Story written by: Greenberry Taylor
I swam at MUSC for about two months. I never talked to a soul.
I was getting in my groove with 5:45 a.m. sessions when they announced the pool would be closing for 6 months to update the facilities. They would still be offering “on-land” swim classes for members.
I contemplated showing up in a speedo, swim cap, and goggles, and just being like, “I’m here for the swim class.” Instead, I canceled my membership and began the search for another pool.
I employed my rigorous research skills, taking to Google. I typed, “Pools in Charleston.” I scoured the page; the first result: MUSC. Been there, done that, decided not to do the butterfly on hardwood. The second result: MLK Jr. pool.
I signed up! I had seen enough! For more tips on how to research, like and subscribe.
The pictures of MLK Jr. Pool looked sick. 50 meters, tons of lanes, and a RETRACTABLE ROOF! I was feeling good about the first sesh until I remembered: New pool. New people. New small-talk.
Balls.
I arrived at the MLK Jr. pool around 6:30 a.m. on a Wednesday in mid-July. I believed my long beard, long hair, and beer belly would deter folks from engaging with me like they had at the MUSC pool.
I was wrong.
It was 6:45 and I was making my way toward the water when this guy walked over and said, “I wouldn’t do that if I was you.”
He was smiling and tilting his head toward something. The type of gesture you make when you are trying to subtly tell someone to look at something without drawing attention.
All I saw was an older lifeguard pacing the left side of the pooldeck.
“What is this dude’s deal?,” I thought.” Who in the fuck is this weirdo?”
The weirdo was a mustachioed man with tattoos. I clocked what looked like a half sleeve on his upper right arm, a half sleeve on his lower right calf, and a tattoo on his right forearm. He looked like the Great Value Brand Rob Delaney.
“That’s Alex,” the weirdo said, now pointing at the older lifeguard that was still pacing.
“We can’t get in the water until 7 o’clock. That is when the Master’s Swimteam is done. Alex is serious. I’m just warning ya.”
And he stepped back, hands in the air to signal that he had delivered the warning and any move I made after was at my own risk. I backed away from the pool and sat on a bench.
“I’m Michael,” the weirdo said, extending his fist instead of an open hand.
A dap as a greeting. This guy might be alright.
“I’m Greenberry,” I replied as our fists met. “Greenbery?” he parroted back at me. “Yup.” “That’s your real name,” he asked, puzzled. “Yup,” I replied again. “That’s rad,” he replied, still smiling.
Michael proceeded to ask me the basic small-talk questions. Where I was from. Why I moved here. Where I lived in Charleston. Yada-yada-yada.
I rattled off the answers and asked some follow-ups of my own. At 7 o'clock, I got in the pool and knocked out my 45-minutes.
There was no sight of Michael when I got out and surveyed the deck that surrounds the massive pool. I grabbed my towel, dried off, threw on my shirt, wrapped my towel around me, made my way to the car, and drove home.
I swam the next day, but no Michael.
On Friday, I was getting my swimcap on when I heard a loud, “GREENBERRY” shout from behind me. It was Michael.
Today, he bypassed small talk and began chatting with me like I had known him for at least 5 years.
“Doing anything fun this weekend,” he asked, with the same smile on his face that I had seen on our first encounter. This fucker was so cheerful.
“No big plans, how about you,” I asked.
“Just getting ready to take my daughter to college. She will be a freshman at University of Cincinnati. She is going for Stage Management."
I have three sisters, and one brother. Between them, I have 10 nephews and nieces. They are proud parents.
There are two types of pride that parents exude.
The first is fueled by excitement for their kid, the opportunities that await them, their successes, and the awe at the person their kid is becoming. It is authentic, genuine, and made up of nothing but love. The second type, however, is driven by the need to impress others, to cite their successes to receive adoration from peers and other parents. It is manufactured, and rooted in narcissism.
My dad had the first type of pride.
I once was at a cross-roads early in life and didn’t know what I wanted to do. My dad looked me in the eye and said, “Son, if you want to pump gas for a living and that makes you happy, do that. I will support you no matter what you do.”
And he meant that shit.
He would have told everyone that I was the world’s greatest gas pumper, and if they said anything negative about my gas-pumping lifestyle they’d be met with a fist full of knuckles. He would have wrapped me in a great big hug whenever he saw me and wear the gasoline scent proudly, like a fine cologne.
He was proud of his kids no matter what we did. As long as we were happy and kind to others, he was happy.
When Michael talked about his daughter, I knew it was the same kind of pride my siblings have for their kids. The same kind my dad had for me.
This Michael guy was a good dude.
The next two weeks I’d see him every other weekday. I learned he was a Monday, Wednesday, and Friday guy. I’m a Monday - Friday guy.
What can I say? I love the smell of Chlorine in the morning.
