Conversation by the Pool

Conversation by the Pool
By Joseph K. DeRosa

“I’m dying Tony.”

“What are you talkin about Gus? Is the cancer back?

“No. That’s not it.”

“That’s not it? That’s a big it.  What else is there?”

“I worked all my life. I’m always workin on somethin. What good does it do me?”

“Gus, Baby. You’re not workin. You’re retired. You’re sitting here by the pool with a pina colada, the Florida sun’s shinin on your face, the ocean’s right there. Shit, man. We got it made.”

“That’s the problem. Every time I think I got it made, pow! Someone lowers the boom. I thought I had it made when we graduated from dental school, and what happens? The Army. Viet Nam.”

“But Gus, you were stationed in Texas.”

“It was hot as hell in Texas, and I didn’t have two nickels to rub together. Then I met Monica, and again I thought I had it made.”

“You did. She had real good optics, and her father was rich too.”

“Ya, but she spent like she was married to her father. Do you know how many root canals I had to do so her beach boy could sleep in my pajamas? All I got after the divorce was my 401K and a swollen prostate.”

“Hey man, don’t worry about the 401K’s tanking. Those idiots in Washington won’t be in power forever.”

“It’s not that, Tony. I got enough money. It’s just that whenever I think I got it made, things change for the worse. And now –“

“Don’t tell me Gus, it’s Helena, isn’t it? I knew it. I warned you, a hot senorita like her would leave you eventually.”

“It’s not Helena. Things are good. She’s upstairs making me a chicken and avocado sandwich right now, and last night … well, never mind about last night.”

“Never mind? Come on Buddy. The last thrill I had was when the big blonde in 1702 was sunbathing with her top undone, and that bee stung her on the ass. Besides, you used to tell me all your escapades.  Remember that yoga instructor from Somerville that put you on a Karma Sutra diet? What was her name Sunflower or something?”

“Her name was Blossom, and that’s what I mean. That was after my divorce, before Helena, before retirement. And it was a disaster. My kids hated me. My business went to hell. Life sucked.”

“But Gus, it doesn’t suck now.”

“That’s the point Tony. To get where I’m going, I always have to step in every piece of dog shit on the sidewalk. God knows what’s next.”

“What’s next? I’ll tell you what’s next Gus. Kill off your pina colada. Don’t think about anything else except that glass getting empty, so you can fill it up again.”

“That’s my point, Tony.  That’s my point.”