Shit, late again, she thinks, weaving her way through an obstacle course of lounge
chairs, already scattered about for the day’s early arrivals. The sweet smell
of sunscreen assaults her senses as she sidesteps a mound of beach umbrellas
yet to be deployed.
A mom kneeling on a red plaid
blanket slathers a little boy with white goo, the kid looks unimpressed. To her
right, two more little angels sit blubbering as they wait the prescribed 15
minutes for the lotion to absorb into their delicate white skin. For most of
these families a day at the beach is a once a year perk of working for a big
corporation and a painful sunburn is a perennial souvenir.
Just make it through the day, Bets, she thinks as she approaches her station. An over-sized armchair
is perched on top of a three meter metallic pole that’s as thick as a tree
trunk. It curves out at the
bottom like a bar stool in a diner and riveted to a concrete base with bolts as
big as her fist. The sour taste of what passes for gin in the New Coast coats
her tongue and she yearns for coffee, water, hell anything wet and
non-alcoholic.
A metal platform, two meters square
with a handrail on either side rests on the concrete below the chair. Betsy
steps one sandaled foot tentatively onto the gleaming surface and grabs the
rail on her right.
The platform lurches up towards the
chair with a loud whine, leaving Betsy’s stomach back on the ground. Arch your back, she thinks
absentmindedly. Straighten
your left leg and point your toe. Remember girls, a lifeguard always looks her
best!
The boarding routine is second
nature to her by now. This is not her first season working in the Beach Dome
and her training resonates in her thoughts, despite her nagging hangover. An
orange plastic flotation device swings from the opposite rail as she comes to a
sudden stop at the foot of the chair. Betsy turns, facing the water and slowly
surveys her section.
Fifty meters of shoreline on either
side of her chair, beyond that more chairs and more sections. One and two on
her left and sections four to ten on her right, a kilometer of beach and ten
lifeguards to keep it safe. Only a few swimmers are in the water. It’s early
yet. A line of floating white buoys marks the end of shallow bathing area and
two hundred meters of crystal clear water beyond.
A perfect blue sky is projected onto
the ceiling of the dome twenty meters above her. Two fluffy white clouds float
by on a continuous loop, one big, one small. They’re old friends. Tiny waves
lap rhythmically on the sandy shore. Ocean sounds play in the background of a
canned music soundtrack that she knows by heart. Ancient surfing tunes from a
bygone era.
“If everybody had an ocean, across
the USA….,” Creepy how shit
comes true, she thinks. They
had no idea what was coming.
She tilts her head back and removes
a pair dark, over-sized sunglasses. Eyes closed, her tanned face drinks in the
soothing heat from the artificial sun. She had never actually seen the sun,
artificial or otherwise, before she landed the job here two summers ago. A low
ceiling of drab, grey, clouds, delivering constant drizzle having obscured the
real sun from view for generations.
One day of artificial sunlight every year
is a pleasure reserved for wealthy or well-connected families. Twenty-four
hours in a luxury hotel and a family day- pass to the beach dome is something
she could only dream of as a child. Landing a job at the beach was like winning
the sweeps, though today she doesn’t feel especially lucky to be here.
The echo of electronic dance music
tethers her consciousness to the night before, her shift at the club lasting
until the wee hours. It was quiet, only one customer all night but he just
refused to leave! An older guy with dark, grey-flecked hair and weathered skin,
different than the usual corporate assholes that frequented the place. This guy
was well-dressed but made of a courser material. Something about him said, I’ve
been on the road for a while, travelling, searching perhaps. He kept buying gin
shots, rounds of two,
“I
don’t like to drink alone,” he said.
She had a feeling that alone was
often the case however. She kept up with him shot for shot, waiting for the
inevitable pick up line. It never came. He just sat there, dark mahogany eyes
staring into her soul, asking the occasional question.
Not the ones she usually got
from tourists, husbands painting the town red, wives back at the hotel bedded
down with the kiddies. Questions directed at her chest, always beginning with
so. So… what’s your name sweetie? So… who do you have to screw to get a drink
around here?
Flashing her pearly whites, her
well-rehearsed answers never missed a beat. No, these questions were more
personal but at the same time careful not to cross the line, a friendly
interrogation. Good cop and bad cop combined.
The screech of a nonexistent seagull
drives an ice pick of pain into her skull. I
hate that damn gull, she thinks as she takes her chair. It’s going to be a long day.
She presses her hand, palm down, on
the touch-screen that’s attached to her left arm rest.
“Elizabeth Munroe,” she says in a
monotone voice.
The console emits a musical chime
and replies, “Elizabeth Monroe, section three, lifeguard,” in a pleasant female
voice, “Time, oh eight hundred plus ten minutes, we currently have fifty nine
days without a fatality. Have a nice day!”
The words fifty-nine are in a different voice. Male,
digital sounding, missing the whole point of the message, the updated number is
automatically inserted at the beginning at each day provided a family didn’t
return to the capitol minus one, the day before.
“Yeah whatever,” she says.
A slow trickle of tourists all
searching for the perfect spot on the beach begins to fan out across the sand.
A line of palm trees separates the beach from the Midway. Concession stands
running along the rear wall of the dome offer food, drinks, beach toys, even
t-shirts with a picture of your favourite life guard on the front, all to be
had at sky-high prices.
An arcade overflowing with privileged teens plays top
forty at ear splitting decibels. Pubescent boys wearing tank tops and identical
haircuts flex and preen before girls in microscopic sun dresses. The churning
mass of hormones spills onto the boardwalk in front, the remainder spends their
parent’s hard-earned wages on virtual entertainment inside.
Her touch screen chimes again and
then flickers. The face of a girl appears. Smiling, tanned, early twenties,
same sunglasses.
“Hey Bets,” she says, “late again,
huh? What time did you work till last night?” she asks, not waiting for a
reply. “You we’re still serving that guy when I left. Creep?”
Betsy finally gets a word in
edgewise, “No, he was alright,” she says. “Good tipper.”
Charlie, also a lifeguard by day,
bartender by night is the closest thing she has to a best friend on the coast.
“My table left pretty early,” she
says. “Three rounds of shots, a round grab-ass, and then straight home to
mommy!”
Charlie drags a knowing smile out of
Betsy. Dealing diplomatically with drunk, horny patrons is part of the job
description at the club. It’s a little hard to get used to at first but not a
bad deal when you consider the tips.
A voice crackles over the PA system
accompanied by a loud fanfare.
“Welcome to The Beach Dome, ladies
and gentlemen, brought to you by Phoenix Corporation and The New Coast Visitors
Board.”
Another cheesy fanfare and then the
same voice,
“It’s time to introduce our
lifeguards!”
***
Dean Manton is a freelance
writer and real estate broker from Guelph Ontario. A contributor to the Guelph
Review community newspaper, his bi-weekly column is called Real Estate with
Dean. As a retired chef, he spends a good portion of his time creating decadent
meals for his wife and two daughters. His interests in sustainable food include
urban chicken ranching and gardening. Dean explores all things real estate in
his blog, www.guelphblog.ca
See
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