SS46:
"Beauty Pool Knockout"
An original, sweet story here—I was quite pleased with the way this came out. Upon re-submission, this Smokey Saga has been given a new, fresh edit, hopefully gaining some more eventual well-deserved attention for its sequel.
*****
Tuesday, July 22nd, 2014, 10:02 p.m.
It was a dark and stormy night.
No, seriously. It really was.
The 77° temperature mingled with the dense rain and unforgiving winds, giving way to thunder and lightning, shaping a tropical atmosphere extending to the outskirts of town. Fully bloomed trees shook, rustled and shed leaves months ahead of schedule. Rumbling black clouds hogged the celestial spotlight from the quarter moon and dull starlight. Wet gusts buffeted pedestrians on foot, and challenged visibility of drivers en route to their destinations. So-called "windproof" umbrellas were nearly whipped right out of their owners' hands, while struggling to keep their stretchers down. And the soaking precipitation gave promise to a bright, shiny rejuvenation of nature the following morning.
Braver individuals who did not allow the weather to interfere with their plans stepped out to dinner, the movie theater, the 24-hour convenience store, and other late-night venues of activity. Homebound folks curled up with good books, good meals, good remotes, good friends, and/or good lovers, settling in to enjoy the soothing sounds of meteorological tumult.
The utterly enormous Bayside Inn on 38th Street and Fisherman's Avenue—just beside the aptly named Fisherman's Bay (which also happened to be the name of the entire surrounding resort)—was busy as ever during this, the middle of summer. The normal rush of business travelers was enhanced by the wave of vacationing visitors, who could ill afford long-distance trips, or simply preferred to stay in town. The gigantic Inn and accompanying Fisherman's Bay were bordered by a thirty-block boardwalk with the standard array of arcades, casinos, retail outlets, restaurants, dessert/snack stands, tattoo/piercing parlors, and souvenir/gift shops, most of which performed decent business even with the disadvantage of thunderstorms.
The thirty blocks spanned by the boardwalk were dotted on the other side of the hotels by amusement parks, country clubs, bars, more restaurants, shopping centers, and just about everything else the R & R-hungry voyager could hope to find, for a width of roughly twenty miles. Aforementioned boardwalk fun notwithstanding, Fisherman's Bay's nightlife was compromised this evening by the unpleasant weather. But which failed to hinder indoor recreation.
One hearty thrillseeker who'd adjourned to the Bayside for her yearly retreat was Zoe Trix Palmer, a 30-year-old beautician having settled into her week-long vacation here in Midwestern paradise. She always took her vacations just in the middle of summer, and kept them to a modest week. She loved her job, and while nothing compared to getting away from it all, Zoe was normally eager by week's end to get right back
to
it all. And to unsheathe her arsenal of arms to fight unsightliness: her blow dryer, combs and brushes, shampoo and conditioner, sprays and gels, clippers and files, and lest she forget, her workmates. The loyal gang of bandits and accomplices.
She and her girls came up with these terms, in relation to their shared career. It was not as if Zoe and her cohorts did any sort of underworld business. They simply enjoyed the whimsy of bandying about such language to play up a bit of excitement in the beauty shop biz. As if to lend an air of "danger" to a light, fluffy, literally beautiful profession. All in the name of fun and humor, of course. Speaking of humor, a few years back, someone gave her a sign to display in her shop that said, "I'M A BEAUTICIAN, NOT A MAGICIAN." Zoe believed in its facetious truth, although she
was
skilled at doing quite amazing, almost even magical things with a tricky capillary situation.
When summer arrived annually, and she faced the thorough but exciting process of organizing a vacation, she was met with a host of decisions. Depending on her budget, she might go out of state, or out of
all
the States, maybe even off the continent...or just stay home. She might travel with friends, family, or on her own—solo being the chosen option this year. Then there were the multi-act plays of where to stay, how long, mapping out of activities, and contacting her selected hotel for reservations. And so here she was this year at the Bayside, reserved for one week in room 741, and currently out and about having a ball.
It seemed an ideal short epoch in which things couldn't go wrong.
