Four times this summer, our neighborhood pool has been closed due to, “fecal contamination.” Nice way of saying someone took a dump in the pool.
This afternoon, the Kaiser and I went to swim, as we do most afternoons. We played, mostly in the big pool, climbing around on a noodle, swimming to and from the ladder, the usual. Before we left, I let him hop in the kiddie pool while I sat in the sun to dry, and I started thinking about the phantom pooper. It’s either:
- A child, or several different children – If just one, God help her/his parents. But surely, no, it couldn’t just be one child. I mean, if your kid shat in the pool just once, wouldn’t you make a swim-diaper rule for the remainder of the pool season? Sure you would. I hope. But let’s say it’s several children. I still don’t get it. I mean, come ON now. The Kaiser is the most arbitrarily-pooping kid in the Western hemisphere. He drops nuggets everywhere, including (but not limited to): the bathtub, the yard, the living room and the car. And even he hasn’t ever pooped in the pool. How does that happen?
- A jackass teenager. This all plays in my mind quite eloquently. It’s nighttime in suburbia and the summer breeze gently blows across the lake. The last child is in bed, and the parents settle in for a night of overeating and, “America’s Got Talent.” In the shadows, a slim figure creeps behind the bushes. He deftly pulls his lanky frame over the fence and lands with a thud, his dirty Converse sneakers on pavement. An SUV approaches and he slithers next to a picnic table. The car passes, tail lights fade, and he chuckles. Slowly, deliberately he pulls down his jeans and his boxers and waddles to the edge of the pool. Dangling his ass over the side, he strains. Plop. Satisfied, he examines his work, a fine piece. He wets his hand in the lukewarm water and wipes his butt. Hand splashes back into the water, cleaning it carelessly. Another wipe and he’s done. Wet fingers pull up his dingy pants. He smiles and disappears into the night.
- An adult with bowel issues. Is it sad? Sure. Is it a shame? You’re damn right. But there comes a point where one must weigh the needs of many against the needs of the poopers. Stay the fuck outta the pool, alright?