Poolside

I tried to hang myself right before my eighteenth birthday. The threat of impending adulthood suffocated me in an unbearable way; a way that felt like there was already a noose around my neck. The very concept encroached upon my understanding of juvenile irresponsibility. On my inverse understanding of freedom. I had no direction, not even a hint of an idea of what I wanted to do or who I wanted to be.

Now, I get it, you’re thinking – what a fucking way to start a book. I thought this guy had credentials. A PhD.

“Dadadada!” Theo sings a constant string of the same two letters, tiny mouth nearly managing to form the whole of Lyndon’s title. “Mere! Mere Dada!” It’s a joyous noise, an excited demand for his father to join him in the pool.

You should know—

Well, this probably won’t ever be published. Too personal for an academic. Too personal for a poet, even. Besides, there’s no reason anyone should want to read my memoire. Not as things stand, anyway.

Too smart for my own good, is what I’ve always been told. Used to fall like an insult from both my parents’ mouths. It’s almost impressive, when you consider they didn’t even speak to one another. They meant it differently, though, my mom aiming a punch to my gut while she meant I’d never do anything while my dad was just trying to find footing that didn’t make him feel inferior to his sixteen-year-old kid.

The day is sweltering hot. Endless summer in Nevada begs for the inhabitants to get used to it, but Lyn sits at the edge of the pool absorbing heat from the cement, wiping the occasional bead of sweat from his brow and baking in the overwhelming scent of sunscreen, incapable of forming sentences he's content with on the page resting against his leg because of it.

It might as well be the toddler holding the pen.

I stumbled across philosophy. For a while, it was what saved me.

Tried to kill myself again when I was twenty-five. Went off a bridge but I guess it wasn’t high enough from the surface and... Well, when you know how to swim your psyche takes charge of your body – with or without your permission.

That second attempt was because of philosophy. I’d crossed the border from existentialism to nihilism and it was ruining me.

“I’m alright, buddy. I’m,” Lyn lifts the pen, shakes it back and forth to show his son, “Trying to write.” There’s more to it than that. There always is with Lyndon. Gaze drifts from the inflatable floaties strapped to Theo’s tiny arms to the artificially blue water. At the opposing end of the pool, a bright blue, blow-up shark drifts across the surface.

It’s nothing like water beneath the bridge, he reminds himself.

It’s warm and wet, sure. But it smells nothing like the body that engulfed his own. It has no mind of its own, is limited by the manmade hole it sits in. Relies on hands of man to keep it clean and keep it full. It has no power of its own accord. Doesn’t have the pull of nature.

Even if it still has power over him.

These days, I try to stay on the lighter side of philosophy. Dabble in poetry to mitigate the angst or...

You know, I wouldn’t say I’ve found reason to live just because I have someone relying on me. But it helps. Knowing my son needs me.

“In! In mere Dadada!” And the child splashes innocently. Has no understanding of suicidal ideation or existential dread.

Too many philosophers forget that there’s a world beyond their pen. They forget about the very world they’re trying to organise and impact. Human nature, I suppose. But it depletes the work in a way that’s recently become glaring to me.

So Lyn sets his notebook to the side, turns pen into placeholder and takes to his feet. He’s soft where it matters most, has a hard time saying ‘no’ to such an eager plea for his company.

There’s no time left for contemplation. Consideration only ever leads him to hesitation and now that the boy already sees him moving, there’s no turning back. Ankles hit the water and he’s hit with the threat of familiarity. A memory of biology fighting against imposed annihilation, arms flailing as gasps thrashed in his chest, besought another shot at life.

Hands give a white-knuckled squeeze to the ladder. He swallows a retraction in the form of, ‘I’m sorry, Theo. I’m gonna stay to the sides,’ and instead forces a release. The child still hasn’t mastered an understanding of apologies. It’s Lyn’s responsibility to ensure his actions don’t warrant any.

The pool water is warm and it’s wet. It smells like chlorine. And there’s a happy smile waiting for him four feet away. He breathes. There is no sputtering. The shark stays floating. It does not charge.

It’s nothing like the water beneath the bridge.