Top of the morning to ya,” I say with my best Irish accent to the small-stature man in the kilt before me. He stands boldly, the breeze whipping about his tartan (and quite spartan) plaid skirt. He was offering me a metal basket of golf balls, but now the offer is revoked. He turns and walks toward the clubhouse and, my guess, another highball before high noon.
“Why would you say something like that?” Angelica, who will say anything to anyone at anytime, is appalled by my behavior here at the Oasis Golf Course.
“I know…I spoke Irish to the little Scottie-man. It was the first thing that came to my mind.”
And I thought it would get rid of him.
“That little Scottie-man happens to be my regional supervisor. I was going to try to get us on his team, but I can kiss that goodbye.”
I am even more thankful for my haphazard remark.
She doesn’t want to let go of the argument. “He is wearing a kilt for a reason…” She does a top to bottom survey of my wrinkled pink polo shirt and too-big khakis held up by an old man’s belt. Subconsciously she assures herself that she is not me. Her hands smooth the fabric of her pristine Anne Klein taupe slacks and her dainty knit sweater tank. I sense she wants to ask what my excuse is for my clothing choices.
But I really am perfectly dressed for the part. When Angelica invites one of us to her events, it is not usually to introduce us around or to have a good time in our presence. It is to make herself feel good by comparison.
Her eyes meet mine and she knows I know. I almost detect a nod above her strand of pearls.
I put on my dilated-pupils glasses—I really meant to get some normal ones for this—and prepare to have my rut pointed out in many different ways over the next few hours.
“Why are we in teams? Is this like a sponsored fund-raiser or a…what? Why are all these people here?” I always like to have a reason for enduring pain and humiliation. I am hoping for a children’s charity or Save the Wild Canyon Horses. Something redeeming.
Angelica shrugs her defined shoulders. “It is a morale booster for employees. You know how hard I work…we all work. It is a thank-you.” She settles on this last version as a nice compromise between something that benefits needy people or animals and something that is an extravagant pat on the back.
As we get our own baskets of golf balls she notices my face guard. “No. No. Not those glasses.” Her cheeks turn red and the muscles beneath her rose-tinted Gucci lenses are twitching. She must be rethinking her strategy of bringing me here. The flip side of hanging out with an undesirable is that one is seen hanging out with an undesirable. “I brought you here to help you to get you within normal distance range to your own peers. You are so…” She is speechless. There are no words in her social, contemporary, and very with-it vocabulary to label exactly what I am.
I remove the glasses and drape them on the neckline of my shirt. She winces at this barely better offer on my part.
I shut up at this point and practice my swing. I do more chucking in the general vicinity of the ball. My metal basket is still full when Angelica has depleted hers. Without a word she sets off to find us a beneficial duo to latch on to for the tournament so this whole day is not a wash for her.
After sending a few more errant balls toward the clubhouse, I take a break from the heat and head under the covered observation area. I hear Angelica’s voice off in the distance. “You’re kidding. You are such a kidder. Don’t even say that.” I don’t have to look to know she is surrounded by good-looking men and flipping her hair frequently in place of authentic dialogue.
“What am I doing here?” I ask my friend Empty Chair and slide an ashtray to the other side of the wobbly wrought-iron table.
“If you are like everyone else, you are here to network, schmooze, drink, and get a promotion, if you are lucky enough to get your supervisor to drink even more than you.” I turn to face the face of the voice. It is oval, beautiful, and comes with a set of the most amazing green eyes.
I do a Vanna White motion of my outfit and say, “Obviously I am not like everyone else,” in my usual self-effacing way with an extra touch of nervousness.
“Obviously.” He says this in a nice “and that is a good thing” way. “I’m Peyton Foster.”
“You don’t seem to be drinking. So what is your strategy for these games?”
“I prefer to work the old-fashioned way. Beat ’em at their hobby and then hold it over them in the boardroom the next week. Besides, these tournaments feel too much like fraternity years as it is.” He pushes his blond hair out of his eyes.
I decide that if I can remove Peyton Place from my memory, his is a rather nice name. “Hi.” As I reach my hand toward him I catch the edge of my mondo-glasses. They end up beneath the table. Now that the glasses are not making Angelica feel silly but me feel stupid, I have my own regrets.
He tries to decide whether to shake my hand first or retrieve my glasses. This is a gentleman’s dilemma. I want to say, “Your mother raised you well,” but I know that will sound…old.
He grabs my hand and bends over to snatch up my sorry eyewear. There is no way to look at these and not mention them. He holds them up to the light and acts really impressed. “Aren’t these the kind Jeff Gordon wears for the Daytona 500?” He is mock-serious but in the spirit of friendliness, not facetiousness.
“That they are. Well, that and a bit more advanced, I might add. I test drive endurance glasses and other products for sports celebrities. I have another pair here somewhere.” I fumble in my pockets. “Tiger Woods is interested in trying them out. So I’m here today really just to test these for Tiger. Testing for Tiger.”
He laughs and doesn’t seem at all put off.
“And you?” I see he is beautiful enough to be “one of them,” but his personality seems a bit too…present.
“I don’t have a tester.” He shakes his head, disappointed by his bad luck.
“What are you doing here? Are you here with the other socially acceptable drug dealers?”
He laughs again. “You caught me. Though I have a very good lawyer if you should choose to prove it.”
“And ruin my chance to get a free neon Just Focus pen? Never.”
We go back and forth like this for several moments. I almost feel social. If I were looking at me…well, and if I ignored the outfit and the special needs glasses, I would think I was someone like Angelica. Sure, confident, and hip.
