“Chlorine” by Elijah Sparkman

This is the story of the time when Ryan-Hands almost died.

They called him Ryan-Hands because his name was Ryan and he had these hands, little scratchless white-glove-looking things, flesh testimony that the guy had no business being a landscaper. On top of that: the guy was skinny as a kite, and lazy as hell. They couldn’t ever convince him to get into the necessary mindset. He didn’t know how to be when he was at this job, and he was bad at this job because of it.

There were three of them on the lawn truck: Ryan-Hands, Jason Grim aka “The Grim Reaper,” and Joe. The customer had a McMansion. He owned something or he was part of a group that owned something. Had a hot tub. Had a Weber. Had a pool with a deep-end.

It was spring, so beyond everything, the grass all wet and heavy, there was the opening of the pool to consider. The customer had been at it for a few weeks now with the robot vacuum, the black, sun-absorbant cover, and chlorine for days, shaping the thing up.

Ryan-Hands, unsurprisingly, was lowest on the totem pole. That meant he had edge and blow duties. He took the edger against the sidewalk and the driveway. And then blew down the house while everyone else was half-way through with cutting. The most efficient way to do things: ten-out-of-ten. Joe was a thick guy, arms like cement cylinders, so after whipping he took on push mower duties in the backyard. Jason Grim was the foreman, he worked the 52-inch with the sulky and made everything look right. Fat diagonal lines. No scalps or clumps. With him, every cut was as good as a birthday cut.

The problem was that Ryan-Hands was so slow that he couldn’t finish the blowing by himself. This put everything out of whack. Jason would finish up, and on a normal crew, he could go check out the route list, sit in the truck, have a cigarette. But no, because of Ryan-Hands, after cutting the lawn, he’d have to grab a blower, too. That’s when things would tend to get claustrophobic – a guy’s backpack pelting your esophagus with exhaust, that kind of bullshit – and Jason just couldn’t figure out how to explain the strategy of the job to the guy. It’s all about routes. Blowing is a one-man job. There is some smartness in it like that.

And this is how it’s going, the two in the backyard on one patio. Jason trying to hit all of the angles to get the grass off the side of the house, Ryan-Hands, nothing more than a body in space. Jason wants to finish the job so he’s getting a little aggressive, moving faster than he probably needs to, but it’s so frustrating with Ryan-Hands doing his usual shit.  

Eventually, Ryan-Hands gets the memo and makes his central tenet just to stay out of Jason’s way. So, Ryan-Hands starts back-pedaling and staying peripheral, adjacent to Jason, trying to at least look like he’s helping, to at least pretend like he is. And that is exactly when he goes under.

Plop.

Right through that black, sun-absorbent cover.

Right into the deep-end.

And at first it’s funny. Jason and Joe turn the machines off and start laughing their asses off. Motherfucker. That’s a first. That’s a story. There will be 3.2 million post-work Budweiser’s where they Joke about it. It will become a total thing.

But then they really start to think about it. Like the variables of it. Scrawny-ass kite of a kid. You know, he did tie that backpack tight as hell to his body, just so it wouldn’t move around so much. You know, they always were getting aggravated with him, taking so long to strap the thing. You know, that is the deep-end.

You know, he’s still not up.

And like that, Jason dives in.

Boom. Splash.

Swims down straight to the bottom. Eyes burning, open, in the McMansion water. Look, there’s that stupid robot vacuum. Everything is dark underneath the tarp, but he spots Ryan-Hands. Grabs the kid like a fucking superhero. Plants legs down on the bottom of the pool and pushes up as hard as he can. And, surprisingly, fueled by pure adrenaline, they rocket up.

Above the surface, Jason drags the body to the patio where he and Joe both pull it on land. Jason doesn’t know what to do so he just slaps the shit out of Ryan-Hands. Across the face. Ryan-Hands throws-up a little bit and then coughs. He raises his skeletal bicep right up to his mouth and coughs and coughs, right into it, elbow bent and up: pointing at the other two guys.

Jason and Joe say, “Holy Fuck, man. Holy fuck.” They can’t catch their breath.

Ryan-Hands just keeps on coughing.

And then he gasps.

Big breath. Big breath.

The first words out of Ryan-Hands’ mouth are, “Chlorine. So much chlorine. All I taste is chlorine.” His eyes look like that of a dead goldfish. They’re transfixed on the pavement that surrounds the pool.

And then he looks up at his lawn cutting crewmates, ass on the ground, and says, “Thank you. You guys saved my life. Holy shit. I was losing my shit under there, man”

To which Joe responds, “I wonder how fucked that backpack blower is. The Boss is going to be pissed. Those things… those things are so expensive, man. No joke.”

Jason says, “Don’t mention it, man. Try to be more careful next time.”

He eyes the tarp, pushed now to the side of the pool, before adding, “I’m happy you’re not dead.”

Ryan-Hands smiles to himself then, like a kid in a commercial.

He thinks: It is so good to be alive.

Joe gives the starter a pull on the backpack. Somehow, it roars up. It’s good to go. There will be no new expense. And they get back to work.

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