The Hourglass Pool of the Prince Durwood
At midnight, by the glow of dwarfed pagoda garden lights hidden among the neatly tended ficus, hibiscus and agave, and illuminating the golden undersides of the short palms along the red-tinted concrete paths laid out for strolling the periphery of this private courtyard, the procession, having formed in the brighter and unceremonial light of the property manager’s office, approached the arched walkway that bridges the narrow neck of the pool.
As was customary, Edward, president of the Association for the past five years, led the group up onto the bridge which was long enough to hold most of the assemblage, the rest making deltas at the two ends. Edward allowed some time for the shuffling to subside as he observed the group, a family he had not planned for himself in a place never intended by him for the spending of the second half of his life. He had met a man at a bar while on vacation. That man had brought him home to his studio in this complex. That night had been Edward’s first evening in Fort Lauderdale. First drink in a gay bar. First time with a man. First time swimming naked in a pool the hourglass shape of which convincingly preached the carpe diemization of all men who have paid their cold dues too long and elsewhere. The man who had picked him up was a realtor who had contacted Edward when the next unit became available. He had bought it over the phone and without inspection. Now a handsome fifty year old ex-fireman who had opted for the enviable early retirement feature of his hazardous duty profession, Edward had assembled and acquired every reasonable satisfaction, but love. The strong physique, the silver jarhead and the gentle growl of his Brooklynese had made him a natural leader among the curious blend of residents who were now his charge and his hedge against loneliness.
Forty-six, no, forty-seven, counted Edward. A good turn-out for Carlos, and why not? He had been the popular occupant of 105 for twenty-two years, a good and true friend to everyone in the building. If you were a new arrival, others, following needlessly deferential social conventions, might pass you with a silent nod rather than introduce themselves, but not Carlos. Like a Border Collie, he’d managed to herd everyone in the building into one family, running up to you with a magnificent smile, curious about your origins, eager to show you the laundry room, the bike room, to lend you his powerful arms for the moving of furniture, to help you paint your walls, wearing only cut-offs on your ladder, exposing his gifts to you, to share those gifts with everyone in the building, but never to kiss and tell. He seemed to sense when a resident was despondently out of love, ringing your bell and presenting you with something freshly baked, and staying long enough in your bed to allow some relief from your troubles while cradled in his warm embrace.
“I always thought of him as a doctor. One who made house calls.” Edward spoke first.
“He was an angel”, said Milo, a short stocky painter of flowers who had left behind an unsatisfying Chicago ten years ago.
“That, too, and there is no one among us who will not miss him terribly. He was the heart of the Prince Durwood, and we need to take this moment to remember him.” Edward looked down at the ornate gold-plated chest he held in his hands. Milo, standing beside him, fidgeted with the key, turning it round so that the large amethyst in its filigreed handle caught the underwater light from the pool below.
Others spoke their sweet remembrances of Carlos. There were some tears, and the invoking of the names of others who had passed recently. Charmelle, of 323, who had left Jacques his vintage pink appliances. “Black Anthony” and “White Anthony” of 110 and 214, respectively, who had died in odd coincidence within forty-eight hours of each other.
Edward was about to ask Milo for the key when a commotion broke forth from 130 near the northwest corner of the building.
Five naked young men, spilling out their laughter, ran into the courtyard and jumped into the pool caught up in the type of horseplay fetishized by Abercrombie and Fitch. Edward recognized them. Two were residents, and the other two their frequent guests. They typified what had become the building’s second family, referred to as “The Boys”. They were increasing in number, buying up units on the first day of their listings if not before, and, changing many of the rules of the Association by voting as a block. Here was a case in point.
Until last year’s annual meeting, the scheduling of a memorial service restricted the usage of the courtyard to those participating in the ritual. No swimming, no noise, no disruption until the service was over. The Boys felt this was unfair. What if they were in town for just a week? What if they had guests that night? What if they wanted to party? Why not move the memorials to another time of day, say 7AM, when The Boys were all asleep?
