THE AIR

A Tale of the Hatchback Woman by Dan Jire

“Let go of me!” Justin wrenched his body out of Mr. Alexander’s grasp and swam away. It was easier than normal since Mr. Alexander was covered with sun block. The large scoutmaster turned red with anger.

“You almost died!” he said.

Justin swam to the opposite end of the pool and climbed out. He refused to look at his scoutmaster. “I was fine until you grabbed me.” He snatched his towel off a lawn chair, yanking it out from another scout.

“Dude,” Timmy said. “Mr. Alexander is pissed.”

“Whatever. I don’t know why he thinks I was drowning.”

“Dude, you were underwater for like ten minutes.”

“What?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m calling my dad. This party blows anyway. It’s just so that Mr. Alexander could get us all to take off our shirts. He’s weird.” Justin rushed toward the pool’s exit, pushing aside a bunch of balloons dangling from an umbrella.

“Justin, wait up.” Mr. Alexander jumped up the ladder and out of the pool. He didn’t have far to go so his gait never reached top speed, but it was certainly heading that way. “I just want to know you’re okay.”

“I’m fine!”

“I’m sorry. We went over water safety and I swear I thought you had been under for too long. I must not have seen you come up for air. When you’re here with me, you’re under my supervision. You’re my responsibility.”

“I can take care of myself. That’s what we’ve been taught. That’s the whole point of scouts, right?” Justin’s emphasis charged Mr. Alexander with a crime that was nonexistent, but the accusation froze the scoutmaster, mouth agape. “I’m going home.”

Mr. Alexander’s mouth closed, his eyes flexed, and his hands knotted. He turned around and addressed the other scouts at the pool party. “It’s time to clean up.”

There were some groans, but Timmy skipped at the thought of popping balloons.

Pow!

One down.

Pa-Pow.

Another and another.

“Cut it out,” Mr. Alexander said.

Timmy’s hands stopped on a yellow balloon. He pressed slowly, challenging Mr. Alexander’s stare. Timmy squeezed.

Mr. Alexander punched Timmy. Blood splattered as Timmy hit the cement patio.

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TWO NIGHTS EARLIER:

The party supply store was practically empty, aside from a cashier scrolling through her smart phone, there didn’t seem to be anyone else there when Mr. Alexander entered. Soft music with too much treble seemed to match the bright interior and glossy floors. All around were decorations for themed birthday parties for all ages and genders, and the upcoming holiday, Independence Day.

Mr. Alexander silently applauded himself for picking a Monday evening just after dinnertime. He hated busy stores, crowds, traffic, and checkout lines. He preferred nature, a good campfire, the stars at their brightest and nights at their darkest. But kids these days—heck, parents these days frowned upon swimming in a lake or camping in anything other than a campsite with pre-cut firewood, showers and toilets.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t teach his scouts a thing or two at a swimming pool. From CPR to mastering various swimming strokes, and even diving safety could be taught. He had given into another scoutmaster’s demands to make it fun. He had a trunk full of sodas and chips already. All the pool party needed now were some balloons.

He turned down an aisle of supplies with a superhero theme, then another with princesses. He growled as he turned into the next. All he wanted was regular balloons, no shapes and no themes, just primary colors if he could. But he found pastels and neon colored ones. He almost settled on a patriotic theme, but the chart of activities had already included red, blue, and yellow balloons, not white ones. It seemed like his right as an American citizen to be able to buy a bag of yellow balloons.

Then, as if the Promised Land had made itself known, he turned down an aisle where every color had its own individual pack. Mr. Alexander sighed as he realized there were various shades of every color.

“Making a tough choice?” a woman asked.

Mr. Alexander smiled, as pretty women always made him do. His cheeks blushed a little. “T-T-Too many options, I suppose.”

The dusty blonde haired woman smiled back. Crow’s feet cracked at the sides of her beautiful steely gray eyes. “Don’t fool yourself, there’s only ever two options.”

“Maybe when it comes to ice cream.” Mr. Alexander tried to flirt back. It didn’t dent the woman’s armor and she didn’t respond. Mr. Alexander bent over and picked up red, blue, and yellow packs. “I’m not in your way am I?”

“Oh, no. I’m just browsing. There’ll be a big party one day, just pricing it out right now.”

