Free American Babe by Babe Walker Page A

having a slow, balletic seizure.
    But I didn’t care what people were thinking. Was “not giving a fuck” about what others think of you contagious?Almost everyone I knew in LA was constantly trying to prove how much they didn’t give a fuck about what people thought/said about them, while simultaneously secretly giving the MOST fucks. People in LA are so full of shit, and I was part of that. I wouldn’t have been caught dead doing something like this back home. I felt like I was in a dream. Nothing was bothering me about this whole scenario. Not even the fact that Scotts could probably see me doing my moves. If you’re not self-conscious in the presence of a really hot guy, then there is something seriously wrong with you. Or at least I used to think so.
    D’Angelo’s soundtrack turned out to be MAJOR. ABBA, The Village People (ironic, but most likely completely planned by Miss D’Angelo himself), The Police, Donna Summer. I was living; the elderly women in the pool were LIVING. D was an emotional Sherpa, guiding us through our workout journey. “Now wave both arms up and down, up and down, great job, Phyllis! Glory, stick with me, honey.” The class was flying by until I heard someone scream.
    â€œHELP!!!!!!”
    I looked over to the other side of the pool and saw a crowd of people starting to form around something on the ground.
    â€œSomeone call 911!!!” another voice yelled.
    Honestly, I was kind of annoyed. I was really getting intothis fucking class and now some old person or child had to go and die on the side of the pool? There was no way this wasn’t going to derail my enjoyment of this class, not to mention ruin my heart rate’s cardio cal-burn.
    â€œCan you turn off the music for me, hon?” D’Angelo asked.
    â€œSure,” I replied.
    I turned off his Jambox/Sonos/Beats Pill little guy that he had going and started walking slowly over to the crowd of people that was forming around the corpse. It was, like, fifteen people at this point. My curiosity pushed me right to the front of the group so I could see what was happening.
    â€œHoly fuck. Scotts is dead!” I yelled.
    There he was. Hot Scotts was just lying on his back next to the pool. He looked dead as FUCK. He skin was gray and turning transparent in some spots and the amount of breathing he was doing was none. Very, very similar to a dead person.
    â€œDo you know him well?” a tall man, wearing a Speedo, asked me.
    â€œI mean, kind of,” I replied.
    â€œYeah. That guy’s dead. I’m really sorry. He’s not breathing at all. Jesus,” he continued.
    â€œWhat happened? Did anyone see what happened to him? Did he just drown?” I asked.
    â€œNo. I saw him get out of the pool. He looked out of sorts and then he just fell over onto the tile. Lifeless,” a lifeguard responded. “I think he hit his head.”
    â€œI was just hanging out with him before he started doing his laps. He seemed really happy. Like, the happiest I’ve ever seen him. It’s just so sad. Death is all around us, you know?” I felt really good about my mini-eulogy.
    Someone else was now giving Scotts mouth-to-mouth. I didn’t know how to feel. Was I supposed to be sad that Scotts was dead now? I barely knew him. Was I being tested? Was there a lesson to be learned here? So many questions and so little time. Scotts was not responding to the CPR at all. What I did know was that there was literally nothing I could do to help him. In fact, I felt like I was actually kind of in the way by standing there, so I decided that I could best help Scotts in his time of need by leaving . . . immediately.
    When I got back in my car I YouTube’d the opening credits to Felicity and thought about Scotts. He was so filled with joy in the short time I knew him. But he was probably in a better place now. As the ambulance arrived at the Y, I let one semiforced tear