The restriction was abolished, and The Boys prevailed again regarding the “clothing-optional” rules for the courtyard and pool. “The Fixtures”, as The Boys referred to the long-term residents, cherished the clothing-optional freedom that had made the building notorious. Those same Fixtures, realizing many years ago that they were the new majority, had won this right in a battle with the elderly Jewish and Italian couples who were the building’s first residents in the 1960’s. Out of deference to those original residents, and also to allow for the visits of those who might be offended by the sight of naked men passing sections of the newspaper from one poolside chair to the next, the Fixtures had established a “Second Sunday of the Month” suspension of the clothing optional rule. Again, the Boys argued that this exemption was needless, and had gleefully taken their victory obliterating “Cover Up Day” forever.
Jamie, the owner of 130 and a rather flawless and winning twenty-five year old blonde originally from Newburgh, New York, broke away from his three pals and swam underwater to the bridge where he came up for air. His shaggy hair plastered to his neck and forehead gleamed and his sleek limbs shown blue in the pool light as he observed the group on the bridge while treading water. He had owned 130 for two years, and, as is the case with any handsome young fellow who seems not to work, the source of his money was a subject of perennial speculation.
“Who have you got there?”
“If you read the bulletin board, you’d know.” snapped Milo.
Edward intervened. “It’s Carlos. Carlos? Of 105? He was your neighbor.”
“Oh, right. I knew that. I can’t believe that’s him in that little box. I mean just his dick was like three times as big as that box.”
“Yes it was”, said Milo wistfully and easily distracted from his irritation. “Biggest one ever to be seen within these walls.”
“You got that right”, said Jamie with a coy smile. “Gonna miss that man, but you know what they say. God takes one; God makes one.”
Edward sensed that this chat might derail the service. “We’re going to continue. You’re welcomed to join us, but I can see that you have guests.”
“Go ahead”, said Jamie, “I want to stay.”
It became clear to Edward that by “stay”, Jamie did not mean leaving the water to join their group. He simply continued his easy buoyancy below them. Edward held open a hand to receive the key from Milo who fumbled it. The amethyst flashed as the key bounced off the bridge and into the water.
“Not a problem” said Jamie as he arced below the surface with the grace of a dolphin, retrieving the key and popping up with a bright smile. He reached up to Edward who handed the chest to Milo, and on one knee, reached over the bridge to Jamie. Their eyes locked as their fingers met on the key. Their eyes often locked in this manner. In fact, it happened every time they crossed paths. Every time they exchanged hellos. By the mailboxes, by the recycling bins, in the exercise room. Edward, in the silence of his bedroom, often thought about this boy, but never would have believed that on the opposite corner of the building, in the bedroom of a unit that was the flipped floor plan of his own, Jamie often thought about Edward.
“Thanks”, said Edward, standing back up and receiving the chest from Milo. He unlocked it and lifted the lid. He looked down at Jamie. “You might want to move to one side.”
“No. No. Pour it right here.” Jamie indicated the center of his chest. He kicked up higher out of the water, arching his back and throwing out his arms, the short silvery hair tracking down the center of his lean torso and fanning out between his wide spread legs making a harbor for his ivory white penis floating and listing and keeling over as it docked itself on his right thigh. The pool water lapped about this Boy attentively, offering him up to the eyes of the men on the bridge.
Edward hesitated but could see no reason why not to continue. He reached into the chest and took up a handful of ashes. A breeze would have made this difficult, but the warm air was perfectly still, and finally quiet as Jamie’s friends watched silently from a distance.
Edward, extending his arm over the railing, poured out the ashes onto Jamie’s chest. The water swirled over him, accepting and diffusing the grey powder. Jamie closed his eyes, and ran a hand over his chest, lightly touching his nipples as the ashes drifted away from him and filtered down into the depths of the pool. He opened his eyes and smiled up at Edward before making a strong kick and a dive underwater to rejoin his friends.
Edward closed the chest, and the group of mourners dispersed.
