Joshua Mohr - Fight Song

“You guys got my green light,” Dumper says. “Build this bad boy. Make it a masterpiece.”

“You can keep the plock,” says Bob. “Robert’s days are done.”

“You’re taking a personal day?” Dumper asks.

“You’ve seen the last of Robert Coffen.”

“What?”

“Robert’s officially stepping down.”

“What about the new game?”

“Have him do it,” Coffen says and points at the mouth-breather.

“You’re quitting?”

And that’s that. There’s no screaming scene. He doesn’t demean Dumper with a melody of profanity. No need to go down in any kind of spectacle — he already tried that by building the damn game and it didn’t work. Seems the only way for him to leave this place is of his own accord. Under his own power. And there’s no time like the present. Might as well march out. So he struts from the conference room, past his teammates and the beanbags. Past Dumper and LapLand and its lifeguards. Past the whole preschool of his coworkers. He sees their young faces. He sees their futures. And while walking outside, he finally sees freedom.

Coffen camouflages his spying. Hiding in plain sight. All afternoon and evening, he’s another anonymous member of the health club relaxing by the outdoor pool, safety in numbers. He’s another sucker kicking up his heels on a chaise lounge and soaking up some sunshine. Nobody pays him any mind, even though he has a pair of binoculars and spends most of his time aiming them through the huge window and toward the indoor pool, where Jane is trying to break the world’s record for treading water.

Bob respects Jane’s wishes, heard her loud and clear when she uninvited him to stand by the pool and purr moral support. Nobody, not even Gotthorm, knows more than Bob about how much Jane wants to accomplish this remarkable feat, and so he follows her instructions, stations himself outside the confines of the building, hunkering down for some average, run-of-the-mill peeping. She’s none the wiser to his presence and Coffen can feel as if he’s offering every nickel of his support, safely stationed away from her.

Unless Bob’s binoculars deceive him, Jane is doing great thus far. She’s been in the water for about five hours. She looks relaxed. Braids hidden under a swim cap.

Erma is there with Brent and Margot. The kids sit in folding chairs and fiddle with their favorite devices: Brent, his phone; Margot, her iPad.

There’s also a judge present: the stickler who oversees if in fact Jane’s able to tread water eighty-six hours straight. It’s a woman, probably in her forties. She holds a clipboard, which strikes Bob as odd. What can there possibly be to take notes about? Either Jane breaks the record or she doesn’t, but the judge periodically scribbles something mysterious down.

And of course, Gotthorm, clad in his red Speedo. He’s right next to the pool, the closest one to her. He has some kind of huge taxidermied fish and he glides it around in his arms; some kind of visual aid, Coffen assumes. Bob wishes he could read lips, wonders what Gotthorm and the bulge whisper to his wife while the fish dances in his arms.

The problem comes when a voice pipes over the intercom system and says, “We will be closing in ten minutes. All members need to leave the club in ten minutes, please.”

Bob is relatively prepared for this. He has a plan, of sorts. There’s a thought to how he can evade detection. Of sorts. Coffen’s not the most stealth fella, but he thinks he can hide behind the hut that houses the pool’s cleaning supplies. Once it seems like most of the lights are off in the facility, he’ll come back out and spy more.

He has a ski jacket. He has a blanket. He has a thermos of coffee and fifteen Mexican lasagnas.

He has everything he needs to support his wife from one hundred feet away.

That first night is lonely. About 10:30 PM, Erma and the kids leave. Bob’s sure they’ll be back some time in the morning, but he doesn’t like the idea that it’s only Gotthorm and the judge with Jane. She should have a bigger cheering section. She should have French Kiss playing songs to keep her alert. He almost calls Ace before realizing that’s a terrible idea. His only job is to stay out of sight, and he’s not going to screw it up.

But apparently he’s already screwed it up. It’s not half an hour later and Gotthorm comes out to where he’s hiding, sort of wedged under a chaise lounge.

“What’s that?” Bob asks, pointing at the big taxidermied fish in Gotthorm’s hands.

“It’s an African pompano.”

“But why do you have it?”

“A mermaid has the upper body of a human and the tail of a fish.”

“Thanks for refreshing my memory.”

“Jane needs to be supported by both her land family and those family members from under the sea.”

“And that stuffed fish is like an aquatic cousin?”

“I’m going to let you stay and watch us from out here,” Gotthorm says. “But you can’t come inside and Jane won’t know you’re present.”

“Why can’t I come in and cheer her on?”

“No one cheers on a piece of sea grass, being bandied by the tide.”

“Right, but she’s … ”

“Nobody applauds a jellyfish feeding on plankton.”

“That’s my human wife in there.”

“Jane is transcending human endurance. She is of two worlds right now. And her mind needs to be like this fish’s mind.” He moves the taxidermied thing in an arcing motion. “You pollute her state of nothingness.”

Gotthorm turns and starts walking back toward the indoor pool, leaving Bob and his binoculars all by their lonesome.

About 4:00 AM something sort of beautiful happens. Gotthorm gets into the pool with a bottle of Gatorade and an energy bar. He approaches Jane. Slowly, she seems to emerge from her trance, her nothingness, and she slowly drinks the whole Gatorade, eats the snack. Then she shuts her eyes again and returns to her puckered breathing.

Coffen climbs into the empty lifeguard chair, the perch giving him a better view. He watches Jane in awe. Watches and feels washed with affection.

Tuesday looks a lot like Monday. Besides intermittent trips into the locker room to relieve himself, Coffen stays fixed to the outdoor pool deck, spying with grave intensity, snacking on his stash of Mexican lasagnas.

If Coffen’s calculations are correct, she’s been treading water for twenty-nine hours now.

And while he can’t see her legs working in the pool, he can see her face, her arms, her cohesive motions. Gotthorm is right — there is something otherworldly in the way her body moves.

Erma, Margot, and Brent are back.

Apparently, the judges rotate to stay alert. The woman who was there the day before is now gone. A small gentleman is positioned close to the pool, scrutinizing each of Jane’s strokes, clutching a clipboard of his very own.

Bob texts his kids the same message: How’s our girl doing?

Margot: fine

Brent: you mean mom?

Bob: Think good thoughts for her!

Neither of them knows he’s out there, hiding with the masses on the congested pool deck. He figures it’s better to keep them in the dark about his distant attendance, so they don’t accidentally tell Erma, who would probably call the cops on him. Or worse, buy a stun gun and handle things herself.

Gotthorm comes out again to chat with Coffen late Tuesday, around 11:00 PM. The health club is closed. He’s not carrying the African pompano this time, but instead is eating a banana.