You don’t usually put coins in public bathroom concession machines. It’s not your thing. Sure you’ve looked at them with some passing curiosity. You’ve seen them at lots of truck stops, bars and pubs, usually while relieving yourself and looking for something to rest yours eyes on. But you’d never have your thoughts actually fix on the actual things inside, the word descriptions of the products. As far as you know, you’ve never seen the words, ‘Red Rooster Performance’. Until now. You’ve not reached for some coins and paid for anything in a public toilet before, until now. What’s the harm of it anyway you think. Your coins drop into the metal chambers behind the glowing box on the wall and out from the bottom, a small packet emerges noiselessly below. It’s red and clean with the word Red Rooster written in bold. You pick it up and examine it. Only for a moment as you don’t want to draw attention to yourself. You note the cartoon outline of a rooster before you disappear the packet in your fist. Normally, you would have put something small like that it in a pocket and find it later, a moist ball of laundry lint. But you are wearing swimming trunks that are not fitted with pockets.

You’ve noticed that you forget a lot more things now. Now that you’re older, and not just the kind of things that accidentally run through the laundry. Last week you had insisted to employees at a local hotel casino that your sunglasses had been stolen, the ones that your wife Laura reminded you were too expensive for a pensioner. You remember explaining to them in a loud voice that your sunglasses were prescription when you happen to accidentally discover them perched on the crown of your head.You quietly withdrew from the security desk without drawing any further attention to yourself. Last year, at the airport lounge in Cincinnati, before you and Laura walked through customs on your way to Mazatlán, your sister had said that you were a ‘youngish older guy’. ‘Really,’ you had said in response wanting to understand how that could be. Thoughts of dying was something that had become a thing for you then, so arming yourself with contrary evidence to your own demise was useful, something you could store away like a snack food could binge on later when you were feeling frightened by a pain in your pancreas, or a wheezing in your chest. That was a year ago now and even though your sister might have been right in Cincinnati, it was still a year gone and Mazatlan wasn’t exactly a healthy lifestyle. You worry about dying more now. You want to tell Laura that it's something that you think about it, but you don’t because it might worry her, and you already worry her enough.

You sometimes wondered if your sister was joking about what she’d said. Her compliments were always followed by something that was meant, ‘to keep your head from swelling,’ she said. After she told you that you were youngish, she called you a ‘duffice for wearing a leather jacket. And that black leather would look foolish on the beach.’ You don’t think she remembered that the coat had belonged to Dad. And that the jacket, and a video camera that no longer worked, were all that you had left to remember him by. You don’t even recall what he sounded like now that 30 years had passed. But when you think of your father, it reminds you that there was a time when there was dignity in being a man. ‘Don’t believe your own bullshit,’ was one of the things that he’s impressed upon you. When you folded the leather coat on the seat in the airport lounge, you had decided that wearing his coat was a little like believing in bullshit. You wouldn’t need it where you were going where it was warm where there was sea breeze.

Ripping the RedRooster package open you notice a tiny white tablet that sticks to your sweaty finger as you draw it from the pack. You are craneing the tablet to your mouth when a small boy comes round the corner wearing red shorts and sunglasses which are too big for his face. ‘What’s that,’ he asks, pointing to the tablet which has rolled from your finger and bounced onto the tiled floor. ‘Just a little dust you say,’ picking the tablet up and swallowing it quickly. ‘That’s gross,’ says the boy, his nose curling up to a small sponge in the middle of his face, a green popsicle stain streaked the centreline of his tongue. You think of something sensible you might say to the boy, but you decide to ignore him remembering that men are not speak to children, especially as you are wearing swimming trunks. Like the boy’s, your trunks are red. You had bought them two decades ago during a period in your life when you were experimenting with fitness. You can’t see them from below a swelling of your gut that obscures the view of anything below your naval. But you know they’re red and that they’re called speedos. The salesman had told you that they were built for aquatic aerodynamics, ‘ I need all the help I can get,’ you had said and chose the red ones. Speed red. Performance red.

