Humble request

“BobbaLew.” (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

“Hello Bob,” said ***** a lifeguard at the Canandaigua YMCA’s gigantic swimming-pool where I do aquatic therapy for questionable balance.
“I have a humble request,” I said to her; at which point my brother from Boston retorts “You never been humble yer entire life.”
“Brothers say that,” ***** commented.
“I never liked the name ‘Bob.’ My siblings call me ‘Bobby;‘ you can call me that if you want. But if yer really hip you’ll call me ‘BobbaLew.’”
WHOA! A slam-dunk; she loved it, or so it seemed.
*****-the-lifeguard is not easy to talk to. She carries immense responsibility. What if someone drowns, or has a heart-attack?
I used to feel that way driving bus, but I think lifeguarding is more intense. Little kids charge about, and there’s poor ***** trying to maintain order.
“Nothing better happen during my watch,” she once told me. Trying to keep passengers in their seats when Granny cuts me off, is comparable, I guess. Although keeping kids from running poolside is even more challenging. To my mind anyway.
So she’s rather reserved, and has every right to be. Were it not for the fact she says “hello” to me, I probably would leave her alone.
I didn’t expect a slam-dunk.
Two days later I hear “BobbaLew” behind me. It’s *****.
“Uh-oh,” I say; “someone’s calling me the name I always wanted.
For 40-50 years I been trying to get people to call me that. Little success.”
“Sometimes ya gotta hit the right person,” she said.
“I got a story if ya wanna hear it.”
“Is it short?” she asked.
“Yep,” I said. “In 1961 when I was 17, I was on the staff of a boys camp in northeastern MD on Chesapeake Bay. I was a counselor-in-training, also a stablehand. I taught campers how to ride horse.
There was another counselor-in-training a year younger than me, and he started calling me ‘BobbaLouie.’ There was a TV cartoon-character named ‘Babbalouie’ at that time.
‘Bob’ is so conventional. I like ‘BobbaLew,’ that’s who I am. Head full of whacko ideas; a disgusting ne’er-do-well.”
I didn’t expect the reaction I got from *****. I wasn’t planning on saying anything. It was so successful I made the mistake of asking others, and crashed mightily.
“I also write a blog, and it’s titled ‘BobbaLew,’” I added.
“Things are coming together,” ***** said.
“LA-DEE-DAH!” I cried.
***** laughed; I love to see her laugh. Lifeguarding that pool is intimidating.
“So far yer number-two,” I commented. “I tried awful hard at the Mighty Mezz, but only got one out of hundreds. ‘BobbaLew’ is who I am.”
An Ed Roth plastic statue is on my bedroom dresser. I did it long ago in college. People ask about it.
“That’s ‘BobbaLew’” I say. “Take care of ‘BobbaLew.’”

• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs. My heart-defect caused stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability, and that defect was repaired. I recovered well enough to return to work at the “Mighty Mezz;” I retired from that over 12 years ago.
• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired. Best job I ever had — I was employed there almost 10 years — over 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern.
• Back during the ‘60s a guy from southern Californy named Ed Roth began doing whacko art regarding cars. He was otherwise known as “Rat Fink.” My statue is the driver of a Model-T hotrod, Rat-Fink style. The steering-wheel is in the left hand, and the transmission shift-knob, high atop a long missing floor-shift lever, is in the right hand, fingers curled around the shift-knob, except for that raised pinky.