Page 47 of Hunter's Hidden Camera
I see a garbage can by the gate. I grab the laptop, move quickly, toss it in the garbage can, and go back to the pool. We’ll have to retrieve the laptop later.
Oscar and I take a deep breath, slip into the cold water, and move ourselves underneath the two diving boards.
It’s almost unbearably cold down here. It feels like my blood is freezing. I’m getting light-headed. I’m pressing my fingers against the side of the pool to ensure that I remain in place and don’t accidentally bob to the top.
I hear the police officer’s heavy steps pound into the sports complex. The sun casts the officer’s shadow onto the water, so I can tell he’s running by the diving boards and presumably heading towards where the janitorial cart is.
I can’t hold my breath any longer. I turn to Oscar, who’s gesturing towards his face—he can’t either.
I count up with my fingers: one, two, three. We both quietly poke our heads out of the pool and take in deep breaths. Our teeth are chattering, our bodies shivering.
I look over to the restrooms. There’s no one there. The cop must be inside the women’s restroom, questioning the janitor.
“Can we get out?” Oscar manages to say, though he’s shaking. “I can’t take this.”
“Just a little bit longer, bro. You can do it.”
Both the police officer and the janitor come out of the restroom.
Shit. The officer’s back is facing towards us—but is the janitor looking directly at Oscar and me right now?
I gesture for Oscar to go back underwater. We both do.
The water seems even colder now. My body tries to scrunch itself into a ball, as a last-ditch way to find some kind of heat. My head is spinning.
We hear the sound of footsteps and the rolling janitorial cart moving towards us. Are we caught?
Then: the cop and the janitor both move past us and towards the gate that we came in. That was a close one.
I need air, and I need it now. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Oscar shaking his head back and forth in what looks like pain.
After a bit more conversation between the cop and the janitor, we hear the gate close. The footsteps and cart fade away.
Oscar and I shoot up out of the water, our faces probably blue or purple or some other unnatural color. We crawl out of the pool and roll onto our backs. Our bodies are convulsing.
“I’m freezing, dude,” Oscar says, with great difficulty.
“We have to get out of these wet clothes,” I say.
I point toward the locker rooms. “Maybe we can steal some dry clothes from in there.”
Oscar nods. Very slowly, he makes it onto his feet and gives me a hand up. We hurry.
22
Lockers
Inside the men’s locker room, I flip a light switch. The fluorescents come on. One of them is running out of juice, so it flickers on and off.
There are rows and rows of long, dark green lockers. Most of them have combination locks on them. And we discover that the ones without locks are completely empty, except for the occasional piece of trash or wadded up towel.
Our teeth and our bodies continue to rattle. Why does it still feel so damn cold?
“These locks look cheap as hell,” observes Oscar.
He spots a plastic yellow “CAUTION WET FLOOR” sign to his right. He grabs it and smashes one end of it repeatedly against a lock until it breaks open. He smirks. He obliterates two more locks. He’s stronger than I thought.
We open the three lockers. There aren’t any “regular” clothes in here. Just stuff like swim trunks, tank tops, and flip-flops. Sothey will have to do for now.
