The Clumsy Interloper

EXTERIOR SUNDAY AFTERNOON (SUNNY) – The crescent zero-entry flank of the Washington Park pool is a beacon for tiny feet. They eagerly tromp toward either a mushroom waterfall or a kiddie slide, both fixed in the middle of the pool at shin depth. At three feet a lane marker cordons off little ones from the water-treading mystery of the murkier depths.

Sights from the “People Soup” Kid’s Section:

• Three Hispanic boys, all about 8 years old, wade into the shallows with red mesh shorts and WWE t-shirts matted to flabby bronzed skin.
• Two middle aged women with angular faces chatter away, unencumbered by the splashing play nearby, unclear if any child supervisory responsibility is shared between them.
• A mother chirps saccharine affirmations at her kabuki sunscreen faced toddler. Unmistakable first-child parental energy.  

*

Under a poolside tent was a father in his late 30’s attending to “tween” daughters both cloaked in pink towels. They shared snacks but few words. He wore dark brown Hurley swim trunks that hung snug against his slim build. On his left tricep was a blue Superman tattoo with spidering black deer antlers emerging from behind it. On his right tricep were the stylized letters “ATC” encircled with a coat of arms, something bespoke but still vaguely familiar. His black trucker cap with white script at first glance looked like throwback Oakland Raiders gear, but upon closer inspection the hat read McKevlin’s Surf Shop. It sat high on his head to accommodate a smallish manbun that protruded through the rear opening above the adjustable strap. He looked like a cousin of Josh Brolin, but the one that left Hollywood, became vegetarian and joined the profession frisbee golf tour.

A trim mustache and stout brown tuft of goatee fuzz hung below his chin like a wedged handle. A lightly stubbled neck and cheek nodded to a deliberate design that was manicured daily. He had a hint of a six-pack, but only slight musculature in his arms and chest. His sunglasses reflected a vibrant sea green hue as he sauntered to the pool with a controlled gait, shoulders pinned back, swiveling from the back of the spine. A laconic man with a distracted gaze, he appeared constantly aware of all possible exits for unknown reasons.

Both daughters vied for his attention, orbiting around him in the pool like small moons. They alternated in proximity to the abstracted planet who offered only a halfhearted splash when each would reach periapsis before slingshoting away. Despite a dispassionate expression on his face, this celestial ballet was anchored in love.

*

She left on a Tuesday. He suspected for several months but one afternoon discovered a tryst in progress and all doubts were removed. She hollered at him from the top of the stairs, unrepentant. He drove her to this with his lack of passion, she said. He could neither confirm nor deny this.

He foraged into his reserves and collected custody of the girls in the settlement. His aloofness in the courtroom unsettled his lawyer but, opposite the mercurial mother, played well to the judge. She was in the wrong and he played the role of listless martyr to perfection.

The first night with Dad after the judgment, he made the girls fluffernutter sandwiches with his shirt off and they watched Independence Day. Will Smith dragging an alien across the arid salt flats toward Area 51 was the distraction they all needed in that moment.

Two years since that fateful moment, he still does not possess the warmth of the abiding sun but he still manages to navigate fatherhood with his own gravity.