now and then, late at night, I remembered how sweet she had been and how emotional I felt when I touched her. Maurey was the first. And best. She was the one woman I’d slept with I still loved years later.
When it came to the bottom line, in a nerve-racking moment of self-honesty, I didn’t send Maurey flowers. I hoped she wouldn’t catch the significance.
***
Don’t you just hate kids who work in country club pro shops? Hate may be too strong a word, but they’re such elitist slimeballs. American pro shops are nothing but a breeding ground for politicians.
“Skip and Cameron around?”
“Mr. Prescott and Mr. Saunders are on the driving range.” He arched an eyebrow and stared down his nose at me. “I doubt if the gentlemen wish to be disturbed.”
“Doesn’t matter to me what the gentlemen wish.”
“Are you a member?”
“Are you kidding?”
I watched for a few minutes from the relative safety of the putting green. The two represented more combative possibilities than Billy or Babe had. For one thing, I’d lost the advantage of surprise. Even the most urbane of men can be knocked off balance by “Hi, I’m the son you never heard of.” By breaking the news to their wives, I’d given Skip and Cameron time to work up a stance.
The very tall man swinging an iron would be number 56, Cameron Saunders. He wore rubber cleats, madras slacks, a dark blue windbreaker, and a cap that read Duke . He also had a grayish-black beard. Hardly any of these country-club-cracker, good-ol’-boy types grow beards. Superiority begets a clean image.
Skip Prescott had a sparrow hawk face. He wore steel cleats and tight tennis shorts over remarkably hairy legs. Rather than addressing the ball, he attacked it, blasting low bullets that shot off a hundred yards or so before slicing into a nearby duck pond. With every chop of his club, Skip grunted Ugh!
I walked down to the Bull Run cart that held their golf bags. May as well start the relationships on an upbeat note.
“Hi, Pops.”
They stopped in mid-back swing to turn and stare at me. Cameron stooped and picked up his ball, then he walked over and stood next to Skip, whose face was blotchy red.
Skip set the conversational tone. “I ought to wrap this club around your neck.”
I spoke to Cameron. “Is he always like this?”
Cameron calmly unbuttoned the golf glove on his right hand. A right-handed golf glove meant a left-handed golfer. His voice was soft, purrlike. “If he feels threatened.”
“I’m not threatening anyone.”
Skip was bouncing up and down on his toes. “We castrate blackmailers in these parts,” he said.
“I’m not blackmailing anyone.”
We observed a moment of silence. That’s what males do in a power struggle. They’ve been taught the strong, silent type wins, so they practice competitive silence. I put on Hank Elkrunner’s blank face that he says only Indians and people who have been in prison can do. Skip’s eyes popped and sizzled in a mad-as-hell mode, but Cameron’s were blue ice cubes. Was like facing down a pit bull and a rattlesnake.
“Tell us what you want from us, then I shall bring my resources to bear and crush you,” Cameron said quietly.
Skip couldn’t wait that long. “Let’s crush the punk now. Who cares what he wants.”
This wasn’t what I expected at all. How could they be so angry? They created me; I never did squat to them.
“What do you want?” Cameron repeated. He was the slick member of the team. The hit man. He looked like a politician. Skip was nothing but aggression and leg hair.
“I only wanted to say hey to my daddies. Get a close-up look at you, give you a close-up look at me.”
Cameron crossed his arms over his chest, cradling the iron under his left elbow. “My position is to deny all charges. I told Mimi you are a damned liar, and if you spread this libelous tale to the media or any of our peer group, I shall sue you for every dime you shall ever have.”
I said, “I
When it came to the bottom line, in a nerve-racking moment of self-honesty, I didn’t send Maurey flowers. I hoped she wouldn’t catch the significance.
***
Don’t you just hate kids who work in country club pro shops? Hate may be too strong a word, but they’re such elitist slimeballs. American pro shops are nothing but a breeding ground for politicians.
“Skip and Cameron around?”
“Mr. Prescott and Mr. Saunders are on the driving range.” He arched an eyebrow and stared down his nose at me. “I doubt if the gentlemen wish to be disturbed.”
“Doesn’t matter to me what the gentlemen wish.”
“Are you a member?”
“Are you kidding?”
I watched for a few minutes from the relative safety of the putting green. The two represented more combative possibilities than Billy or Babe had. For one thing, I’d lost the advantage of surprise. Even the most urbane of men can be knocked off balance by “Hi, I’m the son you never heard of.” By breaking the news to their wives, I’d given Skip and Cameron time to work up a stance.
The very tall man swinging an iron would be number 56, Cameron Saunders. He wore rubber cleats, madras slacks, a dark blue windbreaker, and a cap that read Duke . He also had a grayish-black beard. Hardly any of these country-club-cracker, good-ol’-boy types grow beards. Superiority begets a clean image.
Skip Prescott had a sparrow hawk face. He wore steel cleats and tight tennis shorts over remarkably hairy legs. Rather than addressing the ball, he attacked it, blasting low bullets that shot off a hundred yards or so before slicing into a nearby duck pond. With every chop of his club, Skip grunted Ugh!
I walked down to the Bull Run cart that held their golf bags. May as well start the relationships on an upbeat note.
“Hi, Pops.”
They stopped in mid-back swing to turn and stare at me. Cameron stooped and picked up his ball, then he walked over and stood next to Skip, whose face was blotchy red.
Skip set the conversational tone. “I ought to wrap this club around your neck.”
I spoke to Cameron. “Is he always like this?”
Cameron calmly unbuttoned the golf glove on his right hand. A right-handed golf glove meant a left-handed golfer. His voice was soft, purrlike. “If he feels threatened.”
“I’m not threatening anyone.”
Skip was bouncing up and down on his toes. “We castrate blackmailers in these parts,” he said.
“I’m not blackmailing anyone.”
We observed a moment of silence. That’s what males do in a power struggle. They’ve been taught the strong, silent type wins, so they practice competitive silence. I put on Hank Elkrunner’s blank face that he says only Indians and people who have been in prison can do. Skip’s eyes popped and sizzled in a mad-as-hell mode, but Cameron’s were blue ice cubes. Was like facing down a pit bull and a rattlesnake.
“Tell us what you want from us, then I shall bring my resources to bear and crush you,” Cameron said quietly.
Skip couldn’t wait that long. “Let’s crush the punk now. Who cares what he wants.”
This wasn’t what I expected at all. How could they be so angry? They created me; I never did squat to them.
“What do you want?” Cameron repeated. He was the slick member of the team. The hit man. He looked like a politician. Skip was nothing but aggression and leg hair.
“I only wanted to say hey to my daddies. Get a close-up look at you, give you a close-up look at me.”
Cameron crossed his arms over his chest, cradling the iron under his left elbow. “My position is to deny all charges. I told Mimi you are a damned liar, and if you spread this libelous tale to the media or any of our peer group, I shall sue you for every dime you shall ever have.”
I said, “I
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