While we are chatting away, I notice that he keeps rubbing his hands together and looking at them. “Are you planning a sinister plot for a B movie?” He looks puzzled. “All that hand rubbing.” I realize I am being as bold as Angelica, and probably as rude.
He gets it and laughs a very nice laugh. “In this heat the golf glove really irritates my hand. See…” He removes his Michael Jackson paraphernalia and reveals a bumpy heat rash.
Though I act disgusted, I am secretly delighted because I can offer my beautiful new friend a cure. “Well, I know just the thing for you.” I reach into my bag and pull out Garden Glove hand mask. “This stuff is wonderful. You smooth it on, and it creates a layer of protection on the surface of your skin. Put the glove on, and I guarantee at the end of a day like today, everyone will think you skipped a few holes and hit the Elizabeth Arden spa for a manicure.”
“You are amazing. So you really are a tester of some kind?”
“No.” Here it comes. Do I admit what I do for a living or make something up? No time to be clever. “I…I work at Golden Horizons Retirement Center.” His face still says “interested,” so I continue. “Our maintenance and landscape guy told me about this because a lot of residents with casts or bandage wraps end up with ghastly rashes…though not nearly as scary as yours.” I turn the attention back to his shortcoming in case my job status was too much information.
“I just wish I had met you sooner.” He says this while flapping his hands to get cool air on the sores.
From the corner of my eye, I see Angelica rushing over. I am not sure who she is set to save, but it turns out she likes Peyton and misinterprets his motions as a wave.
“Peyton. So good to see you. Remember the Miami tournament? Crazy. Crazy.” She makes the universal motion for crazy…finger twirling outside her ear. Her right-hand diamond ring blinds us both.
“Yes. It was crazy…uh…” He wants my name. I realize I have not yet introduced myself.
Angelica interrupts me. “She is with me. Peyton, I wish we had spoken sooner. I just set up a foursome with Dr. Ravin and Winchester. I’d try to get out of it, but you know Winchester. The guy can make or break your career with a call. Right?”
Who is she? Why am I with her?
“Well, it was nice to see you again Angelica. And to meet you…?” He tries to get my name.
“Mari. Mari!” I yell this as Angelica hurries me toward the two fake-tan, old Ken dolls poised by their cart just yards away.
“Thanks for the great tip!” He waves the tube of lotion in the air.
Angelica gives me a dirty look. “What kind of tip could you possibly give Peyton?” Her pearls pull tight against her enlarged neck veins. “He is one of the top golfers. I hope you didn’t just embarrass me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of taking that away from you.” She doesn’t get the slight because she is marching me along the green to meet Howie and Stu, the secret names I use in my head to separate these clones with clubs who seem to have matching divots on their heads.
Our foursome turns out to be so bad I actually am searching the course for Scottie-man in case I can make amends. Our teammates are just Angelica’s type, playboys who forget that innuendos are supposed to be subtle. She is flirting back at them while I watch indifferent and uninvited in the background. I am the nerd serving punch at Angelica’s prom.
By hole eight I am dragging. Sweating. Tired. Sick of their stupid, intoxicated jokes and Angelica’s willingness to laugh. I keep checking her water bottle to be sure it really is from Artesian springs and not the flask Stu keeps in tow.
As Angelica is about to swing she sniffs the air. I assume this is a way to see which way the wind blows, so I lick a finger and stick it in the air beside her.
“Pretty mild,” I say with authority.
“What is that smell?” She says this in my ear but quite loudly.
“I’m not sure what you mean.” Though as I hold my arm up, I get a whiff of my shoulder…the Muscle Heat, which is supposed to be odorless, seems to turn quite rancid in ninety-degree weather. I quickly put my arm down.
“It is you!” She leans away from me and actually pinches her nose. Pinches her nose! And waves the air about her. The LA guys are taking this in as though they are hopeful it will turn into a chick fight. Howie, the doctor, removes another clandestine beer from his golf bag. The caddy looks the other way. Either that or he is trying not to smell my shoulder.
Denying this seems useless. “Okay. So I used Muscle Heat on my shoulder. I pulled it helping Walt to the bathroom yesterday. All week I was hoping to destroy my rotator cuff because I wanted to get out of this spectacle and then this shoulder thing happens, but it is too short notice for you to find another pawn…so I caked on the ointment and showed up. For you.” I point at her and her pearl necklace and her sleek tank sweater with a vengeance.
Angelica drops her club and stands with her hands on her hips, looking to Howie and Stu for moral support. They are talking about leather vs. fabric upholstery in the Tucson heat. So she takes a deep breath away from me and comes in for the kill. “Why do you insist on all of this?” She motions up and down as though I am a life-sized model of disease. A disease which leads to social death, no less.
By now I have my sorry sunglasses on and am perspiring more than usual. My odor is the last straw.
“I only signed on for nine holes anyway. So me and my stink will be gone in no time at all.”
“You only signed up for half? I could have joined the three Rogers from Chicago. They are all in the top five for sales this quarter. And they totally love me.”
“So go join the Rogers.” I am tumbling toward another breakdown. “This stupid event isn’t even for charity. It is like a traveling cocktail party—pretentious players, lousy appetizers, and not a chance of good conversation.”
I toss my club at Charley, our caddy, and start speedwalking toward the Halfway House Café, which is a mock-dilapidated shack that charges twenty dollars for a burger and fries are extra. I know how bizarre speed-walkers look…like they are animated with their hips popping out. With my baggy khakis and wrinkly shirt, I’m sure my movements resemble that of the Pillsbury Dough Boy on his way to a kitchen fire.
It doesn’t occur to me until I am halfway to the Halfway House that Angelica is my only way home.