In
big and small drops, the pool water splashes into my face as
I jump in feet first. I have no idea and I have no
indication that I am 2,000 meters away from the start of
complication, but I do know that I came to this Friday night
practice to address a challenge -- Coach Ryan’s request for
my presence.
Standing in the shallow end,
I lower my head into the water and feel it grab my coarse
brown hair, flooding it with freshness and a cool relief
deserved after a long workday. Thirty minutes ago I was
bound to a desk, strangled with a half Windsor and a purple
herringbone button down. Now, as I kick off the wall and
begin my 400-meter warm up, the water slides over my body
without restriction, natural. As I stretch my arms out, I
feel the blue current swivel under my palms, touch my
triceps and under arms, sweep across my twisting abdominals,
and glide over my quads toward my toes. As I complete the
warm up and come to a still position, the excited water
begins to settle and as I remove my black goggles, I see
him.
A nod hello. That’s my
style.
Yesterday he challenged me, I
think. “Here I am,” I project without words. He has to make
the move. That’s my style.
Friday night practices are
not coached and swimmers are free to focus on anything they
choose. As I contemplate Coach Ryan’s next move, I choose to
focus on alternate breathing as well as breathing on both my
right and left sides. Thus, for the first 50 meters, I will
breathe every three strokes. For the second 50 meters, I
will breathe every five strokes, and for the third 50 meters
I will attempt to breathe every seven strokes. According to
the coaches, this will increase my stamina.
A 50-meter swim turns into
2,000 meters and I find myself completing another practice.
Still without word from Coach Ryan, who himself has logged
in many laps, I make my way to the locker room with the
belief that Coach Ryan would soon follow.
Without more than three
minutes passing, he enters the locker room. Coach Ryan’s
pink-lipped smile reacts with my skin and I find goose bumps
on my arms and chest and there is an excitement in my gut
and a chill in the air from the cool of night or perhaps it
is the nervous chill of coming closer to him. It is like the
second before you taste honey; the intoxication of sweetness
to come is more potent than the honey itself.
His confidence intoxicates
me, but I remain firm: he must make the first move. That’s
my style. The moments begin to fade as we all shower away
the final minutes of this Friday night practice and I wonder
what he will choose to do next.
“You’ve got a great body. You
look good in your Speedo,” Coach Ryan says.
“Thank you,” I respond.
“You’re welcome,” Coach Ryan
says as he turns his back toward the shower, closes his eyes
and sinks his head into the pulsating warm water while I
watch it drip over his chest and swimsuit. Alternate
breathing, streamline, backstroke and the world of swimming
are distant. In this moment, thoughts of being yelled at and
declarations of wanting to be a jock or swimmer are
unimportant. Coach Ryan now becomes just Ryan.
I keep to my style and rinse
off the chlorine from my own body without creating more
words. As we all proceed to the benches to dry off and
change, I prepare mentally for my 30-minute drive home on
the 110 and the 101. In this process, I am interrupted and
confronted.
“I’m making dinner for us
tonight and I’ve got plenty of food. Do you want to join
us?” Ryan asks.
His challenge has turned into
a solid invitation and in the brief moment I have to think,
I focus on the “us” portion of his question. My presumptuous
conclusion is that he's talking about a roommate. I reply,
“I’d love to.”
This is not my style. This is
my first thought as I walk into Ryan’s apartment. Your first
thought, your instinct, in my experience, is generally
correct, but when a cute young man commands the stage, one’s
rationality is not always present. The admiration of beauty
and the adoration of a seemingly perfect image can blind you
even when sirens blare and lights flash. In this moment, I
choose to ignore my instincts and the signs of complication.
Focused on Ryan, I ignore his
ugly dog. Focused on Ryan, I step over dirty laundry and
strewn pillows. Focused on Ryan, I glance over a week or
more of dirty dishes. Focused on Ryan, I miss the clue that
there was only one bed for two.
Too focused to see.
I sit next to Ryan on his
green velour couch and like a good All-American suburban
boy, Ryan “nonchalantly” stretches his arm across my
shoulders.
Oh lord, I think.
I look at his pink-lipped
smile and it appears mischievous. He then leans in and asks,
“What do you think about two plus one?”
I am not proficient in math.
Oh, I think. Oh … And the
image crashes.
That’s not my style.
Keith Davis lives
in Los Angeles.
March 22,
2006
