Our Town Never Had a Pool

Ria Dhingra

Let me tell you a story. One about the unknown. It’s not real, of course, but for a moment, pretend that it is. There is water filling up the streets outside. I guess it was raining too much. I haven’t done anything to stop it. But my mother, along with the other housewives, tries to clean the drains, hoping the water will go down. She asks me to help, but I can’t bring myself to. My father, to no avail, uses ramps and tubing to direct the water away. And Raul, the city representative, calls in the “Big Guns” who say the water should go away in a day or two. It’s been a week. I’ve still done nothing. My neighbor Indra tries to build a wall around her house, terrified because her kids cannot swim. She has two. Both want to learn, but they’ve never been given the chance. So, enchanted by the phenomenon, they drop paper boats and dreams into the water from their windows. The water that is now three feet deep and doesn’t show signs of ever stopping. I should do something. Yet, much like Indra’s kids, I’m in awe. The water starts off clean. Soon, it lifts up branches and dirt and small dogs, it quickly starts to resemble the color of old coffee. I should do something. My basement is now flooded. Water seeps in under the front door, my mother is scared. I should be more afraid. I wonder what it’s like to take a submarine to school. I laugh, and I do absolutely nothing. A part of me wants to, a larger part just wants to wash away. One day, when the waves get high enough, I’m going to go swimming and never come back. But then again, this story isn’t real. And if it were, where would I even go?

I love 5PM in Wisconsin.

I love when my apartment settles, the air a bit flat, the sun on its way out. I love sitting in a room and watching the shadows wake up and the darkness consume the cushions, empty water glass. The broken lamp, a screenless window, the chair from the park. Night drips on to all of them, stains them a different color. Muted. Time exists in the small crevices. I hear my roommate bump his table. My cat yawns. I’m alone and not alive, just a body in a room with the light low.

My bed welcomes me and the sun dips behind Abigail’s building. The cars woosh me to sleep, the water on the street dances. The clouds are crawling and I’m alone and not alive, just a body in a room.

Leaving Wisconsin.

Driving to Nashville, Robert Lester Folsom on the radio. My car is old. My dad had the same one when he was 22, only difference is he went west and I go south.

I meet 5PM when I touch the Mississippi. It’s out of the way but her beauty consumes me. I stare as tears escape my eyes, racing to my chin, racing away. I’m racing away.

My car is low on gas and my cat hates the thick air. The south is thick. My heart is coated in honey when I arrive. Dripping.

I hate the heat.

I am alone and not alive, just a body in a room for a long time.

I move from room to room.

I watch the sun melt away and the trees shake. I watch with patience and pray. God doesn’t hear me this time, he sends a storm instead. The water dances on the street in Nashville. I meet a friend, Jackie Klien. She loves peaches and the rain. She has auburn hair and is from Georgia. At 5PM she bites into a peach and I remember the way your teeth felt on my neck. But then I’m back in Nashville, I am alone and not alive, just a body in a room with Jackie Klien.

I live in Nashville for years. I learn the cracks in the sidewalk and the way the light fades each night. I introduce myself to the shadows, we become friends.

Jackie Klien and I part, but whenever I see a peach I think of her at 5PM.

Sometimes I sit at the river and I think of 5PM in Wisconsin. I miss those moments and I miss the way things were when I was there.

I think of the winter when you held my hand and I felt like a person. I miss pretending we would never end.

Just two bodies bumping into each other as we walk home, the glow from the snow guiding us. You held my hand longer than I thought and I drunkenly kissed you. It was sweet, we laughed. We continued to laugh for a long, long time. In my room I caught you staring at me. I stared back and you smiled.

At 5PM you fell asleep and I felt alone but at peace. Just a body in a room with you.

But then Nashville, always Nashville. I love 5PM in Wisconsin.