“What’s so important about this dime?” I’m screaming across the water. I’m suddenly aware of the few people at tables, watching the underwear man digging through the fountain.
“It could be a mercury dime,” as he speaks, he doesn’t stop feeling the bottom, occasionally pulling up something to inspect, and then returning it to the water. “Any dime made between 1916 and 1945 was a mercury dime.” He’s breathing heavily, “I need your help. Come help me find it. It has a pictureof lady liberty with a helmet. People thought it looked like the Roman god Mercury. Come help me!”
“Help you?” I blurt, “I’m not getting in the fountain.”
Suddenly he stands bolt upright, his boxer briefs and wet shirt clinging to his body. I’m pretty sure I’m making eye contact only. “I dare you.” He stares at me. “I dare you to jump in the fountain and help me.” Then his tone softens and he almost pleads, “I need your help.”
A dare? What, am I twelve?
I guess so, because my core turns to marble and there is not any chance that I’m not getting in that water. I start taking off my shoes without breaking eye contact and he smiles so big the water illuminates his teeth in ripply waves. By the time I’m boxer-briefing over the rail, he’s splashing his arms, nearly shoulder-deep, in the water again. I also took off my polo, so the splashing water is making my tank-top a bit transparent. “It’s deeper than it looks,” I’m saying.
And cold. The fall weather isn’t much help and my legs are breaking out in goosebumps. Matthew looks up at me beaming, saying, “Thanks.”
As committed as I was in getting in the fountain, I find I’m not as committed to the search as he is. I reach through the deeper-than-it-should-be water and pick up a coin or two, throwing them back. I suddenly have this feeling like I’m stealing, and maybe not just coins, but people’s hopes and wishes. I see something sparkly in the water a few feet away, make my way there and grab it. It’s a ring! It looks cheap and rusty from the water, but I’m seriously excited and when I raise it up to show Matthew, I inadvertently splash the back of his shirt with a big stream.
“Sorry,” I’m saying, “I found a rusty ring.”
He stands up, curling his back as if he’s trying to escape the cold wetness of his shirt. Then, he looks at me with anexpression that I can’t quite place, until he reaches down in the water and sends a giant splash my way.
I gasp as the chill soaks the front of my shirt and I try a similar escape-from-the-coldness move which fails tremendously. He’s laughing and moving slowly against his frigid shirt. Before we know it, the water is flying. Defensively, we’re moving away from each other, ducking behind the bubbling pillars, laughing hysterically, making mock sounds of anger. Without warning, my bare foot lands on something metal and slick, maybe a drain cover, and I go down, full body under. The cold blast shocks the breath out of me. When I get my head above water, Matthew is bellowing hysterically and trudging through the waves toward me.
I half-stand, trying to find footing. Matthew arrives, laughing so hard he can’t form words and throws out a hand for support. I’m laughing too, and my undershirt is sticking to my heaving chest, fully transparent now. I eye his hand, starting to grab it, when something possesses me I can’t explain.
I stand fully, grab him in a cold bear hug and tackle him through the bubbling pillar, falling into the water beyond. The instant he’s under, the world becomes one big chaos of swinging arms and white bubbles and flailing legs. Our heads appear above the water for a second before I’m fully standing. We both are breathless and laughing.
“It is deeper than it looks,” he says, spitting water back into the pond.
“And colder,” I say, extending a trembling arm, still heaving hysterically.
He looks past my arm, studying my face, trying to predict my next move. I shake my hand at him to clarify that I mean no further harm. He smiles and grabs it, and I pull him upright.
Suddenly we are standing chest to chest, hands still interlocked between us, sharing the same breath. I feel thewarmth coming from his torso and my eyes keep flicking to the place where his wet shirt has come open a couple of buttons, revealing a light patch of soaking chest hair. Neither of us move, we remain transfixed in the middle of the pond with thick bubbly pillars of water surrounding us. I can’t take my eyes off of the glass-like beads of water clinging to his eyelashes, and the drip of his hair behind his ears, the way his short beard is reshaped by the curl of his dripping smile. My eyes wander back down his wet shoulder to his bicep, dripping, and I notice that he’s searching my torso too.
And something weird happens. I’m wishing for Martin. Like, my real first-place wish is that Martin was here, dripping in his spandex shirt and board shorts, gold necklace clinging to his dripping neck. I’m trapped by it. Gut-punched. My body breaks out in goosebumps and I can see Martin. Clearly, in my head, I can see him.
My brain is a gush of water and I don’t know how to process it. And then I see him.
I mean, the real Martin. My eyes focus beyond Matthew to the far end of the fountain, and sure enough there is a man leaning against the rail who looks a lot like Martin. He’s gaping at us like we’re aliens, and then I realize: ItisMartin. In person.
“Liam,” he hollers, waving one arm lightly. Matthew turns to see, also.
An angry growl comes from the rail by our table and we both look to find a security officer, dressed to resemble a real cop, demanding that we get out of the fountain. I let go of Matthew’s hand, suddenly self-conscious of the transparent nature of wet boxer briefs, and head across the pond toward Martin, adjusting fabric as I go.
“I’ll be right back,” I yell back to Matthew. He heads toward our pile of clothing beyond the rail.
“Hi Martin.”
“What are you doing?”
“Um, having brunch,” I say, now breathing heavy from the exertion. “And then we lost something in the fountain.”
“In your underwear?” his voice cracks. I watch as his eyes traverse my wet body, lingering a moment or two longer than necessary. I think he sees the goosebumps on my thighs because that’s where his eyes get stuck.
I pull on the front of my shirt, trying to create some space between the transparent shirt and my torso. “I didn’t want to get my clothes wet,” I say as if it’s the most obvious thing ever. “Um, I mean my other clothes.”
He just smiles, looking at me, then at my dripping shirt. “Did you find it?” he asks finally, eyes leaving my chest and scanning the pond beyond.
“Find what?”
