Liquid Plummer

A Commentary on the American Nightmare: Diary of the Unemployed: The Early Years Part 4

So what started off as a power struggle and feelings of contempt between us and Vick, soon turned into all out war.

We were loud, annoying little brats, constantly cussing and making entirely too much noise. He was a middle aged, washed out loser, forced to take a lifeguard job at an apartment complex to subsidize his tenure as douche bag extraordinaire on the disco scene, which was in fashion at the time.

Eventually these two worlds would not tolerate each other and the situation became volatile.

It all came to a head one summer day that started off like any other. Me and my pals headed to the pool for another day of aquatic bliss. Vick was there, of course, and we were engaged in our usual activities of one water game or another.

I can’t recollect exactly how it all came about but I think I got put out of the pool a couple of times during the day for swearing. Somewhere along the line, I ended up getting kicked out completely for the day or maybe even a week. I can’t remember exactly.

I do remember being extremely angry for my imposed banishment and decided to have the last word with Vick on my way out.

I’m not sure what it was that I said exactly that got under his skin, but the next thing I knew he was off of his lounge chair coming around the pool towards the entrance gate.

I remember walking up the stairs into the parking lot, towel in hand, still spewing vulgarities, not convinced he was actually going to follow me. The next thing I know he’s opening the gate, pursuing me up the stairs.

I had made it up to the parking lot and was looking back at him over my left shoulder as I was walking away.

Still not relenting my campaign of verbal assaults, Vick had decided he’d had enough and the next thing I knew he’d grabbed my left arm from behind. I don’t know what he was intending to do but it scared me ,and I think I went into kind of a survival mode reaction. This guy was a grown man and I was nine years old. I still remember the feeling that something was just not right about a grown man grabbing a little kid.

Filled with fear, anger and hatred, I spun around in an instant, grabbing my towel off my shoulder slinging it at him so that it whipped around his body causing the tip, still wet from a day of swimming, to rip into his side with enough energy and snap to compare to any lashing roman soldiers inflicted on the condemned.

Startled and wincing from the sting, Vick flew into a rage. As his eyes bulged out of his head, he lunged at me, and I barely escaped his grasp as I quickly maneuvered away, running into the parking lot, then down the long corridor of stairs that separated two of the apartment buildings. Dashing down the stairs two at a time I reached the bottom and turned to ascertain the whereabouts of my pursuer. He was still chasing me, that’s for sure, but a more pathetic sight I have yet to witness. Vick was only halfway down the stairs, still fuming with rage, spewing threats of bodily harm, as his overage, overweight, over-tanned body, still glistening from the baby oil, struggled to navigate the levels of dissension like an elderly woman suffering from dementia with a hip on the mend.

I actually began laughing out loud at this sight. I decided to put one more nail in his coffin of indignity and with one final barrage of insults I retreated back to my apartment. I won the battle for now, the winner of the war was soon to be decided.


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