The Summer He Went Swimming
That summer he did the backstroke, naked in his neighbor's pool, while his neighbors were off dreaming in some faraway version of Kennebunkport. He swam the backstroke, naked in his neighbor's pool, one night, while contemplating his recent attempts at facial hair. The beard had failed miserably. The mustache: worse. He swam the backstroke, naked in his neighbor's pool, one night, while his neighbors were away in some distant Kennebunkport dreaming, as he contemplated his doomed facial hair endeavors.
It was a very clear night here very far from Kennebunkport.
His pubic hairs glistened in the banana moonlight and his waterlogged dick shriveled beneath the movie review stars.
And he resolved to try harder.
Keep at it.
Perhaps a goatee.
Maybe a soul patch.
No, definitely not a soul patch.
That summer he did the breaststroke, naked, and there wasn't any water involved. Well, that isn't exactly true. The human body consists of 60% water.
Correction: That summer he did the breaststroke, naked, and there was 60% water involved.
(Her breasts in the midnight moonlight were like teakettles, twin teakettles: porcelain-looking teakettle twins—where he laid his head and dreamt of some faraway version of Kennebunkport. That place where we all end up someday, when we die.)
That summer he swam the butterfly in a small, overly urinated public pool, as the small, overly urinated public pool broke from chrysalises and became a perfectly chlorinated, Olympic-sized pool in Kennebunkport.
Perhaps this was a dream he had?
Yes, it was.
Correction: That summer he dreamt he swam the butterfly in a small, overly urinated public pool, as the small, overly urinated public pool broke from chrysalises and became a perfectly chlorinated, Olympic-sized pool in Kennebunkport.
The Old Australian Crawl
That summer, he did the Old Australian Crawl, but it looked so damn American, so new, so ambiguous; so much like Kennebunkport.
The Swan Dive
That summer he did a fifty-foot swan dive into a reservoir, and as he dove he thought how beautiful it was that swans mate for life, but then he wondered what happens if one of the mates dies. Do widowed swans remarry, he wondered, or do they move to Kennebunkport?
That summer, at a cocktail party in Kennebunkport, he did a fully clothed cannonball when no one was looking. And it really pissed people off.
So he did it again, and again, and again.
Eventually the people of Kennebunkport grew accustomed to it and learned to embrace it, as the good people of Kennebunkport always do.
That summer he sprang from a Rhode Island high-dive in a pair of golden Speedos. Then he bent in midair, touched his toes, and straightened out immediately before entering the water.
It was perfect.
Yet when he emerged it was December in Kennebunkport and his golden Speedos had turned silver.
Afterward, he resolved to not jackknife again and vowed never to return to Kennebunkport.
Soon enough it was Christmas in Texas and he was mostly sober.
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