The Story of Josh Part Thirty Seven … Water Water Everywhere!
I have been away for awhile and apparently my current therapist has become too busy with his “Shooting Schedule” … whatever the fuck that is. So I was walking down the street with the sun rapidly setting and trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do when the van pulled up. It was covered in green and blue paint with red lettering. For a second I wondered if the side door was going to be thrown open and a couple of rapy looking guys wearing rubber gloves were going to offer me candy and a hand job whether I wanted them and not. But when the door did open there was a homey looking interior and four teenagers and a big brown dog with a blue collar.
They look really familiar to me and I rack my brains unsuccessfully to remember where I know them from.
They offered me a ride and considering that the sky looked like it was going to burst open and dump buckets of water on me I accepted. We settled in without wearing seat belts in rebellious defiance of the laws of the land. I thought could smell the distinct aroma of The Pot but it was faint and did not bother me. There were two guys and two girls in the van with me and they seemed like a laid back bunch. When they asked me why I was on the road I told them that I was looking for a new therapist and needed to clear my head.
They got a strange look on their faces and then huddled up for a few minutes.
I swear that the fucking dog was even talking.
When they broke their little huddle they as a group offered to hear what I had to say. I had to consider the offer carefully, the last time that I had talked to more than one therapist they had tried to kill me. But I needed to keep getting the story out so I relented and began to talk.
I swear the fucking dog was listening intently …
As always this is a therapy session and the doctor, or doctors in this instance, is in.
The defiance that my teenage daughter has been showing me lately, fighting me at every turn whether it is detrimental to her or not, reminded me of this story that I am about to tell you. I sometimes, ok all the fucking time, think that Chrissy is the kid I would have been if I had not been such a terrified kid. If everything had not terrified me and I had not felt so isolated from everyone else I might have been like her. My daughter says things that I remember thinking when I was a kid but would never have dared allowed to slip from my lips. I hate it when she does it but secretly in my heart of hearts I am proud of her. She fears almost nothing and will always stand her ground and not compromise her beliefs. In many ways Christiana Hilden is the kid that I wish I could have been.
My grandmother had a pond in her back yard. My grandfather had in dug out I believe when my mother was a child but I am not sure. All I know is that it was always there. The pond was fully stocked with fish and it was the place where I learned the ins and outs of the art of the fisherman. Fishing was and still is a big fucking deal in my family, amongst the men I think that it is safe to say that if it is not the number one leisure and outdoor activity then it is without a doubt in the top fucking three.
I was, and still am, a really shitty fisherman.
But the pond was also the perfect swimming hole. The spring that had been tapped was cold and clean and the bottom was sandy and not filled with gooey slimy mud and rocks. All of the kids in the family would gather there to swim every summer. Of course I was the one that did not know how to swim. That never stopped me from enjoying the shallows and braving the “Above my Head” areas while wearing a neon orange life jacket. I loved the water, I always have loved the water and I believe that I always will love the water.
But my lack of desire to learn to swim seemed to stick in someone’s fucking craw.
One day my mother told me that my grandfather decided that I needed to learn to swim and had signed me up for swimming lessons. My grandfather, and probably my mom but I don’t know for sure, had decided that I was going to learn to tread water like a good little fat boy whether I wanted too or not. I know that if my mom had anything to do with it then her motives were pure and altruistic, she just wanted her son who loved the water to learn to swim. But I know that my grandfather was probably motivated by a desire to male me more of a man.
I have no confirmation of this belief but I am convinced that even if that wasn’t his only motivation it was still a major factor.
I believe that the lessons lasted a week. I attended the classes with my uncle Ernie who my grandfather (his step father) had also decided needed to learn to swim. The pool was at the high school and the lessons were early in the morning. The pool area was cold and smelled of chlorine, they probably had to keep the chlorine levels so high to keep the teenage germs under control but damn that was the most heavily chlorinated water I have ever been in.
I fucking hated swimming lessons.
The instructors were either indifferent or mean. And by mean I mean that there was one male instructor that always commented on my weight. I swear to god there is always some fucking asshole that has to say something about the fatty in order to make themselves feel better.
I hope Jason Voorhees kills all of them … slowly.
And by indifferent I mean that they just didn’t fucking care. I am really surprised that nobody died or almost died … oh wait … I DID ALMOST FUCKING DROWN!
On the last day of swim lessons we had our final exam. We had to attempt to perform all of the things that we had been taught and finish it with swimming the width of the pool in water over our heads. I did not want to do it, I begged to not have to do it, I cried like a little bitch when it became apparent that unless I wanted my ass beat I was going to get in that fucking pool and prove that I was mightier than Poseidon mother fuckers!
What actually happened was that half of the way across the width of the pool I slipped below the water and inhaled.
It probably only lasted for five seconds but it seemed like an eternity. The water burned my lungs and I started to freak out. One of the instructors, the only thing I can tell you about her is that she had large breasts because adult me still remembers her hard nipples pressing into me as she pulled me to the side of the pool, grabbed me up out of the water and saved my life. I coughed out about a tablespoon of water and that was the end of swimming lessons.
They gave us papers at the end of the last class telling us if we passed or failed. Of course I failed, and failed hard.
Interesting post script, my mother framed that “Diploma” and hung it in my room. I have no idea why she felt the need to frame and hang my humiliation. I don’t think that she did it to humiliate me, that really is not my mom’s style, so I am really fucking perplexed. But today I can swim just fine. I taught myself years later and I still love the water.
I do know one thing, when I told my daughter that I thought she should have swimming lessons when she was little she said no.
If she can make it to 18 without me killing her she is going to be a hell of a fucking woman.
