“If I get pushed into a pool one more time, somebody is going to die.”
Everyone laughed because everyone always laughed.
It began at the first summer party, when someone thought it hilarious to shove the fully dressed guest into the shallow end. The next time happened at a wedding reception. Then a birthday. Then an office retreat. Somehow the joke followed from one social circle to another, acquiring the strange immortality of a story people preferred repeating to understanding.
There were objections, of course. Quiet ones at first, then angry ones. None mattered. The moment someone stood near water, another person would grin, glance around for an audience, and begin creeping forward with both hands raised.
So precautions were taken. Phones stayed in waterproof cases. Watches came off near pools. Shoes were chosen for drainage. Invitations mentioning boats, fountains, hot tubs, lakes, or decorative ponds were declined.
For three years, there were no incidents.
Then came the rooftop party.
There was music, champagne, a swimming pool glowing blue beneath strings of lights, and exactly one person stupid enough to remember the old joke.
Hands struck between the shoulder blades. The victim disappeared over the edge. The screaming began before anyone reached the railing.
The rooftop pool had been removed during renovations six months earlier.
What remained below was an empty concrete basin, twelve feet deep.
The ambulance arrived quickly. So did the police. Witnesses repeated the same sentence: it was only supposed to be a joke.
In the hospital, wrapped in plaster and stitched nearly everywhere stitching was possible, the survivor listened as an officer carefully explained that charges would likely follow.
“Good,” came the whisper.
Months later, the rooftop pool reopened.
At the first party of summer, everyone promised not to push anyone. And even though nobody even stood too close…
…a set of hands rushed out of nowhere and gave a rough shove.
©2012 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys
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