“Don’t Run”

That’s what I say to the kids running around my stand. It’s hot today, so the pool is more crowded than usual, and my throat is more sore in unison. “Don’t run” I call out to the children, those stupid, petulant youths who refuse to heed my warning. They keep running.

It is 2:00 PM, so I’ve only got two hours left of my grueling 4-hour shift. I shouldn’t have hit my wax pen in the bathroom, I think. I look out at the masses and try not to think about any of the parents staring at me.

“Don’t Run,” I yell at an elderly man, chasing after his grandson with a bathing suit the little gremlin somehow squirmed out of. The man ignores me. Or maybe he just can’t hear me, he is pretty old after all.

The kid is laughing as he runs. But like young Icarus flying too close to the sun, the child miscalculates a wet spot on the ground and slips. The scowling grandfather catches him. The child begins to cry. That’s why you don’t run, I think knowingly.

I sit back in my seat. It’s this crappy plastic chair and the front left leg is slightly shorter than the others. The chair tilts back slightly as I shift my weight. God, my life is miserable, I think. I pull my phone out and try to scroll through Instagram without the woman to my left noticing. She’s already floated some backhanded comments my way, and I’ve noticed she’s been clearing her throat more than the average person should.

I am contemplating applying another layer of sunscreen, SPF 70 of course, since skin cancer is the primary killer of poolside lifeguards when a hubbub from the pool drives me out of my reverie.

There appears to be a person drowning. 

Immediately the aforementioned problem-woman is getting on my case with the usual bullshit, “You need to do something!” “Don’t just stand there!!” You know the drill.

I stand up from my seat and survey the situation. This is what I see: A middle-aged man drowning in the middle of the pool. I assume he was walking in the shallow end and the current swept him into the depths. Very embarrassing.

Time to take control of the situation.

“Ma’am,” I say with authority, “I am not allowed to make contact with anybody in the pool,”

“What?!” she says —like an idiot.

“I signed a waiver when I was hired, I am not allowed to attempt to save anyone,” I reply, then I add; “Sorry about that.”

“So, what can you do?” she asks.

At this point, I am very annoyed with her. With the whole situation. Really, I’m just annoyed in general, it was 3:30, and I was supposed to be going home soon. In fact, if I am being completely honest, I had already checked out mentally.

“I can tell people not to run,” I say, no longer looking at her.

At that very moment, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. A blur. A flash.

Running.

The excitement of the moment finally gets to me, I bolt out of my seat like a streak of lightning and spot my target. A large man is running, nay sprinting towards the pool.

I breathe deep, ignoring the strain from my weed-oil-soaked lungs. Cup my hands around my mouth, and yell, “NOOOO RUNNINNGGG!!!!”

The man pauses for a split second, glances up at me in confusion, then continues onwards even faster before diving into the pool towards the drowning man. 

Diving isn’t allowed either, but clearly nobody is listening to me. 

Ultimately the running man pulled the drowning guy out of the pool. Saved his life supposedly. All I know is that he broke the rules. One of these days those fools will learn.

Running kills.