Cruising across the desert in the classic old Lincoln, dust cloud billowing out behind like a super long parachute, Clayton Cook pulled the glowing cigarette lighter from the dash and touched it to the tip of a large joint. He took a big drag and passed it to Frank in the back seat. Parker was driving and Cook was riding shotgun. Larry was in back with Frank.
The foursome was on the way to the country club.
Frank took a pull off the joint and passed it to Richards, who in turn passed it up front to Parker without taking a hit.
Shit tastes pretty good, Frank thought. And nine holes of golf might be a fun way to spend an afternoon, even in this heat.
He hadn’t totally committed to playing yet, but Clayton could be persuasive. A don’t-take-no-for-an-answer type of guy.
An hour later the four of them were at a table in the country club bar. Cook ordered a round of drinks and then asked Frank if he’d made up his mind. Frank said, “At this point, there’s not much I could say no to in the world. Yes is the answer. The word yes is the gateway to freedom and adventure.”
The other three shot him looks.
“Sorry,” Frank said. “The weed must’ve gotten to me. I was thinking about that Yoko Ono art project she was doing when she met John Lennon. Supposedly, you climbed up this ladder and on the ceiling there was a little folded piece of paper or something, and inside was just the word YES. YES kind of representing a door opening, much as NO would be a door closing.”
Smirking and looking down at his drink, Bryce Parker crooned a line from a Steve Miller song: “Space Cowboy, I bet you know where that’s at.”
Larry Richards was grinning. “Jesus, Frank. Didn’t know you were such a high flying hippie dippy.”
If you only knew, Frank thought, as he watched Cook lean forward across the table.
“So that means you’re going to play?” Cook said.
“YES,” Frank said with a grin.
“All right,” Cook said. “That’s great. How about you and I take on those two?”
“Larry and I will kick your ass,” Parker said.
“Twenty bucks a hole,” Cook said.
Richards, on Frank’s right, leaned over and mumbled in Frank’s ear: “They usually play for fifty.”
Frank wanted to beg off, say it was too rich for his blood. But since they’d scaled it down to something they likely thought was more on his level, he held his tongue. He’d played the game before. Not quite a rank beginner. Back in the days of the caddy shack they used to let the caddies play an occasional free round during the off-hours, like early mornings, rainy or cold days or Ladies Day. Few golfers wanted to follow the women around the course, the average time per round increasing exponentially when the ladies were out.
The round—if nine holes is considered a round—began pretty much as Frank expected.
He was all over the course. First left then right, his old slice still a problem.
Then skulling one along the ground for fifty yards—a worm burner.
Hitting one nearly straight up in the air, eliciting a “Gonna bring rain,” from Bryce Parker.
Frank hoped Parker was right about the rain.
But it didn’t rain much in Arizona.
Clayton, true to his promise, was consistently straight down the middle and near the greens in regulation. Cook and Parker were nearly equal in skill, both of them scratch golfers, and Larry was only slightly below their level. Richards was a tennis player, after all. But it looked to Frank like the man had put in some time on the links. Could be a requirement to pass the bar exam out here.
It took Frank a while to get his swing going. Started off the round with two double bogeys and a bogey. It was hot as blazes on the rock hard fairways of Thunderhook Country Club.
But then on hole four, a short par five, he nailed a five-iron pin high, ten feet right of the stick, and sank the putt for a birdie, winning the hole and tying the match at two holes apiece.
From then on Clayton held up his end, staving off Richards and Parker with booming drives and artful wedge shots, only shaky putting keeping his team from winning the match in a runaway.
As it was, the group came to the ninth green all even. Cook and Parker were facing difficult putts, while Richards, who’d been playing like a demon the last three holes—Frank thinking it was a matter of male pride—had a reasonable putt for birdie and the win.
Frank was just off the edge of the large rolling, multi-tiered green in two. Being the farthest from the hole, he was up first. He pulled the putter out of the bag of rental clubs and lined up the shot, calling on his old caddy instincts to somehow come back to him.
He didn’t look at it very long, just sighted it in and let ’er rip.
The twisting, bending, sixty-footer, dropped right in the center of the hole.
Clayton Cook hooted and swung his putter in the air. Frank watched Richards and Parker’s shoulders sag as he went to remove the ball, being careful not to step in his opponents’ line.
Cook picked up his ball.
Parker missed his thirty-footer.
Richards stepped across the green and addressed his putt. Frank thought Larry looked a little pale all of a sudden.
Richards stood there motionless for the longest time, causing both Parker and Cook to begin pacing around nervously behind him.
Finally Larry drew back the putter and struck the ball.
Frank watched it start left and then bend back toward the cup. Saw it catch the lip of the cup and flutter there for an instant.
Thing dropped in.
The hole and the match were halved.
A tie.
Seeing the relief on Larry’s face, Frank wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
The foursome retired to the nineteenth hole as Clayton and Bryce jawed with each other over bad shots and terrible putts. Richards looked pleased. Frank just wanted to get out of the heat. The sun-block stuff on his face was starting to run into his eyes.
Cook ordered a round of drinks and congratulated Larry on his final putt. Frank thought he heard a note of sarcasm in Cook’s voice. Golf had proved to be a fun experience but Frank hadn’t liked the way the two rich boys treated Larry.
They’d ridiculed Richards’ putting stance—Cook saying it looked like a cow taking a shit—and laughed at his bad shots, Larry’s partner Bryce even joining the onslaught at times. They also enjoyed bouts of hilarity over Larry’s plaid Bermuda shorts, which even Frank thought were more suited to a half-senile retiree then a practicing lawyer in the prime of his life.
It had all started out as innocent banter, the kind of stuff competitive guys do, but as it progressed and continued, Frank sensed an edge of meanness in the unrelenting criticism and snide remarks.
It was still going on even now, here in the bar.
Frank just wanted to spring for the next round of drinks.
Glad that he hadn’t lost any money in the match, he threw a fifty down on the table. But Cook pushed it back to him, saying, ”It’s all on my tab, partner, save your cash for later, you might need it.”
Frank shrugged and put the fifty in his pocket.
Clayton ordered another round.
They drained their glasses in a hurry and retired to the locker room for showers and a change of clothes. Frank had brought along one of his old white bartending shirts and the crisp new khakis.
(End of Chapter 20)
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