As was customary, Edward, president of the Association for the past five years, led the group up onto the bridge which was long enough to hold most of the assemblage, the rest making deltas at the two ends. Edward allowed some time for the shuffling to subside as he observed the group, a family he had not planned for himself in a place never intended by him for the spending of the second half of his life. He had met a man at a bar while on vacation. That man had brought him home to his studio in this complex. That night had been Edward’s first evening in Fort Lauderdale. First drink in a gay bar. First time with a man. First time swimming naked in a pool the hourglass shape of which convincingly preached the carpe diemization of all men who have paid their cold dues too long and elsewhere. The man who had picked him up was a realtor who had contacted Edward when the next unit became available. He had bought it over the phone and without inspection. Now a handsome fifty year old ex-fireman who had opted for the enviable early retirement feature of his hazardous duty profession, Edward had assembled and acquired every reasonable satisfaction, but love. The strong physique, the silver jarhead and the gentle growl of his Brooklynese had made him a natural leader among the curious blend of residents who were now his charge and his hedge against loneliness.
Forty-six, no, forty-seven, counted Edward. A good turn-out for Carlos, and why not? He had been the popular occupant of 105 for twenty-two years, a good and true friend to everyone in the building. If you were a new arrival, others, following needlessly deferential social conventions, might pass you with a silent nod rather than introduce themselves, but not Carlos. Like a Border Collie, he’d managed to herd everyone in the building into one family, running up to you with a magnificent smile, curious about your origins, eager to show you the laundry room, the bike room, to lend you his powerful arms for the moving of furniture, to help you paint your walls, wearing only cut-offs on your ladder, exposing his gifts to you, to share those gifts with everyone in the building, but never to kiss and tell. He seemed to sense when a resident was despondently out of love, ringing your bell and presenting you with something freshly baked, and staying long enough in your bed to allow some relief from your troubles while cradled in his warm embrace.
“I always thought of him as a doctor. One who made house calls.” Edward spoke first.
“He was an angel”, said Milo, a short stocky painter of flowers who had left behind an unsatisfying Chicago ten years ago.
“That, too, and there is no one among us who will not miss him terribly. He was the heart of the Prince Durwood, and we need to take this moment to remember him.” Edward looked down at the ornate gold-plated chest he held in his hands. Milo, standing beside him, fidgeted with the key, turning it round so that the large amethyst in its filigreed handle caught the underwater light from the pool below.
Others spoke their sweet remembrances of Carlos. There were some tears, and the invoking of the names of others who had passed recently. Charmelle, of 323, who had left Jacques his vintage pink appliances. “Black Anthony” and “White Anthony” of 110 and 214, respectively, who had died in odd coincidence within forty-eight hours of each other.
Edward was about to ask Milo for the key when a commotion broke forth from 130 near the northwest corner of the building.
Five naked young men, spilling out their laughter, ran into the courtyard and jumped into the pool caught up in the type of horseplay fetishized by Abercrombie and Fitch. Edward recognized them. Two were residents, and the other two their frequent guests. They typified what had become the building’s second family, referred to as “The Boys”. They were increasing in number, buying up units on the first day of their listings if not before, and, changing many of the rules of the Association by voting as a block. Here was a case in point.
Until last year’s annual meeting, the scheduling of a memorial service restricted the usage of the courtyard to those participating in the ritual. No swimming, no noise, no disruption until the service was over. The Boys felt this was unfair. What if they were in town for just a week? What if they had guests that night? What if they wanted to party? Why not move the memorials to another time of day, say 7AM, when The Boys were all asleep?
The restriction was abolished, and The Boys prevailed again regarding the “clothing-optional” rules for the courtyard and pool. “The Fixtures”, as The Boys referred to the long-term residents, cherished the clothing-optional freedom that had made the building notorious. Those same Fixtures, realizing many years ago that they were the new majority, had won this right in a battle with the elderly Jewish and Italian couples who were the building’s first residents in the 1960’s. Out of deference to those original residents, and also to allow for the visits of those who might be offended by the sight of naked men passing sections of the newspaper from one poolside chair to the next, the Fixtures had established a “Second Sunday of the Month” suspension of the clothing optional rule. Again, the Boys argued that this exemption was needless, and had gleefully taken their victory obliterating “Cover Up Day” forever.