’You’re a loser, ' said the kid with the green tongue and pushes past you. It impresses you how matter of fact children can be, and that he might have a point. It was rude anyway to have ignored him, even a child deserves to be acknowledged, to be recognised as a somebody.

Outside, the toilets are sheltered from the rest of the hotel pool area by a strip of shoulder height hedgery. You stand here to allow the sun to build up its presence on your shoulders. There’s a slight smell of sewage from the toilets, but this is normal. You also have a smell at the timeshare that you and Laura had bought as your retirement home. You had mentioned this once on one of the rare occasions that the property manager had come. He said that you should feel lucky that you don’t have cockroach. The thought of this now makes your nostrils flare-out in disgust. All concerns about the smell of sewage had been vanquished as though he’d uttered an incantation. Each precise enunciation of the syllables worked its effect. First ‘cock’, then ‘a’ and finally, ‘roach’. Cock. A. Roach. And, the smell became insignificant.

The pool was busy, New Years celebrations brought many tourists into Mazatlan and this particular hotel had a good reputation and was close enough to the beach for a view of the Pacific Ocean. You and Laura have rented a room here. This is not the first time. You like the feeling of pretending to be a tourist, to get mixed into the escapism of it all. ‘We just have to take the bus, and bingo we’re on vacation,’ she would say.

‘Do you know how much people would have to pay to fly down and get a load of this,’ you had said as you pushed Laura along in her wheelchair, and gazed at the facade of the hotel rise-up as you approach. You remember thinking how easy it is to please Laura as she pushed the folded wheelchair deeper into the shrubbery. Her diabetes didn’t keep her at home and the wheelchair is just a convenience, she’s not really diabled. She is usually in pain but she perseveres. She’s a happy person. You admire her for these reasons, but you often forget this. ‘All clear,’ she said, having finished hiding the chair. Her smile was the biggest thing on her face except for the enormous gold highlighted glasses. You smile at her and feel love for her. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s get a suntan.’

When you walked over to two deck chairs by the pool you had noticed the slight limp that Laura denies that she has, and felt a flash of worry that perhaps she had been coming to the hotel for you, and that perhaps there were many other things that she had been doing in a sneaky way without you noticing, simply because she loved you. This worries you and you wish that you could do more for her.

You scan the pool. The blue of a pool’s plastic lining had always made you feel good and clean and fresh, like a new summer holiday. You knew that it was an illusion and that if the pool were a different colour, with a green plastic lining for example, it would reveal it all to be a sham. But it wasn’t green. It was blue and everything was perfect. You can see Laura at the far end of the pool framed in her wide brimmed white hat. Her pain foot is raised on a rolled towel and you think she is sleeping again.

‘Hey mister, what are you looking at.’ It was the boy. He has taken your hand. You pull it free quickly as if from the teeth of a steel trap. You can see a woman’s glare bearing down on you as she approaches. ‘Billy,’ she says. She is addressing the boy but her eyes remain riveted on you, with a glare. It’s your swimming trunks that seem to be her focus.

‘You know there’s been an escape leopard,’ says the boy. Don’t acknowledge him. Ignore him for safety’s sake. ‘It comes from one of the drug lord’s mansions,’ he says to you. ‘Billy you come here this instance.’ You form the shape of a smile on your face and give a weak wave to the woman as she puts an arm around the boy and turns to the pool area, looking over her shoulder at your swimming trunks. You can appreciate being concerned for the boy, what in this day and age. But it does occur to you that there might be the benefit of the doubt to consider. Billy’s mother, or whoever she was, did seem a bit overly disgusted by your presence, which was a little unfair as you’re not the only one wearing swimming trunks. And, you weren’t hiding behind the bushes if that’s what she was thinking, you were just looking. Still, better move away, back into the pool area.

