Photo by alh1 on Flickr
Ed could smell the chlorine from the other side of the street. He stumbled through the haze, eyes burning. As he made his way to the courtyard of the condo, men in hazmat suits marched past him.
The “Olympic-sized infinity pool” was barely visible in the thick, green mist. The whole scene looked more like the aftermath of some nuclear disaster than the site of a luxury resort.
He had hoped to have a relaxing day in his room—perhaps a poolside Martini—before his conference. It wasn't looking promising.
“What’s going on?” he asked the receptionist, a woman with acrylic red nails and thick blue eyeshadow that formed creases in her eyelids.
“Cleaning day,” she said without glancing up from her phone. She scrolled with one hand while eating a Hostess cupcake with the other. He shuddered to think of what the interior of her nails looked like.
It was clear this conversation wasn’t going anywhere.
“This isn’t what I was expecting,” said Ed. “I would like a refund.”
The nail paused midair. The woman looked up from her phone for the first time.
“Give me three compelling reasons,” she said, staring him straight in the eye.
“What is this, some sort of debate?” Ed sighed. “Come on, just give me the refund, please. Then you can get back to whatever it was you were doing.”
“Trust me,” she said. “I have all the time in the world.”
“Fine.” Ed returned her stony gaze. “Number one. This is not an infinity pool, and it is not Olympic sized either. Barely bigger than a kiddie pool. So, this is clearly false advertising. Two. These creepy men in weird suits — they’re everywhere! How am I possibly going to get any peace and quiet? And finally.” He motioned to the haze. “This! What is this, Chernobyl?”
“I’m sorry,” she said dryly, shaking her head. “Not good enough, Mr. Williamson.”
“Fine.” He threw up his hands in defeat. Nevermind how she knew his name. “Keep the goddamn money! I’m getting the hell out of here.”
As he pushed open the door, he heard her say, “I’m afraid that’s not possible. Not right now.”
Now the chlorine mist completely obscured his vision. It had also thickened, taking on a slimy texture. He felt like he was wading through some sort of marsh.
The smell of mildew became so overwhelming he could barely breathe. Faces appeared in the green mist. Mrs. Dupnard, his fourth-grade music teacher. Mr. Bruntson, his old neighbor from childhood with all the peacocks.
The ground gave beneath him, and he realized he was sinking into the pool. Only instead of water, it was filled with the oozy mist from above. As he sunk, he thought of all the descriptions surrounding the moments leading up to death, like “his life flashed before his eyes” and the “tunnel of white light.”
This was nothing like that. It contained neither the drama nor the finality. Instead, it was more like he had reached the end of the line, and now he was left to molder away in some Mason jar of past experiences, never to experience anything new again.
Three compelling reasons. It was time to, as they say, put his thinking cap on. It would have to do, since he had no swim cap.
"Think, Ed, think."
He hadn't been called upon to do this type of thinking in a long time. Sure, his job involved thinking, but it was the kind associated with forms and protocols, with predictable outcomes. Like a conditional statement: plug in x, out comes y.
This scenario, on the other hand, was not predictable. And the stakes were much higher.
Slowly, though, he began to relax. This wasn't a race. He had all the time in the world.
However, breathing was becoming increasingly difficult.
This is my entry for @mariannewest's 5 Minute Freewrite. The suggested prompt (highlighted in bold) is "debate."
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