His name was Jim, actually.

"I just came from there actually," he told me as I explained how this weather wasn't very cold at all, because I'm from Michigan. 

His voice felt curled on the end of each sentence, like a tiny lisp or insecurity was attached on the end of each sentence like at one time he had to learn to force himself to interact, to speak.  "I'm from Fennville." 

The pool sparkled under the dark night sky, and the hot tub rumbled behind us, angry at its heat. 

I started writing this portion in my head and so I felt more friendly then I normally would, digging for a little bit of morsels to interject here and there, hoping I could make him interesting. I thought of things to ask as he straddled the roll of plastic that would soon be a skin for the surface of the pool. His legs curled around it and he road it like a bull on wheels along the edge of the pool to the correct location. The jean jacket was a little long at the wrists like he'd bought it at a thrift store with flannel lining, and the jeans, baggy around his knees and ankles. 

Normally, I wouldn't feel very comfortable or interested talking to a man my fathers age (who I had assumed was creeping around the pool collecting images of me as I exercise, until he told me his girlfriend and him both close the pool when it's necessary. The temperature had dropped tonight and so closing the pool was necessary.) In my story I named him Jerry, it seemed to fit him. 

He reminded me of my father, short in stature and squeaky in the way he walked, like on his toe not his heel. Apparently his mother has dementia, she is 92. He cares for her, and the pool, and his girlfriend is usually here, but she's a little sick tonight. 

 I asked him a couple normal terrifying questions like who he was and what he does. "I just retired actually, it's pretty scary... you gotta stay busy." I mentioned how taking care of his mother must keep him busy, and how good that was of him. "Well, sort of," he answered leaving the comment seem unended, like there was more there. I told him how my dad just retired too, and how he gardened and took care of the chickens and he seemed quite surprised about Dad's activity level. 

  Amongst all this, he mentioned in passing how he came here, later than usual, has a daughter in Fennville, how he drove down to Florida this time, and with a satisfied look on his face he told me "i had to, because i had to bring the motorcycle." 

Somehow, the way he said it with his head tilted slightly and said it over top of whatever max was mumbling was just enough information to know that this was some of the most essential information he had unpacked for me.