“You don’t mean—”
“Yeah, the guys in the suits: They actually do work here. We struck a deal with them—well, one of us did. I think it was Robinson. She’s the one over there with the pixie cut—”
“The guys in the suits,” I interrupt, trying to get her back on track.
“Right,” she says. “They let us come here once a week and, in exchange, they get to join us in rotating shifts. The hard part was getting the security guards in the front to buy that we all work in the building and that it’s not weird they only see any of us once a week and always after midnight.”
There are about twenty people in the pool. There are men and women, almost in equal distribution.
“Don’t get the wrong idea, though,” she says. “It’s not a sex club or anything weird like that. It’s just a bunch of people who like swimming naked, but don’t want to swim in polluted shit. Take your clothes off.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I said take your clothes off,” she repeats. “You’re not getting in the pool dressed like that.”
I take off my shirt, but before I can get to the pants, Wrigley stops me.
“A few rules first,” she says. “First, don’t stare at people. When you’re talking, look them in the eyes like you would at any other time. Otherwise, it’s just disrespectful and, let’s be honest, pretty fucking creepy.”
“Got it.”
“Rule two,” she says. “Everyone showers before they get in the pool. It’s a hygiene thing. Yeah, it’s not really different than if you were wearing a bathing suit, but it’s just best to be clean. Oh, and with that, if you have to pee, get out of the pool and go to the restroom. It’s possible that no one would notice if they didn’t put a chemical in the pool that changes color in the presence of urea.”
“That’s an urban legend,” I tell her. “There’s actually not a chemical that detects urine in swimming pools. That one’s been around since the fifties.”
She just raises an eyebrow and glares at me.
“Not that I’m going to pee in the pool, though,” I tell her.
“Rule three,” she says, still giving me that look, “is that while you’re here, you don’t get completely wasted and belligerence will not be tolerated.”
“That’s simple enough.”
“Finally,” she says, “keep your hands to yourself. Any kind of touch that you wouldn’t perform in a business meeting is off-limits. Handshakes are fine, so are high fives and the occasional pat on the shoulder, so long as there’s context and you don’t overdo it. Other than that, no touching anyone, got it?”
“I got it,” I tell her.
“Okay,” she says, “now you can drop your pants.”
“Oh, one more thing,” she says.
I scoff. “You know, for such a free-thinking group, you’ve got a lot of rules.”
“They’re rules to ensure mutual respect between everyone,” she says. “Which leads me to this: the occasional erection is just going to happen. However, in the event of an erection, your hands are to stay at or above the surface of the water, you’re not to draw any attention to it, and you’re certainly not to stand closer than two feet away from anyone while you’re facing them with a boner. When possible, you are to stay in the water until the situation has resolved itself.”
Of all the things I thought I’d be doing tonight, this is absolutely beyond and outside what I could have imagined.
“All right,” I tell her. “Where is the bathroom?”
She points to a door on the other side of the pool.
“The showers are in there, too,” she says. “After you’re done peeing, don’t forget to at least give yourself a good rinse. You can drop your pants now.”
I laugh and do as I’m told.
The air is pretty warm in here, so I don’t make a bad showing. I can only hope that the shower water isn’t too cold.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Butterfly
Leila
It’s been a week since I left, and I’ve just been trying to keep my mind on my job.
While I was an intern, I figured that I was learning enough on top of my college education to just be able to walk onto any broker job without any adjustment period.
I was wrong.
My first day, I’m pretty sure I almost got fired when I gave a bad tip to a client. That may sound like a silly thing to get fired for, especially on one’s first day, and it would be silly if the tip didn’t lose my client about $350,000 in twenty minutes.
That was a tough explanation to my boss.
I think I’m starting to get acclimated to everything, but it’s a stressful job.
It’s not helping that I can’t stop thinking about Dane and the way I left things.
I wonder what he’s doing tonight.
Oh well. Tonight, I’m going out with Annabeth.
I’m a little nervous that, in preparation for our night out, she bought me a white cotton shirt and told me to sleep in it for three nights then put in in a sealable sandwich bag. While I’m not sleeping in it, she told me, I have to keep it in such a bag and store it in the freezer.
I really don’t know why I go along with these things.
The knock lands on my door around eight o’clock, and I invite her inside to see the apartment.
“Nice place,” she says dismissively. “Have you been wearing the shirt?” she asks.
“Yeah, but I don’t know why—”
“Is it in the freezer?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I tell her.
“All right, then grab it and let’s go,” she says. “We’re running late.”
“Before we go anywhere, I want to know why I’ve been stuffing a shirt in a freezer bag and then wearing it while I’m sleeping.”
“Just be cool, baby.”
I shudder. “You know it weirds me out when you call me that.”
“Whatever,” she says. “Just grab it and let’s go. I’ll tell you on the way.”
We’re in the car and she’s about two sentences into the explanation, and I’m ready to go home and call the night a bust.
Apparently, we’re going to something called a Pheromone Party. The object of the shirt is to capture one’s scent for the inspection of others. If someone likes the way your shirt smells, apparently, they have their picture taken with the shirt which bears a number only you know. If you find the person attractive, you approach them and let them know the shirt they had a picture taken with was yours.
It’s farfetched enough that I’m clinging to some hope that she’s making the whole thing up, but this is exactly the sort of thing Annabeth would be into, so I’m not putting money on it.
“Where’s yours?” I ask.
“On the floor of the backseat,” she says. “Why?”
“No reason.”
The reason is that I’m getting the sneaking suspicion that this is all a ruse and I’m about to walk into some extremely humiliating situation. That is also the exact sort of thing Annabeth would do.
Sure enough, though, we pull up to a building in Trenton and there, on a fluorescent sign by the front door, are the words: “Pheromone Party Tonight!”
I sigh.
This is going to be uncomfortable.
The reason, I guess that I’m not telling Annabeth to take me home right now is that I really need to get my mind off of Dane. This isn’t how I wanted to do it, but I’m pretty sure this whole scenario is going to crowd out any other thoughts in my head. For that, I guess, I should be grateful.
I start feeling a little less grateful as we walk into the door and I see dozens of people smelling shirts out of plastic bags.
“This is too weird,” I tell Annabeth.
“It’s not that weird at all,” she says. “Before cologne, perfumes and, you know, running water, someone’s scent was a huge part of the mating dance.”
“You know, it sounds even worse when you describe it like that.”
“Don’t worry,” she says, trying to reassure me, “these are normal people just like you and I. You’ve done speed dating. I don’t see how it’s that much different.”