21 December 2009. Rainy morning, King Pool. Gray skies with flurries of wet. Low-rider changing rooms, dank and dim, with the same worn green poly-mesh clothes bags hanging from their skewed wires. Empty benches, puddled floor, a gym bag or two, someone's shoes tucked underneath, and the winding hallway to the deck, with snatches of Moroccan sounds en route--and there, the regulars. Yassir, for one, his sculpted beard now a little gray, directing traffic as of old. "Here, you swim in this lane, pointing. Two will be out soon..." Memories of that commanding diction--and the morning, late summer, nine years ago, with word of two buildings in flame. Same room, radio voices--Larry Bensky, coughing in an unexpected way...
I look into his face--the same warm smile, regaining time. "The same good eyes..."
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