One Person, Please

Jordin arrived at the Memorial Park pool with one goal and one goal only. She was going to go down the red slide.

Yes, the very one. The 20-foot-tall red slide that dropped into the deepest end and had a lifeguard stationed at the top.

Jordin fidgeted with the zipper of her swim bag as the bus neared a corner. She was trying to forget how her brother described the guy who passed out on his way down. Like, fully conked. Like, his head looked like it was on a string. And the slide at Memorial Park is so tall that the air pressure can mess you up and you get so dizzy that your brain freezes and you just fall asleep. Did you know there are dead bodies on Mount Everest?

Her rubber flip-flops smacked against the tile floor as she rehearsed the speech she'd given her parents.

In yesteryears, Jordin might have asked her brother to order food for her at the pool and ducked behind him while he spoke to the teenagers posted at the concession stand. But he wasn't there today. He had baseball practice on the same day Jordin had finally worked up the courage to climb the 20-foot ladder.

If he wasn't there, she was sure she'd get by. She just used the resources (her older brother) available when present (most days at the pool.) But when those resources were absent (baseball was on Thursdays) she was perfectly capable of being grown-up (asking for water and chips alone.) Like, so capable. Like, watch me right now tell the guy I want one water. Like, actually watch me. Are you actually watching? See, that was good, right?

Jordin scraped her nail across the teeth of the zipper. She looked up and saw Frank. He was sitting at the picnic table by the front door of the poolhouse. A deli bag sat in his lap, and he met her eyes for approximately one second.

Everything Jordin knew about Frank depended on how much she believed her brother that day. He was a devil worshipper. A cannibal, too. Probably responsible for some murders a few years before he moved here. Jordin could never decide how much she believed her brother.

She stood behind six people in line at the poolhouse. Six people, and she could perform her practiced routine, the very lines that sat deep in the folds of her brain: “One person, please.” Then she would hold out a $10 bill for admission. “Thank you very much.” Then toward the women's locker room.

Frank moved his legs so his knees weren't under the picnic table and continued tossing bread crumbs. He looked nice. He wore a button-up shirt and a cardigan, and in 80-degree heat Jordin thought he looked a little like he was melting. But evil, devil-worshipping men probably didn't feed birds. Jordin knew she was a little silly to decide that all “evil” people might look and act the same but, like, come on. What kind of bad person feeds wild animals at a park?

Jordin was behind five people now.

Frank was picking apart day-old bread from the local grocer, the thin paper crinkling as his hand delved deep into the bag. This, what she saw Frank doing right now, was a thing that kind old men did. They fed birds. They had warm faces. They made small talk.Not that Jordin would have any idea if Frank liked small talk. She'd never spoken to him. And he certainly looked warm, sitting outside at noon. 

Four people.

Frank tossed another crumb to the ground and watched the pigeons bob like aquatic corks. His face was scrunched up. His skin contracted, and the wrong kind of wrinkles fixed themselves into his mug. Frank looked down at the birds and stared. He sort of looked like the birds were stealing his bread instead of him handing it out willingly. Maybe he'd been cursed years ago to feed them every day. Was he getting closer?

Three.

Jordin was sure Frank was closer to her. But she was safe inside the chlorine-stenched poolhouse. The attendants behind each desk, taking each $10, were sure to become bodyguards if anything happened. And if anything, she could just run.

She knew to have her wallet ready when there were two people in front of her. To be prepared but not dweebish. Equipped but not a geek.

She wanted to thumb at the $10 bill, feel its papery weight against her pointer finger. She'd pretend its original paper once belonged to a prince, once reinstated a promise that meant life or death.

Two people.

Jordin reached into her shorts pocket. She flinched when her fingers hit the sheer corner. Empty. She swung her swim bag around her shoulder and fumbled open the zipper to the front pocket. Empty. Side pocket. Other side pocket. Empty, empty. The tiny pocket at the top, which could only hold a ChapStick at most but might, just might, contain a crumpled $10 bill. Empty.

One person.

Jordin felt her face grow hot. The veins in her neck sprouted thorns, and her eyes pumped tiny bullets from their corners. She was next in line. Maybe they'd see her crying and let her in for free just this once? The man behind the counter called for her at the same time Jordin was poking her fingers through each pocket once more, just to check that maybe, just in case, she'd missed something. He did not look like he'd let her in for free just this once.

There were maybe 10 steps between the front of the line and the desk Jordin was walking toward. Each tile may as well have had an explosive hidden underneath and extended at least 120 feet.

So you can imagine Jordin's excitement when she heard someone ask, “Do you need $10?”

And you can imagine Jordin's eyes breaking open like a sunrise when that voice behind her belonged to Frank. His face was still a little scrunched up. In one hand was the empty bread bag and his other was outstretched. Holding a $10 bill.

“I saw your bus drive away,” he said, holding out the bill. “You left your wallet.”

Jordin grabbed the $10. “Thank you very much.” Then toward the women's locker room.