Read Online Knuckleheads by Jeff Kass - Free Book Online Page A

They’ve got relatives who were killed while they were over here eating pot roast with their mothers. Eating noodle pudding. The best thing you can do, when they’re behind a tree, is to encourage them to take some crazy shot. Go for it, you gotta say, what’ve you got to lose? Listen, they’ll probably miss the shot and then you can give that shrug that says, oh well, the whole world hates Jews anyway, and then you drop and take a stroke penalty and move on. But what if they hit the shot? What if they make that one miracle swing that makes them feel like Arnold Palmer? That’s joy for them. In the middle of all this guilt they already live with, that’s one hundred percent pure joy. It’s the thing they search for when they come out here. They’ll talk about that shot for the rest of their lives. Trust me, if they hit a shot like that, they’ll tip you for days, maybe set you up with their nieces. Maybe sign over the papers to their Cadillac.”
     
    We’re ten under par after nine holes. I haven’t hit another good shot, not even close, but that doesn’t matter. I don’t need to. I have achieved my magical moment. We stop at the turn for a beer. Heineken. Lisa and Natalie quaff theirs in about twelve seconds and order another. “I think I’m in,” Gordon says to me, nodding toward Lisa.
    “She’s dating another attorney,” I say. “Good guy. Environmental law. Keeps our drinking water pure.”
    “He’s not about to keep her pure, trust me.”
    When we finish the round, the four of us will sit in the clubhouse banquet room and be awarded a large trophy. We will also be awarded a case of aged scotch and various and sundry gift certificates. We will break open one of the bottles of scotch and relive the glories of our record-breaking day, especially my miracle chip shot on the seventh. Our in-firm band, The Sharks, comprised of oh-so-clever tort specialists who strum guitars and sing lyrics with smug puns about how smart we are and how stupid our clients, judges and jurors are, will play a twenty-five minute set and we will grow drunker and drunker and at some point I will realize it’s just me and Natalie at the table, that Gordon and Lisa have slipped away to her BMW in the parking lot where he surely has two hands under her skirt. Natalie will look at me with slurred eyes and rivulets of scotch drool on her chin and say, “Hey, partner, care to demonstrate any more of your superior aim,” and the sticky issue here, the high tangled rough, is that I’m already engaged.
    Nancy Freiberg is not a lawyer and I’m not in love with her. Nor is she in love with me. We’re both willing to settle. Physically, though she’s not pretty, there’s nothing obvious about her that’s off-putting. She’s a couple inches shorter than I am and she makes adequate money at her public relations firm and she sometimes smiles at the awkward comments I offer as jokes. I’d say we’re compatible, but it’s not even about that. We’re tired of being alone, both of us. We intend to marry, buy a house with a cozy kitchen, present our best selves to the general public, and if we make it seven or eight non-miserable years together, we will have accomplished all we can hope for.
    This is an appealing plan. I do not want to do anything to upset it. I’m all about the cozy kitchen, all about the parched forgettable sex. After today and my lucky eagle, I will be on the winning team. I will last another six months at the firm, possibly as much as two years if we break the scoring record, which will give me enough time to put out feelers for another job, and maybe Nancy and I will have children who will be smarter and more attractive than we are.
    Still, I have never touched a woman as beautiful as Natalie.
    More than most, I know how relationships can be spoiled by a single small temptation. I make my living off the hurt, the bitterness. I know—down to the last squirreled-away dollar—the cost of that kind of