Approaching the Holiday Inn, we could see that high tide was sending its waves to break upon the foundation of the resort’s pool area. Only a seawall protected the hotel’s elaborate concrete beach from the waves of the real thing; therefore, it was the only place on our walk where we couldn’t stay on the sand. I experienced this obstacle regularly and knew that to avoid wading through the surf, it was necessary to cross the pool deck. Together in the dark, all alone, Jones and I climbed the steps that would allow us to negotiate the array of lounge chairs, circle the pool, and exit the property by way of the stairs on the other side.
Despite the security guard who roamed the hotel grounds at night, I wasn’t too scared. The lady who worked the night desk inside the lobby was a middle-aged, African-American woman named Beverly. She was also a friend of mine. I called her Mrs. Beverly and occasionally gave her fresh fish as my part of an unspoken agreement that prompted her to look the other way when I used one or another of the hotel’s amenities. Still, I was cautious. I didn’t want anyone in trouble with the hotel manager. Especially me.
I crouched low, making my way across the deck. Arriving at midpoint, right beside the deep end of the pool, I turned to tell Jones to do the same. I flushed with annoyance, seeing he was not bent over and not hurrying. The old man was moving casually, absolutely upright, hands in his pockets, with those leather sandals scuffling along the sandy concrete. Having trained myself to avoid attention and the subsequent problems that came with it, I was striving for silence, and the old man’s sandals resonated like a metal rake dragging through the gravel.
Irritated, I hissed at him to hurry up, get down, and be quiet. But before I could continue my short trek, Jones inexplicably smiled sweetly and reached toward me in a gesture that indicated he wanted to place his hand on my shoulder but instead…firmly pushed me into what was a very cold, unheated pool.
I was underwater – all the way under the water – before I had any comprehension of what had just occurred. Years later I would carry a weird mental picture of the old man at that particular instant. I would see him through the surface of the pool, leaning over me with his white hair blowing in the cold wind. As I surfaced with a gasp, Jones was smiling. Not laughing (I might’ve killed him) but smiling as if he were curious or expectant or fascinated with the object in front of him – which was, of course, me.
I kicked to the side of the pool and grabbed hold of the edge at his feet. All the fire or meanness or whatever it was I carried around was suddenly gone. I wiped my eyes with my hands, looked up at him, and asked, “What was that for?” as he reached down to help me out.
Soon I was wrapped in ten or twelve towels from the Holiday Inn laundry room and drinking coffee from the pot in the lobby. We were sitting on the floor, huddled in the not-quite-inside, not-quite-outside doorway that led to the hotel tennis courts. It was not comfortable, but it was out of the wind, and I was relatively sure we would not be run off.
After giving him the silent treatment for a time – conduct that I must admit had no effect at all – I peered at him sideways and said, “Jones. Man, I don’t get you. What in the heck was that for?”
He looked at the ceiling, took a deep, contented breath, and crossed his arms comfortably. “Well,” he began, glancing at me briefly, then back to the ceiling. “Son, you are at this very moment in the biggest war you will ever wage in your life. It is confusing, but you’re fighting for what you will one day become. There are forces clashing for space in your head that you don’t recognize, can’t see, and won’t understand until you’re able to look back on the whole thing years from now.
“You know, a lot of folks will tell you that little things don’t matter.” He flashed me a quick look and added, “You’d better turn that on its ear, son. Little things do matter. Sometimes, little things matter the most. Everybody pays a lot of attention to big things, but nobody seems to understand that big things are almost always made up of little things. When you ignore little things, they often turn into big things that have become a lot harder to handle.
“‘Don’t sweat the small stuff,'” Jones said with disdain. “That’s a lie that’ll ruin your life.” He looked hard at me again and locked my gaze with his own. “Your choices, your words, and every move you make are permanent. Life is lived in indelible ink, boy. Wake up. You’re making little bitty brushstrokes every minute you walk around on this earth. And with those tiny brushstrokes, you are creating a painting that your life will ultimately become – a masterpiece or a disaster.”
Jones shifted in the small space to gain a little comfort and faced me directly when he spoke again. “Okay, back to your question…” The old man tilted his head to the side of tiny bit.
“It occurred to me that I wasn’t always going to be around to help you with your thinking. So I decided, then and there, that you needed to understand a very important fact about your earthly existence. It is this: Every single day for the rest of your life, somebody is going to push you in the pool. And you’d better decide now how you’re going to act when it happens.”
Jones squinted and leaned toward me. “Are you gonna come up out of the water whining? Maybe crying or complaining? Will you come up mad and defiant, threatening everybody? Will you throw fists or worse?
“Or will you come out of the water with a smile on your face? Looking to see what you can learn…who you might help? Will you act happy though you feel uncertain?”
He stared at me for a beat or two before lowering his chin and speaking in an earnest tone. “It’s time to decide, son,” he said. “Almost every result that your life produces from this moment forward – good or bad – will depend on how you choose. Every day, in one form or another, whether you like it or not, you will be pushed in the pool. You might as well decide right now how you’ll act when it happens.”
With that said, Jones got to his feet and left.
This is an excerpt from The Noticer Returns by Andy Andrews. Watch Andy this Monday and Tuesday on LIFE TODAY. Reprinted by permission. Copyright 2013 Andy Andrews. Thomas Nelson, Inc. Nashville, Tennessee.
