The Green Lagoon, Part 2

The Green Lagoon, Part 2

Quentin Smeltzer, SmeltzerNation 7/18/10

As the first installment of this saga closed, our pool was lime green, our local pool store had refused to sell me chemicals and young girls were paying no attention to me, unless they needed directions. 

While my wife was happy with the third development, she was skeptical of the second, and extremely displeased with the first. 

We began soliciting advice: lots and lots of advice.  People may be reticent to discuss sex, politics and religion, but ask them about your pool problem and there is no shutting them up.  Everyone in America—and I mean everyone—is a pool maintenance expert. 

Most of the advice can be distilled to this:  shock the crap out of it.  And so I did, venturing out onto the back deck night after night to wave bag after bag of pool shock into the murky waters.  Each morning I awoke and—like a middle-class American praying for good things from Republican policies—crept to the window and peered out, expecting to see our sparking blue pool again.  Only to see:  coast of Louisiana, summer of 2010. 

My cheapness is legendary, at least around here, and so I began to perform calculations in my head.  Let’s see, dumping forty dollars of shock into the pool, every night, all summer long, versus hiring someone to do this right…  I needed quotes from local pool experts to complete the math.

I started calling and soon discovered that pool maintenance is one of those professions which, like plumbing or politics, requires no response to their customer base.  No one picks up the phone, only answering machines.  Fifty percent of the outfits I contacted never returned my call. 

Of those that did, most did not want to come over.  They preferred to give advice that can be distilled to this:  shock the crap out of it.

One local, eager beaver was ready to jump in, so to speak.  His name was Joe from Mike’s Pool Maintenance, or Mike from Joe’s Pool Maintenance.  Since my name is Quentin, any name less exotic than Winthrop or Dakota really doesn’t register with me.  I apologize. 

Anyway Joe said he would come over after one P.M.  One turned to two, turned to three, and then four.  I was beginning to believe this was yet another sign from God, as I am sure God closely monitors the condition of my swimming pool.  When all of a sudden Joe appeared in a chromed-out, full- sized, glossy, black Hummer. 

“What kind of mileage does that thing get,” I asked.  “Five?”

“Seven,” replied Joe, somewhat defensively.  “Look, if I had to worry about the cost of gas, I wouldn’t drive it.”

Sounded reasonable enough.  It also made me wonder why my high school guidance counselor never mentioned “pool boy” as the ideal occupation for me.  I never even knew it was an option!

It also made me wonder how much Joe might charge me.  One hundred and fifty dollars, plus chemicals, was the answer.  Good enough.  When can we get started?

Joe said I would see him tomorrow, Saturday.  Great, I thought, watching eighty-five thousand dollars worth of gas-guzzling, chromed-out, social irresponsibility disappear down my driveway.  This has to turn out well… doesn’t it?

To be continued…