Jamie, the owner of 130 and a rather flawless and winning twenty-five year old blonde originally from Newburgh, New York, broke away from his three pals and swam underwater to the bridge where he came up for air. His shaggy hair plastered to his neck and forehead gleamed and his sleek limbs shown blue in the pool light as he observed the group on the bridge while treading water. He had owned 130 for two years, and, as is the case with any handsome young fellow who seems not to work, the source of his money was a subject of perennial speculation.
“Who have you got there?”
“If you read the bulletin board, you’d know.” snapped Milo.
Edward intervened. “It’s Carlos. Carlos? Of 105? He was your neighbor.”
“Oh, right. I knew that. I can’t believe that’s him in that little box. I mean just his dick was like three times as big as that box.”
“Yes it was”, said Milo wistfully and easily distracted from his irritation. “Biggest one ever to be seen within these walls.”
“You got that right”, said Jamie with a coy smile. “Gonna miss that man, but you know what they say. God takes one; God makes one.”
Edward sensed that this chat might derail the service. “We’re going to continue. You’re welcomed to join us, but I can see that you have guests.”
“Go ahead”, said Jamie, “I want to stay.”
It became clear to Edward that by “stay”, Jamie did not mean leaving the water to join their group. He simply continued his easy buoyancy below them. Edward held open a hand to receive the key from Milo who fumbled it. The amethyst flashed as the key bounced off the bridge and into the water.
“Not a problem” said Jamie as he arced below the surface with the grace of a dolphin, retrieving the key and popping up with a bright smile. He reached up to Edward who handed the chest to Milo, and on one knee, reached over the bridge to Jamie. Their eyes locked as their fingers met on the key. Their eyes often locked in this manner. In fact, it happened every time they crossed paths. Every time they exchanged hellos. By the mailboxes, by the recycling bins, in the exercise room. Edward, in the silence of his bedroom, often thought about this boy, but never would have believed that on the opposite corner of the building, in the bedroom of a unit that was the flipped floor plan of his own, Jamie often thought about Edward.
“Thanks”, said Edward, standing back up and receiving the chest from Milo. He unlocked it and lifted the lid. He looked down at Jamie. “You might want to move to one side.”
“No. No. Pour it right here.” Jamie indicated the center of his chest. He kicked up higher out of the water, arching his back and throwing out his arms, the short silvery hair tracking down the center of his lean torso and fanning out between his wide spread legs making a harbor for his ivory white penis floating and listing and keeling over as it docked itself on his right thigh. The pool water lapped about this Boy attentively, offering him up to the eyes of the men on the bridge.
Edward hesitated but could see no reason why not to continue. He reached into the chest and took up a handful of ashes. A breeze would have made this difficult, but the warm air was perfectly still, and finally quiet as Jamie’s friends watched silently from a distance.
Edward, extending his arm over the railing, poured out the ashes onto Jamie’s chest. The water swirled over him, accepting and diffusing the grey powder. Jamie closed his eyes, and ran a hand over his chest, lightly touching his nipples as the ashes drifted away from him and filtered down into the depths of the pool. He opened his eyes and smiled up at Edward before making a strong kick and a dive underwater to rejoin his friends.
Edward closed the chest, and the group of mourners dispersed.
posted by Father Tony of the Farmboyz at 11:39 AM
3 Comments:
a brilliant vignette sir!
You have a way of making it virtually impossible to be sad, even about the saddest of things.
More please.
The span of a lifetime exists in this microcosm: Jamie, Edward, Carlos. The family created in the Prince Durwood progresses through the stages; and, as Jamie says, "God takes one, God makes one." Time moves through this hourglass. Simply lovely slice of life that begs rereading.
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