God of the Pool

When I lived in Palm Springs, I rented the tiny guest house of a huge estate. Nobody lived in the main house, so I had the walled grounds - about 7 acres - all to myself. A small orange orchard, tons of bougainvilla and oleander, and an enormous swimming pool just four steps from my front door. I lived in that pool from May to October - pretty much had to, because of the heat. And I managed to make a living while floating: I read tarot cards over the phone for the Psychic Friends Network, dealing the slightly wet cards on the edge of the pool deck. But that's another story.

The first thing I would do when I jumped in the pool each morning was make a circle of the perimeter (counterclockwise, in case you wondered). And I would assess the flotsam and jetsam which had collected overnight. The inevitable sprinkling of dried bougainvilla blossoms and leaves, mostly. And there would be quite a number of gorgeous golden wasps, alive but struggling, their wings too heavy with accumulated water to lift off the surface and dry out. At first I was concerned I'd be stung if I made a move to save them, but with a little practice I perfected a scoop-n-swoosh procedure that propelled the waterlogged buggies onto the pool deck, where they could bask in the hot desert sun - and live.

Of course this made me feel all godlike and benevolent, rescuing life after life as I circled the pool. "I'm so good," I'd say to myself, clearing my karmic debt from all those spiders I squished and chickens I ate. "Have a good life, waspie honey," I'd whisper.

I noticed one day in spring that a wasp nest was being constructed in the eaves right in front of my cottage door. The wasps worked hard at their complex paper construction, and as the days went by, it grew to the size of a football. But never did a wasp bat an eye when I passed nearby. "It's because they know I'm the God of the pool," I thought, and imagined the wasps saying, "No, don't divebomb him, Morty, he's the one who saved Cassandra's life yesterday." The wasps and I, we had an agreement. Nature in balance. Circle of life.

Now, admittedly, like most gods, I was arbitrary and capricious. I rescued only beautiful glittering gold wasps and the occasional iridescent dragonfly. Garden variety flies and mosquitoes could bloody well drown for all I cared. God's prerogative.

One day towards the end of Summer, I was bustling out the door to run errands when a squadron of highly incensed wasps went into full red alert, pouring out of the nest like irate raisins from a wide open faucet. When the first wasp attacked I was incredulous - "It's me, boys, it's the Pool God!" But they were hearing none of it. Hell, they couldn't hear a thing for the volume of buzzing they were making. After the second sting, I ran like the wind to the safety of my car. I galloped, man - I hot footed it outta there.

Don't piss off God. At the store I bought two huge cans of Raid wasp kill and nuked 'em the moment I got home. The patio floor was covered with wasp carcasses, some of which I had no doubt saved from a watery grave.

This morning, I was doing my usual circumnavigation of the pool and noticed quite a number of moths struggling on the surface. Ah, another opportunity to be godlike, I thought, and I reactivated my scoop-n-swoosh technique. With a line-up of about ten moths along one side of the pool, I surged majestically to the other side to see who else I could rescue, filled to overflowing with beneficence. Then I heard excited chirping. A little brown sparrow was merrily chomping on one of the moths. "Mmmmm, moist and delicious!" he cried, and proceeded from one moth to the next, feasting on the banquet I had so innocently provided.

Just when you think you're a god, turns out you're a hash slinger at an all-you-can-eat diner.