Next to the pool there's a restaurant. You think it’s supposed to be decked out in the style of a french cafe. Waiters come to the table wearing aprons and take their orders with a kind of panache. You wonder if it's company policy that the waiters wear pencil moustaches. You notice a young couple looking toward you smiling then turn back to their conversation. It occurs to you how nice it is to be seen, that they probably think you are on vacation with a large family and that this is how the rich spend new years. They are having a laugh amongst themselves that somehow makes you feel apart of. It occurs to you that you’re not often seen or acknowledged in this way and that being older might be the reason. The young man has a hairstyle that has a particular flair to it so that you can discern a bevelled edge along the sides. The woman across from him has a sort of gazelle-like body that drapes over her chair and angles over to caress his tanned forearm. As you are now mostly bald, hair arrouses memories of younger times. You catch a thought of yourself ameshed in the woman’s arms and legs but you don’t know why. ‘Hey there now,’ you say to yourself, quickly guiding your thoughts to something Laura had said about preferring bald men. The couple flash another smile in your direction which causes your hand to rise into a weak wave. They continue to laugh, but they don’t wave back which is rude, but young people tend to be nowadays.

At the far end of the pool you stop to look across to Laura. You can see that she is definitely asleep. Her mouth is slightly ajar and her head is tilted in a sort of ‘I’m asleep’ angle. As you stand there feeling the traces of sweat bead-up under the heat of the sun, you consider the freshness of the pool. Some of the swimmers off to the side are looking over to you. They are smiling and laughing as one might do seeing someone ready to dive-in to a pool only to back-away. But you have no intention of swimming, not yet. But again you enjoy being regarded. To be seen, even to be laughed at in a good natured way.

Not far from the pool you see the golfing pro looking over to you. He raises his hand over his eyes and then beckons you over with his arm. Down a short flight of stairs the golf shop is having a small outdoor sale of last year’s merchandise. You don’t know the golf pro’s name but you see he is wearing brown tartan pants which seems old fashioned to you, but you know that fashion makes things that were once old, new and ironic, more clever than you are. ‘You look great says the golf pro. This surprises you considering the Christmas holidays, but you’ve never actually weighed yourself in a keep track sort of way.

‘Welcome,’ he says taking your hand in a hand shake and then putting his other hand over the top as if to make the point about being welcome. This also surprises you a little, because he knows you and Laura are locals and can’t afford much. Occasionally you might visit the driving range, but never a full round of golf. Still, it’s nice to be mistaken for someone who has a little money to spend. ‘Can I entice you to some of the merchandise,’ the golf pro sweeps his hand across the three stands of clothing racks, two sets of misshapen shoes with gold trim and an awkward looking manikin wearing an argyle sweater despite the blazing sun. ‘What a shame,’ says the golf pro before you have a chance to decide on a good reason why you're not in the market for golf fashions. He returns his hand over yours which still seems a little familiar - you think you should at least remember his name. ‘And what about your wife, your children?’ Before you answer you remind yourself that you and Laura had decided long ago that if you couldn’t offer a better life than your own, then you wouldn’t have children. This is what you say when people ask, but you could also say something about global warming being what it is, and that it seems like the right choice, probably.

‘I have no children you say,’ truthfully. ‘No, says the golf pro.’ You notice that he has a pencil moustache just like the cafe waiters and that he is looking in your eyes as if he was discovering something about you. ‘No. We don’t have children. Not men like us,’ he says. You wonder about this sudden connection he is making, that maybe he means men that are avid golfers. But you are sure you’ve told him in the past that you’re not big into golf. The way he is holding your hand tighter now makes you withdraw with a quick out of the fire sort of flicking movement, which you regret immediately because you see this upsets him.

You hear yourself offering to buy some golf balls. Yes, you decide that should help smooth things over. The golf pro smiles. He steps smoothly over the golf shoes to collect a packet of balls and gracefully glides back toward you. His movements seem to you like a cat covering distances quickly but effortlessly. He places the balls in your hand. You regret asking for balls now as it seems to have stirred something in him based on an innuendo that you didn’t want to make and it was being treated as a secret message that you didn’t intend. But you were glad when he said, ‘keep them. It’s my little gift’. Your swimming trunks have no pockets and the last of your money went into the machine.

You think it might be time for a swim now as you barefoot back up the stairs. Or, maybe Laura would be ready for one of her strawberry margaritas. You could have a cerveza. You are thinking about cerveza when you feel a smack to your gut like you had just been hit by a football after a ‘ready set hut’. But it isn’t a football. It is the head of a child that has barrelled into you. You assume it's the kid with the green tongue as you feel yourself push back off the step. You are surprised in a slow-motion kind of way how much force the face of small boy could have. You notice golf balls rising up against a blue sky. They are orange balls, not white, ironic and clever orange.