One Monday, after I finished my swim, I went to the locker room to grab a shower. I usually go straight home, but I had to be at a doctor’s appointment early that morning.
Michael was getting ready to head out when I walked in. He was putting on some guitar (sorry, bass) socks when he saw me come in.
“GREENBERRY,” he boomed. “What the hell are you doing in here?” He chuckled.
I told him I had a doctor’s appointment and had to grab a shower here. “See you on Wednesday,” he asked, sliding on his shoes.
“Nah. I won’t be here. I’m headed to San Francisco,” I told him.
“Headed out for the 60th,” he asked, now sliding on his shoes.
He was talking about the 60th anniversary of the Grateful Dead that was happening that upcoming weekend. Dead and Company would be playing a 3-day event at Golden Gate park to commemorate the anniversary. Each night they had a different opener.
The first night was Billy Strings, followed by Sturgill Simpson, and then Trey Anastasio. It was a perfect storm for my wife and I: She is a Dead Head, and I am a Billy Goat.
“Did Michael just casually call out the historical Dead & Co. show,” I thought to myself. “He has not exhibited any signs of jam band fandom. His hair is short. He wears closed-toe shoes. No scent of patchouli.”
“Yeah. Are you a Dead fan,” I asked. “They are great. Should be a fantastic show. You’ll have to let me know how Shakedown was,” he replied.
Now I was doing double-takes. This dude just dropped a Shakedown reference! If you’ve found the page and aren’t quite sure what Shakedown is, you might know it as “the lot.” If you aren’t sure what either is, you should stick around and enjoy the ride.
“Have a great time, man!” he said. And he walked out. Wearing white jeans.
Now, that detail is important for two reasons. The first, is that he will most definitely deny wearing white jeans. I swear that mother fucker was doing his best Michael Scott with those party jeans on a Monday. The second, I just had to say he was wearing white jeans.
I got home and told Amanda, that Michael dude from the pool is cool. “He knows what Shakedown is,” I said.
I don’t have many friends here, so I was psyched to return and tell a fellow jamband fan, and potential friend, about my time in San Fran. When he rolled into the pool that morning, before he had a chance to belt out “GREENBERRY,” I hit him with, “MICHAEL!”
I gave him a rundown on Shakedown and the show. He was loving all the details and asked a million follow-ups. I wanted to keep the convo going, but 7 o’clock came and we had to get swimming.
Michael does a solid 30-minutes and then walks a lap to cool down. I do 45-minutes and then 3 minutes of stretching. As I mentioned earlier, I don’t typically shower at the pool because I work from home and just head that way after I finish up. So, our conversations were always limited to before the swim.
In an effort to wrap some more about the show, I stayed a little later that day stretching, hoping to catch him in the parking lot.
And I did. Then my mind was blown.
We were talking about Shakedown when we was like, “The lots at Panic shows were always wild.”
I was doing double-takes for the Dead comment. I was now doing triple-takes for Panic..
Obviously, he was talking about WSMFP.
“You used to go to Panic shows,” I practically screamed in the parking lot. He let out a little laugh, followed by, “I was at the inaugural Bonnaroo (2002) where he played on my BIRTHDAY!”
If you are a Panic fan, you already know how cool it is to hear someone say “Mikey,” let alone followed by the words “I saw him.” I never got to see him, so this was a treat.
Michael now became cooler.
Over the next few months, we would get our 5-10 minutes of chatting in before our ritualistic 7 o’clock laps commenced. And honestly, we didn’t really talk about music. He talked about his kids.
Dropping Ella off at school was tough, but she is doing great. Charlie’s football season started and he is killing it.
I talked about whatever it was that I talked about. I can’t remember, so whatever it was I am sure it was philosophical, poignant, and dope as hell.
One Monday in late October, Michael wasn’t there. Then he missed Wednesday. Then he missed the whole next week, and then the next month.
He was just gone.
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About the Author:
Greenberry Taylor
Bio: I'm a Bama kid. My first concert was Shania Twain, but the first one I was truly stoked about was Dave Matthews Band at HiFi Buys Amphitheatre in Atlanta in 2002. From there, things got wonderfully out of hand. Panic, Ben Harper, Rage Against the Machine. The road goes on forever, man.
Since then, I've chased stories from newspaper offices in Mobile to ski slopes in Vail, Colorado, and spent time working shows like Bonnaroo, ACL, Electric Forest, and Coachella. When I was slinging Q at Moe’s BBQ in Daphne, I fell hard for the hypnotic grooves of R.L. Burnside, Junior Kimbrough, and Hill Country blues.
I snagged a PhD and molded a few minds along the way, but always told people I learned the most from the Lots, backstage hallways, and conversations with strangers who didn't stay strangers for long.
These days, you'll probably find me in the Lot at a BMFS.
Reach out: greenberry@responsiblewook.com
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