Zoe was an optimist. She'd attended school, graduated and moved on to cosmetology college, from which it was a hop, skip and a jump to her future career. And she'd done it all with a sunny attitude and hard, diligent work. When things went wrong, Zoe tried to let herself be plagued as little as possible. She'd resigned herself to the rollercoaster ride that was life, and carried on, always knowing her next good fortune could be right around the corner.
Zoe Palmer was sort of the girl next door, but a couple more houses down. But not all the way down the creepy end of the street, either. She had a free-spirited quirkiness that would give off a hint of eccentricity to some, but at the same time, she couldn't be accused of being a daffy, kooky young crone. She knew when to be flighty, and when to take things seriously. She'd no significant others or better halves in her life just now, but it was all part of the enjoyment and exhilaration to her, that the very love of her life could pop up at any point, and float right into her arms and heart. Anytime, anywhere: at home, at work, at play.
Which brought her to her yearly vacation, during which, whatever the circumstances, she was determined to have a wonderful time. And so she had been. As nice as having a companion was, the upside to vacationing by herself was the privilege of being able to do whatever she so pleased, without obstructing or interfering with a travel mate's plans. It was after all what a vacation
should
be, she reasoned, so why question things?
Be a wild girl!
she encouraged herself.
Tell caution to stuff it!
Tonight she'd planned on going for a dip, a quest not squelched by the rocky weather. The hotel had a
large
in-floor indoor swimming pool, surrounded by a couple dozen plastic chairs, and joined by a steam room, shower, and hot tub. Zoe enjoyed the snug safety of indoor warmth contrasting storms on the exterior. And it was only Tuesday; she knew it'd pass long before she returned home. Monday she had checked in, rested briefly in the room, enjoyed a seafood lunch, traversed the boardwalk, had an Italian Ice and a funnel cake, worked them off with several rousing rounds of skee-ball, played a course of miniature golf, treated herself to a lovely heaping buffet dinner, adjourned back to the hotel room and let supper put her to sleep.
So far today, she'd taken a
long
, hot shower, tried the hotel's continental breakfast—actually better than she was expecting—gone shopping, dropped by the ice cream parlor for a cone, trolleyed over to the amusement park to ride some rides (which she found would've been a better idea
before
the ice cream), played some midway games, had some cotton candy...and then it began to rain, so she swung back to the Inn.
Once more, she wasn't put off in the least by the storm. The conditions may not have been ideal for a single day at the resort, but she still had four more to go. And in the meantime, there were plenty of things she could do
in
side the hotel. She could work out in the gym, she could play the pinball tables and shoot pool in the game room, she could pig out courtesy of the vending machines, she could hang in the lobby and read a book or meet people, she could check out the gift shop...
orrrr
, she could do just as she was planning for the remainder of the night: take a few refreshing laps in the indoor pool, return to her room, order up some room service, put the TV on sleep mode, slip under the covers, and drop off in serene tranquility.
Her timing was a bit late, but she had about fifteen minutes to do her laps in the pool before it closed for the night. She was the last remaining guest swimming this evening. It was nice having the pool to herself. The water was three feet deep at the edges, with steps and railings for easy exit. In the middle it reached nine feet at deepest. The lifeguard was still on duty, but needed a quick bathroom break around 9:57. She'd have this last young woman vacate the pool when she got back.
Five minutes later, she returned to see the girl still circling the perimeter counterclockwise. She tweeted her whistle.
"Excuse me, ma'am," she called to Zoe, who was completing her sixth lap. "The pool's closed. I'll have to ask you to come out now."
"Oh! Okay," Zoe acquiesced, doggy-paddling to the set of steps she was nearest. The lifeguard, whose name was Lizzy-Beth—Elizabeth at birth, clipped and hyphenated at her own discretion—gave a smile and a nod, and turned to go grab her towel. Zoe took hold of the railing and hefted herself out. About to fetch her own towel, she felt a distinct need, and decided she ought to take care of something else first.
"Miss?" she called to the lifeguard. "May I please use the restroom?"
Lizzy-Beth figured this must be an urgent call of nature if the young lady couldn't wait to return to her own room, so she obliged.
"Oh, thanks!" Zoe did have to go pretty bad, and didn't want to use the 'ool. And so only able to focus on her nagging bladder, she gaited into a run for the ladies'.
Unfortunately...one thing stood in her way.