“Well, I hope it’s a lot of fun,” said Mr. Alexander.

“I hope so, too.” Then she said, “There’s a hole in that yellow bag.”

Mr. Alexander turned it over, and sure enough there was a hole. It didn’t matter much to him, he only needed ten balloons and the pack was for twenty-five. It didn’t seem like many would be missing if any. It seemed to weigh as much in his hand as the bags of blue and red. He would save someone else the grief and buy the busted bag. “Only need a couple.”

But the woman held out a yellow balloon. “Here’s one that fell out.”

“You can keep it,” he said.

“And get arrested for shoplifting?”

He held out his hand and she dropped the balloon on it. “Couldn’t have that on my conscience.”

“Just don’t pop it,” the woman said with a smile.

He watched her leave the store and get into a little red hatchback before driving off. He hoped he would see her again. Though she was likely married—like he had once been.

Mr. Alexander had been so nervous that he didn’t notice if she had a wedding band or not. The yellow balloon still hung in his hand. It felt different, warmed from her touch. It felt special.

The thought seemed silly to him, but Mr. Alexander was a romantic, regardless of what his ex-wife would say.

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The strangeness of his night continued. When Mr. Alexander arrived home he went to work preparing everything for the next day’s activities. He researched proper techniques for swimming, watching videos on the Internet and practicing his lesson out loud. He multitasked by blowing up balloons as he learned. It was getting late, but he found that he had more energy than normal, as if all the talking out loud had not worn him out, but reinvigorated him.

He went for a run, hoping to wear himself out. It was the best run he’d ever had. He finished when his legs tired, but normally he’d be coughing and fighting for air, especially after blowing up a bunch of balloons.

Something was different.

He was thirsty too. He popped open his fridge and grabbed a gallon of milk. He wouldn’t normally drink out of the bottle, but it was his house and he was parched like never before. His soaked t-shirt might’ve clued him into the toll of late June heat and humidity in the state of Virginia. He only stopped drinking when he realized the gallon of milk was empty.

Panic set it, as he knew what too much milk would do to his stomach. He’d throw up. But he couldn’t imagine he actually drank the whole thing. That would take several minutes. He would’ve stopped to breathe. He glanced at his wristwatch. The timer from his run was still going. He knew he’d run for forty-five minutes, but the timer was now ticking past an hour and six minutes.

It really was like his lungs had gained super power or something. He closed his eyes and held his breath, but it was like he didn’t have to hold it all. He put his hand below his nostrils and shut his mouth. No air went in or out—even when he tried. He touched his chest. His heart thumped, but his chest did not rise and fall with his breathing.

He wasn’t breathing.

And as if fate steered his eyes, he found the yellow balloon sitting on the table, full of air with all the others. But it was this particular yellow balloon in the center that he knew the blonde woman had handed him. It was as if it captured the light differently than all the others. He was certain it was the exact same color as all the others. But it sat differently—like a person in a movie theater all alone waiting for the movie to begin.

He grabbed it off the table and inspected it. Could it have had some chemical on it? Was Mr. Alexander feeling the effects of a drug? He remembered what the woman told him before she got in her car. Don’t pop it.

Why would she say that?

Did she know it was different?

Mr. Alexander ran his finger along the balloon, and then examined it for any residue. Nothing. He wasn’t going to pop it. If a gas formed inside the balloon, it might explode. He carefully worked the knot loose and let air back out of the balloon. He smelled it, nothing out of the ordinary.

Mr. Alexander sighed.

He sighed.

He felt his breath again. He held his hand out in front of his mouth to be sure.

It made sense that he could feel his breath, what didn’t make sense was that he hadn’t felt his breath before. He stared at the limp yellow balloon in his hand and wondered. He pressed the balloon to his lips, and inflated it.

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Mr. Alexander watched his timer from beneath the water. It reached three minutes and he opened his mouth, allowing it to fill with water.

Three minutes and thirty seconds.

Three minutes and forty-five seconds.

He did it! Four minutes. He lifted his head out of the water and smiled at himself in the bathroom mirror. He’d stayed underwater for four minutes and he probably could’ve stayed longer. It was absurd. It couldn’t be possible. But it was.