The Therapists, including the dog, seem to have really enjoyed the story and ask me if I want to keep riding with them. I don’t have anything better to do at the moment so I tell them that I would love to. They tell me that they are heading to an old amusement park to check out some stories that they have been hearing about disappearances and a possible maniacal clown.
Now I know where I have seen these people before, and they traumatized the fuck out of me as a kid … Jinkies!
They look really familiar to me and I rack my brains unsuccessfully to remember where I know them from.
They offered me a ride and considering that the sky looked like it was going to burst open and dump buckets of water on me I accepted. We settled in without wearing seat belts in rebellious defiance of the laws of the land. I thought could smell the distinct aroma of The Pot but it was faint and did not bother me. There were two guys and two girls in the van with me and they seemed like a laid back bunch. When they asked me why I was on the road I told them that I was looking for a new therapist and needed to clear my head.
They got a strange look on their faces and then huddled up for a few minutes.
I swear that the fucking dog was even talking.
When they broke their little huddle they as a group offered to hear what I had to say. I had to consider the offer carefully, the last time that I had talked to more than one therapist they had tried to kill me. But I needed to keep getting the story out so I relented and began to talk.
I swear the fucking dog was listening intently …
As always this is a therapy session and the doctor, or doctors in this instance, is in.
The defiance that my teenage daughter has been showing me lately, fighting me at every turn whether it is detrimental to her or not, reminded me of this story that I am about to tell you. I sometimes, ok all the fucking time, think that Chrissy is the kid I would have been if I had not been such a terrified kid. If everything had not terrified me and I had not felt so isolated from everyone else I might have been like her. My daughter says things that I remember thinking when I was a kid but would never have dared allowed to slip from my lips. I hate it when she does it but secretly in my heart of hearts I am proud of her. She fears almost nothing and will always stand her ground and not compromise her beliefs. In many ways Christiana Hilden is the kid that I wish I could have been.
My grandmother had a pond in her back yard. My grandfather had in dug out I believe when my mother was a child but I am not sure. All I know is that it was always there. The pond was fully stocked with fish and it was the place where I learned the ins and outs of the art of the fisherman. Fishing was and still is a big fucking deal in my family, amongst the men I think that it is safe to say that if it is not the number one leisure and outdoor activity then it is without a doubt in the top fucking three.
I was, and still am, a really shitty fisherman.
But the pond was also the perfect swimming hole. The spring that had been tapped was cold and clean and the bottom was sandy and not filled with gooey slimy mud and rocks. All of the kids in the family would gather there to swim every summer. Of course I was the one that did not know how to swim. That never stopped me from enjoying the shallows and braving the “Above my Head” areas while wearing a neon orange life jacket. I loved the water, I always have loved the water and I believe that I always will love the water.
But my lack of desire to learn to swim seemed to stick in someone’s fucking craw.
One day my mother told me that my grandfather decided that I needed to learn to swim and had signed me up for swimming lessons. My grandfather, and probably my mom but I don’t know for sure, had decided that I was going to learn to tread water like a good little fat boy whether I wanted too or not. I know that if my mom had anything to do with it then her motives were pure and altruistic, she just wanted her son who loved the water to learn to swim. But I know that my grandfather was probably motivated by a desire to male me more of a man.
I have no confirmation of this belief but I am convinced that even if that wasn’t his only motivation it was still a major factor.
I believe that the lessons lasted a week. I attended the classes with my uncle Ernie who my grandfather (his step father) had also decided needed to learn to swim. The pool was at the high school and the lessons were early in the morning. The pool area was cold and smelled of chlorine, they probably had to keep the chlorine levels so high to keep the teenage germs under control but damn that was the most heavily chlorinated water I have ever been in.
I fucking hated swimming lessons.
The instructors were either indifferent or mean. And by mean I mean that there was one male instructor that always commented on my weight. I swear to god there is always some fucking asshole that has to say something about the fatty in order to make themselves feel better.
I hope Jason Voorhees kills all of them … slowly.
And by indifferent I mean that they just didn’t fucking care. I am really surprised that nobody died or almost died … oh wait … I DID ALMOST FUCKING DROWN!
On the last day of swim lessons we had our final exam. We had to attempt to perform all of the things that we had been taught and finish it with swimming the width of the pool in water over our heads. I did not want to do it, I begged to not have to do it, I cried like a little bitch when it became apparent that unless I wanted my ass beat I was going to get in that fucking pool and prove that I was mightier than Poseidon mother fuckers!
What actually happened was that half of the way across the width of the pool I slipped below the water and inhaled.
It probably only lasted for five seconds but it seemed like an eternity. The water burned my lungs and I started to freak out. One of the instructors, the only thing I can tell you about her is that she had large breasts because adult me still remembers her hard nipples pressing into me as she pulled me to the side of the pool, grabbed me up out of the water and saved my life. I coughed out about a tablespoon of water and that was the end of swimming lessons.
They gave us papers at the end of the last class telling us if we passed or failed. Of course I failed, and failed hard.
Interesting post script, my mother framed that “Diploma” and hung it in my room. I have no idea why she felt the need to frame and hang my humiliation. I don’t think that she did it to humiliate me, that really is not my mom’s style, so I am really fucking perplexed. But today I can swim just fine. I taught myself years later and I still love the water.
I do know one thing, when I told my daughter that I thought she should have swimming lessons when she was little she said no.
If she can make it to 18 without me killing her she is going to be a hell of a fucking woman.
The Therapists, including the dog, seem to have really enjoyed the story and ask me if I want to keep riding with them. I don’t have anything better to do at the moment so I tell them that I would love to. They tell me that they are heading to an old amusement park to check out some stories that they have been hearing about disappearances and a possible maniacal clown.
Now I know where I have seen these people before, and they traumatized the fuck out of me as a kid … Jinkies!
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