Don’t move. Allow the pain. Feel it. Push your tongue through one of the missing gaps in your teeth. Concentrate with coping. ‘Sorry mister.’ That’s the boy. Don’t respond. Spanish voices. The golf pro was shouting orders in Spanish. But now he is close to you saying something soothing and gentle in a way that Laura might. He is also placing his hand on your chest in a way that Laura might. This troubles you, but it does keep you from thinking of the pain.

You work through pain. You remember your Father saying. ‘Sport,’ he told you, ‘is like life. We don’t lose our dignity because of pain. We have dignity because we experience it.’ Just lie there. Feel the pain. Your father had died of pancreatic cancer, without complaint. He died never losing his dignity, never needing anything you might have offered, so you never did. Lie there. You don’t need anything. You hear a woman crying, but the golf pro quickly silences her with a curt spanish that sounds like a scolding. But then there are others that were crying quietly. They think you are dead. It feels good to be grieved for. To be seen. To be human. ‘Are those his balls, ’someone says. ‘It’s not just his ball is it,’ someone adds as if to say, this isn’t just about the golf balls, but a man is down and who knows how bad it is. But by now you know it’s not bad. You have an old wound that you got when you were a kid, but you’re not really hurt. You feel the old injury but the pain is starting to fade.

Your injury is an old one you got clearing brush for your step father. It turned out to be a torn ligament in your back. It allowed you to miss school for a week which suited you fine, but what you really wanted was for your step father to apologise. Lying there on the steps you realise that the day you cleared those leaves was the last time you had laid on the ground waiting for someone to find you. You had hoped your mum would have found you. Or, the police. Maybe they’d come across your foot peeking out from some leaves that the wind would have built up around your body as you lay there. You’d be forced to explain that, ‘yeah, it was your step father who forced you into clearing the acre of leaves with only a rake.’ And, ‘yeah you did tell him that you could have used the lawn mower.’ You realise now lying there on the steps a ‘youngish older guy’ that it was really your dead father that you had hoped would have found you. But no one ever did come across you. Until today.

‘He’s obviously stimulated, someone is saying,’ as you start making sounds like you are coming back into consciousness. The golf pro appears before you. You feel embarrassed for him as his concerned face looks at you. He must be a simpleton as there’s obviously really nothing wrong with you. You get up slowly, happy to see people are smiling, and that some others are laughing. You don’t think its that funny, but you know how it is when you think something awful has happened but then suddenly turns out ok. Some of them are pointing at your racing speedos, but it doesn’t matter. You consider waiting for the hotel staff to come and maybe offer a free meal or drink or something, but you notice that people are really starting to laugh and point in your direction, a bit of a scene you decide, but you appreciate their relief. You might fall down in life, but you can still have dignity. You’re a lesson for them.

By the pool you see that Laura is awake and watching you approach her. She smiles. ‘Hi,’ you say. ‘You look beautiful.’ ‘Thank you. Are glad to see me,’ she says. You smile. Standing there you feel like you did when you were both young. Except for a back injury, your body is still a thing that serves its purpose despite the punishment of years. For a moment you feel what you imagine is in Laura’s eyes, a man who was young, known to her once full of life, full of life still. A red rooster appears then fades from your thoughts as you slip into the pool. You sink below the surface. You’ve taken a deep breath and decide you can stay down for as long as you like. The cool water feels good and takes its effect, fresh and crisp. You squint through your eyes and see the blue of the pool. This is precisely where you belong. You can stay there not breathing, but not drowning for as long as you can like, until you can’t. You feel your head clear the water and you take a breath. Laura is smiling at you with the same perplexed I-love you face, ‘well,’ she says. You don’t reply. The thought of a leopard enters your mind roaming somewhere out there in the perimeter. ‘I like it,’ she said.‘I know,’ you say smiling back into her eyes. Don’t move. Be still.