He untied the balloon once more, let all the air out and tried to hold his breath again.

He lasted forty-five seconds, and that was a struggle. He gasped for air, coughed until it became a laugh. There was definitely something special about that balloon.

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Mr. Alexander arrived later than he had intended, and most of the scouts’ parents had reached the swimming pool early. They stood outside the gate waiting to leave their children in Mr. Alexander’s care.

He knew all the parents by name, greeting them like long lost relatives before instructing the boys to help him unload his trunk. There was a lot to set up, from a special bingo board of challenges, to the balloons he’d already blown up—all but one.

The special yellow one rested in his pocket.

He didn’t want to let it out of his reach. He swore he’d find out more about it, and more about that woman he met at the party store. But first he had an activity with his scouts.

“Hurry up, Justin,” a scout said. “Is that all you’re bringing in?”

The other scouts had carried as much as possible. A couple had paired to carry in the cooler of drinks. But Justin had had just carried in one balloon, a yellow one.

“You suck, Justin,” one scout said. “You’re like the wussiest, weakest, little…”

“Enough!” Mr. Alexander said. “I don’t want to have to call any parents with bad reports today, got it?”

“Yes, sir,” the scouts sung out of tune.

“You’re still a little shit,” Timmy whispered as he passed Justin.

“Screw you,” Justin said.

Timmy snapped around, dropped the bag of plates and napkins. He clapped his hands together. The yellow balloon popped in Justin’s face. All the other scouts keeled over in laughter.

Mr. Alexander was furious. “Damn it, Timmy. We needed that one.”

“Whoopsie daisies.”

Mr. Alexander really did need one more yellow balloon if his lesson was going to work the way he planned. He had one more in his pocket. He rubbed it between his fingers. He didn’t want to lose it.

“It’s Justin’s fault. He couldn’t even carry it right. He’s not good at anything,” Timmy said.

Another scout laughed and added, “I bet he’s good at kissing boys!”

“Enough,” said Mr. Alexander.

A scout whispered something to another that elicited another chuckle.

Mr. Alexander hated it. Kids these days weren’t taught to show respect at home, and they showed even less away from it. He hated bullying and he hated whispering. But he tried to keep his cool. This was supposed to be a fun activity. If the scouts had fun, he’d build their trust and eventually they could do real scouting activities like going hiking or swimming in an actual lake.

But Mr. Alexander had to do something. They had to learn something today, and he had moment Archimedes himself would be jealous of.

“Blow up this balloon,” Mr. Alexander said, handing Justin the yellow balloon from his pocket. “It’ll help you work on expanding your lungs. We’re going to have a breath holding competition in the pool later.”

Justin rolled his eyes, put the balloon to his lips and exhaled. Mr. Alexander’s smile cracked as he watched.

Justin needed something to be proud about. Mr. Alexander knew that if he won that contest the other boys would stop hassling him so much, maybe they’d learn that everyone’s good at something.

That’s all Mr. Alexander wanted.

“Alright, everybody in the pool. Let’s see who can hold their breath the longest?”

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AN HOUR LATER:

It was going to be tough for Mr. Alexander to explain why he broke a thirteen year old’s nose. Justin had already called his parents, and the others were itching to do the same. Every damn kid had a cellphone these days. There was no use trying to apologize to Timmy. No one would believe Mr. Alexander. It didn’t make sense why an adult should hit a child over popping a balloon. It made less sense that the balloon could hold someone’s breath. And if it popped then that person might die. That’s what the lady had meant with her warning—playful as it might have sounded.

But it was pointless to ask any more questions. Mr. Alexander’s life was over.

He sat down on a lawn chair, the yellow balloon in his hands. He unknotted the balloon, and slowly deflated it. Nothing would happen to Justin if he did it this way. Nothing had happened to Mr. Alexander when he let the air out of the balloon. It was only if it was popped.

Sirens howled in the distance.

Mr. Alexander knew his scouts had called the police on him. That’s what he taught them to do if violence occurred. He was mostly proud of them. Maybe if they had faltered then things could’ve been different. He remembered what the beautiful woman had said to him, “There’s only ever two options.” He brought the flaccid yellow balloon to his lips. Filled it with his air.

And then he popped it.

THE END.