The Right Man for the Job Part 2

The next day, I met up with Darlene in the parking lot. She had oversized sunglasses on and a cup of coffee in her hand. Her hair was coiffed to perfection again.
In spite of the fact that she drank more than either of us the night before, Eleanor was at Pecho Del Sol earlier than Darlene and I, and looked no worse for wear. Last time I had two beers that size I punched my six-year-old cousin in the face.
We had been designated a golf cart of our own, and Eleanor sat in the front passenger seat, twiddling her thumbs. That’s where and how we found her.
“You’re sure this one’s ours?” Darlene asked.
“Yes. I checked,” Eleanor said, still twiddling those thumbs of hers. She had nice thumbs. Darlene didn’t argue and hopped into the driver’s seat. I scuttled to the rear bench and situated myself on my knees so I could face the back of their heads. Once Darlene started driving, I stole a couple more secret smells. They were the same as yesterday. I was pleased.
Darlene quickly developed a technique behind the wheel. She steered with one hand, gripped her coffee with the other, and kept her foot firmly planted on the accelerator. We overtook other carts on the pathways, and I would point and laugh at the other driver whenever this occurred. By travelling in this fashion, we always reached our destinations quickly. And Darlene, our de facto leader, was thoroughly caffeinated, leading to no dawdling on the job. She told Eleanor and I to pick up the pace whenever we slacked off. Though it was largely myself who slacked off.
We waxed and buffed jet skis, delivered supplies to important higher-ups, gave guests directions when they stopped us, changed light bulbs, made sure the spa had enough oily substances, disposed of litter and occasional dog feces, and we did it all with time to spare to stop by the pool at the end of the day—not to swim, just to schmooze.
Towel Boy Troy sulked as he shuffled amongst the swimmers and sunbathers and screaming children. He had a towel clamped in his hand. His hair was over-gelled and spiky. I had no desire to smell it. Not that I would ever smell another boy’s hair.
Darlene shouted to him, “Remember: you’re a bottle of sunshine! Turn that frown upside down! Your figure should be absolutely aglow!”
Towel Boy Troy whirled around to face her. She was giggling. I hid behind her, wanting her to take on any impending wrath. Eleanor had wandered off somewhere. Towel Boy Troy flashed a phony, mocking smile, followed by some phony laughter that turned into high-pitched angry grunting. He turned back around sharply. Darlene lunged forward and snatched the towel from his hand. She rapidly twirled it up and unleashed it on Towel Boy Troy’s bare calf. He flailed with surprise.
Then she took to teasing him in a voice commonly used to communicate with small dogs. “Now be a good boy. Be a good towel boy. See the towel?” She dangled it before him. “Go get it!” She flung it a few yards away. Troy looked bewildered and enraged. But in the end he just took off to reclaim the towel.
“And you blame me for not making any new friends.”
“I couldn’t help myself. Besides, I’m just joking around, hoping he’ll warm up to us.”
“Is that not exactly what I was doing yesterday?”
“Yes, but you’re a boy. And I don’t think boys like it when other boys give them nicknames.”
“I suppose it depends on the circumstances. I always thought nicknames made a person feel cool. You know, like Fats Domino or Little Richard,” I said. She smiled at me and shook her head. “Anyway, what you’re doing is degrading the poor kid. At least I was being nice.”
“Maybe we should call him Wet Blanket. I suppose Wet Towel would be more appropriate,” Darlene said. Then she left, done for the day. I stayed at the pool. I didn’t try to locate Eleanor. Instead, I went in search of Towel Boy Troy, the defensive teen who smelled of chlorine.
I found him sitting behind a trashcan, clearly hiding from someone. He said he didn’t want his shift manager, Enrique, to find him. Enrique was a bulky Hispanic busybody who barked at Towel Boy Troy whenever he wasn’t performing up to snuff or taking unwarranted breaks, which was often. One time Enrique found him relaxing in one of the poolside chairs, shirt off, hiding behind a newspaper.
“You lay out and pick up towels, right? What’s so hard about that?” I asked him.
“It’s not as easy as you think. Look at this pool—it’s too big! People come in droves, and lots of moist people means lots of towels. And I’m the only one around to provide them. You ask how hard it is to lay out and pick up towels, but my question is how hard is it for a swimmer to get their own damn towel?”
“Look at the industry we’re in. We perpetuate laziness.”
He continued. ”Anyway, that’s not the worst of it. There are some real temptresses that come in here, wearing close to nothing. A lot of them just lay around on the chairs. It’s almost like they’re inviting men to climb on top of them.”
“…You haven’t climbed on any women, have you?”
“Of course not. But I stare at some of them sometimes. I can’t help it. They gleam.”
“I don’t understand why you don’t enjoy this.”
“It’s agonizing. They make me angry. They all make me angry. There was this one lady who wanted me to dry her off for her. I kid you not.”
“Did you do it? Did you dry her off?”
“I couldn’t say no.”
“Was she good-looking?”
“Oh yeah. But you don’t get it. They’re messing with my head. I want out. Help me.”
I was appalled at his shunning of the good life. But I could see that he was desperate, so I tried my hand at giving advice. “So the problem is that you like looking at the women, but they’re distracting you from your work, which you hate doing.” He nodded agreement. “Well, haven’t you heard of multi-tasking? Sneak a few peeks on the fly. Come on, you won’t get to move up the ladder unless you become… mature.”
“Like you and what’s-her-face? Is that maturity?”
“Never mind about us. If you show Enrique that you’re beyond working the towels, that it’s too easy for you, that you’re overqualified, chances are good he’ll pick up on that and let some people know.”
“Then what’ll happen?”
“Good things.”
He flashed a small smile as he thought about something. “I want to drive a golf cart,” he said. “It’s been a dream of mine for quite some time.” He was very serious about it. I could see it in his eyes. Who doesn’t like driving a golf cart around?
“Well then let that be the goal in mind. Channel that desire into plush productivity, and you could be burning rubber in no time. You know, relatively speaking.”
He seemed pleased by this, and was in good spirits when I left him. I didn’t know for sure if any of that stuff I told him was true, but at least it appeared to impact his self-esteem in a good way. The next time we stopped by the pool, he greeted us cheerfully and went about preparing the towels with speed and determination.