Joshua Mohr - Fight Song

Why is breaking down doors so easy on television? That’s going to bruise.

He kicks it. He moves and tries the door to the women’s locker room, too. No luck. No shoulder slams. No kicks. Think. Coffen has little time. She looked so pale. No choice but to try and lure Gotthorm to invite Bob inside. So he runs to the huge window. So he knocks on it. So he waves at Gotthorm. The judge looks over. Gotthorm only shakes his head. Gotthorm only keeps talking to Jane. Coffen only keeps knocking. What can he do? What options are there? He’s trying to bring Jane her humanness. He has to help her. Jane pulls her swim cap off. It drifts in the water like a small octopus. Reminds Coffen of their first date. Their first online date. In the chat room. In the Italian restaurant. Jane said a two-ton squid escaped the zoo. It lived under her bed. She fed it a steady diet of saltwater taffy. Bob fell in love with her right then. Wanted to kiss her imagination right on the mouth. Imaginations should have mouths. Imaginations should have great big puckering lips. Imaginations should sit on people’s shoulders like mousy Schumann had been sitting on Bob’s. Coffen needs to get inside. Needs to tell Jane she’s not a fish. Needs to tell Jane that she’s a gorgeous woman. He should mention he quit his job. But not until later. Not until she’s broken the record. After that the job thing won’t be so bad, maybe. The doors are locked. He’s knocking on the window and Gotthorm and the judge don’t move to let him in. Her swim cap starts to sink. Bob can’t see Jane’s face and he knocks harder. She said that every squid who ever escaped the zoo after that first one always came to her house. Word travels fast with squid. Everybody knows that. Nobody’s going to help Bob get in there. This is going to be a Bob-only enterprise if entering the indoor poolroom is his chief pursuit. Coffen runs back to the outdoor deck. Coffen is getting good at throwing things. Ask that flowerpot. He is no longer afraid of consequences born from the sound of shattering.

Coffen says, “Bob is me.”

He doesn’t throw the chaise lounge at the window so much as he uses it as a kind of battering ram and it works. The window explodes. The judge’s face is sort of scared. He clutches the clipboard to his chest like it’s a crying baby. Gotthorm’s face is not scared so much but wearing a wondrous What the hell? Bob can no longer see the sinking swim cap. Bob climbs through the busted window. Bob is still fully clothed. Bob is still wearing shoes. There are problems with his plan. He is saying to the judge, “Will she be disqualified if I enter the water but I don’t touch her or interfere in any way?” and the judge is saying, “Who are you?” and Gotthorm is saying, “That is her husband,” and the judge is saying, “What’s wrong with using the door?” and Gotthorm is saying, “What are you doing?” and Coffen is saying to the judge, “Can I get in the pool so long as I don’t physically aid her?” and the judge nods, Sure, do it, go ahead, you window-shatterer .

So:

Fully clothed Bob Coffen leaps into the water. About twenty feet away from his wife. Jane is really struggling. Bob swims over, not getting too close. Judges probably love to issue disqualifications and Coffen won’t give the smug prick the satisfaction. Her swim cap is flat on the bottom of the pool. Bob is treading water maybe ten feet away from her now.

He says, “Jane, it’s me, Bob. You’re almost there. You almost have the record. You can do it. I know you can do it. Don’t give up now.”

Jane doesn’t say anything. She keeps her head above the surface. But barely. Her strokes are arrhythmic, all over the place.

Bob says, “You’re only about four hours away from the record.”

The judge says, “Five hours, eleven minutes.”

Bob says, “You’re only five hours and eleven minutes away from the record.”

Jane doesn’t say a word.

Bob says, “Do you remember a two-ton squid that escaped from the zoo? You told me that it snuck in your bedroom window and hid under your bed. You fed it salt-water taffy.”

“I named it,” Jane says, eyes finally focusing on Bob.

“What did you name it?”

“Geraldine.”

“How did you know it was a girl?”

“She chewed her taffy in a very feminine way.”

“Geraldine the giant squid,” says Bob.

“What are you doing here?” Jane asks.

“Gotthorm invited me. He said that all your training has worked perfectly — that you’re the best athlete he’s ever trained. But he thought you might be getting tired and he asked if I wanted to tread water with you for the last five hours.”

The judge says, “Five hours, nine minutes.”

Bob says, “Five hours and nine minutes.”

Jane says, “You’re going to tread water for five hours and nine minutes?”

Bob says, “Only if you’ll do it with me.”

Gotthorm smiles at Coffen: “Yeah, Jane, we thought that seeing your husband might help you finish it off.”

“Yes, we did,” Bob says, already wishing he’d taken off his shoes.

“Are the kids here, too?” Jane says.

“I can call your mom,” Gotthorm says. “She can bring them back. They were going to set an alarm and return at midnight if you broke the record. Would you like them back here now?”

“Yes,” Jane says.

Gotthorm goes to call Erma.

The judge stands on the side.

Bob bobs. Jane bobs.

Jane says, “I’m so fucking tired.”

Bob says, “A porpoise is one with the water.”

Jane says, “Don’t make me laugh right now.”

Bob says, “Sea otters look like my uncle Mickey.”

Jane says, “What are you doing in here with me?”

Bob says, “I needed some exercise.”

Jane says, “I don’t think we can do this.”

Bob says, “Watch us.”

Five hours and nine minutes is what Jane needs. What Bob needs, too. He has a sturdy guilt about doubting her likelihood of breaking the record earlier and the only way to purge it is this.

Getting rid of his guilt is like sucking venom from a wound: Coffen has to draw his doubt out of his system or it will poison him, poison them, and he’s not going to let that happen. If she can make it well over eighty hours in the pool, Bob can handle five hours and change.

Bob tries visualization to fight his fatigue: he and Jane are in a bathtub, relaxing. It’s not working. He tries counting his exhalations, inhalations, tries humming a tune to himself. Nothing seems to ease his exhaustion. He tries silently chanting, We need five hours and nine minutes in total, five hours and nine minutes, five hours and nine minutes …

“How much time has gone by?” says Bob after half an hour.

“ Nei, nei ,” Gotthorm says. “Kelp can’t decipher the clock.” Bob looks at Jane. She seems to have stabilized, her stroke improving. She’s not as pale as before. Her breathing’s steady. Her eyes are shut.

Coffen copies her, shuts his eyes, too. Trying to rally. He has no idea that you can sweat so much while swimming. Has no idea how woozy an individual can get simply treading water. Certainly, he has no idea that you can almost hyperventilate just staying in the same place, flailing your arms and legs, head slipping under the water every now and again.

The fatigue and cramping pain poking up his thighs are getting worse.

He notices he’s hungry.

Notices his vision isn’t quite double, per se, but it’s certainly more than single.

And yet there’s something about Bob Coffen that’s enjoying this arduous task. Digs the exertion and mounting headache. Thrives on how thirsty he is.

He accidentally swallows the chlorinated water and coughs. The taste left in his mouth is salty, almost like a cured meat.