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writegirl@altavista.com
Hello To All Future Lifeguards,
Here’s the TRUTH:
My beach wasn’t anything like “Baywatch.”
The Midwest beach, creamy-colored sand, deep and wide was flanked by the elegant red palladium-bricked Riveria, a 1930s Chicago gangster dancing palace, a towered brick structure jutting out into the lake, docks and long piers shooting out, a mermaids fingers, and Wrigley Drive named after the chewing-gum baron. the public library, a Frank Lloyd Wright long-slung building sitting above the beach on a grass knoll.
To be a lifeguard was a plum. A huge prize reserved for the children of the well-to-do. We vied like crazy for it...did laps, learned CPR, took lifeguard lessons. Two chairs on the Riv, another two in Fontana, one at Linn Pier. We all wanted to wear that red suit.
The summer of 1991 was mine. I nailed it. I won.
It was one of my worse jobs. Endless sitting, quick dips only, a white nose, watching children whose mothers cared more about than tanline than their offspring, “NO INFLATIBLES ON THE BEACH”, learning special techniques for getting rid of hairy, older men, blowing the whistle at teen boys roughhousing on the piers “NO RUNNING ON THE PIERS”, telling stoopid peeps “NO DOGS ALLOWED ON THE BEACH” (duh), basically getting everyone in the world to hate me because I was in charge, I was the evil teacher, I was boss. It sucked.
And guess how many peeps I saved? Zero.
That’s me,
ZeroHero