquiry was answered in the form of a vicious kick to the crotch. The recipient went down to a furious splash of septic water and warm beer. In an instant, the rival was atop her, pulling her enormous carcass up, placing her in a headlock and furiously pummeling her face, adding a healthy spattering of crimson to the witch's brew they were immersed in. Two staggering stonersmade feeble attempts at intervention but were too far gone for the task.
In short order, the plastered belligerents, now mostly naked, were in full-on combat. Sloppy combat to be sure, but combat, nonetheless. The pool came alive again with screams from the onlookers; admonitions too graphic to mention in a family friendly outlet.
A little girl, about eight, ran to the perimeter of the melee screaming, “Momma! Momma!”
She was promptly scooped up by a shaggy haired inebriate and pulled back to a safe distance for better viewing.
I took it all in before standing up and heading for the exit. I made my way through the hyperbolic arm waving, spit spewing shrieks, nonsensical profanity, exited the pool and headed for my apartment to the sound of sirens in the distance.
This event came flooding back to me recently when I saw an ad for a “fight” between one hundred and seven year old Mike Tyson and someone named Jake Paul. Like the Main Event at the pool those years ago, it was equal parts hilarious and sad, but American to the core.
