FRANK HAS A NEW HOBBY

TENNIS! WHY HAD HE EVER STOPPED PLAYING? FRANK loved tennis and had, in fact, been something of a star in high school. Turned out that all these years later, he still had what it took. He’d recently taken it up again and was obsessed, played at the club almost every afternoon. There was a tournament coming up and he was rising steadily through the ranks. What a hoot. And it was a great bunch of guys. He realized that he’d missed that too, the camaraderie of men. Just shooting the shit. Plus, he was beating most of their asses, nice to be admired.

Frank drove out his front gate and headed for the club. He had a great day planned: round of golf in the morning on the north course, late lunch with the guys and then afternoon doubles followed by a round or two of drinks. Couldn’t get much better than that.

Frank headed down the canyon, turned left onto the highway and saw that there was another south swell starting to build. He hadn’t surfed in the last few weeks. There were only so many hours in a day and he feared running into Ellis. He thought maybe he’d let surfing go for now, just focus on the tennis. Safer that way. She had been a terrible mistake. God, he was lucky. The thought of his wife and girlfriend sitting together on the beach at Pablo’s birthday party still sent him into a cold sweat. Ellis had a mean streak. He could be in fricking divorce court by now if she’d opened her mouth. He was one lucky guy to have dodged that bullet. Lesson learned. Next time, if there was a next time, and let’s hope there wouldn’t be a next time, but he was a man after all, next time he wouldn’t cross the tracks. He’d stay in his own socio-economic neighborhood, fish in his own waters. You just can’t mix it up like that. Also, the next one should be married so they’d be on equal footing—same amount to lose.

The traffic into town was sluggish this morning. Tee time was still an hour off; he should be able to make it. The winds were picking up again. That could mess up his game. It seemed that the Santa Anas were always stronger in the hills, canyons and by the ocean. Why was that? He could google it but knew he would probably forget.

Janice hadn’t been sleeping lately. She said the winds were keeping her up but Frank wasn’t buying it. Ever since that night she’d gone to the party with the Yoga bimbos she’d been different, quiet. She’d started to see a therapist and at first Frank had been upset. He didn’t like the idea of his wife telling some stranger their personal business. He’d asked her, “Do you talk about me?” She’d just looked at him like he was an idiot and said, “No Frank, I talk about me.”

Frank had done a little survey of his tennis buddies and it turned out that six out of the seven guys he spoke to had wives in therapy. It seemed that it was just something that women had to do once they reached a certain age. Everyone agreed it was hard to understand what they had to complain about when they were given everything they could possibly wish for. Seemed ridiculous. Stan Owens said that it had been hell around his house for the first six month of treatment because his wife Alison was constantly angry with everybody. She got on a kick about “her needs” and everyone respecting “her space”. But Stan said that lately things had been much better. His wife was getting back to her old self and the two of them were getting along better than ever. He encouraged Frank to hang in there.

The other thing that made Frank feel better was that three out of the seven guys had wives who were going back to school for their degrees. A couple of the women were even studying psychology, which is what Janice hoped to do. Again, it seemed like this was just something that wives did once they stopped having babies, nothing to worry about. But Frank could not understand why in the hell anyone would voluntarily go back into a classroom. The idea of homework? And what was she going to do with that degree? Spend her days locked in some office talking to people about their problems? Pure hell. Why couldn’t she take up horses? That’s what two of his other friends’ wives were into and their butts were unbelievably high and tight. Yeah, horses. He’d run that by her tonight.

Frank turned into the club and waved as the security guard raised the gate. He was a fat guy, Bob or Bill, who didn’t like to get up off his ass and come out of the guardhouse so he just waved everyone through. Some security! Anybody in a decent car could drive right in. Lard-ass didn’t even seem to check windshields for the club sticker. Frank thought he might mention it to the manager next time their paths crossed.

The back lot by the men’s locker room was where Frank and his buddies liked to park, but today all those spaces were full. What the fuck? This lot was never full.

Frank turned around and drove back to the main entrance for valet service and pulled in right behind Charles Worthington’s powder blue Bentley. What kind of man drove a baby blue car? A freakazoid, that’s who. Skinny, balding, Worthington climbed out and rushed around to open the door for his passenger, practically knocking the valet to the ground in the process. He offered his hand and out stepped another Amazonian nightmare. Swear-to-god she was a linebacker in a miniskirt and heels. She had tree trunk thighs, massive, rock-hard ass, tiny waist and the biggest set of knockers that they sell. Her hair was bleached blond and curly and even from where Frank sat in his car he could tell she had on a shit-load of make-up. Where did he find them? Every week or two he showed up with a new GI Joe in a dress and sent shockwaves through the dining room. All the women were outraged that he would bring “that kind of element” to the club. But there was nothing anyone could do. Charles Worthington had more money than God and his family was one of the founding members. No one could touch him. Frank and the guys had an on-going bet about the gender of Worthington’s dates. Frank was convinced they were females on steroids but some of the guys weren’t so sure. They all made a point of saying hello and introducing themselves each time a new gal came on the scene so they could hear the woman’s deep, manly voice. The guys all joked, said it was repulsive, Frank right along with them. But truth be told, Frank found all that muscle kind of attractive. He watched Worthington and his lady walk to towards the entrance and found himself wondering what she’d look like naked, all shaved up and ready. He’d like to know, like to see it firsthand—just one time. It’d be like going on vacation to an exotic locale—Borneo or Dubai.

The valet opened his door and Frank got out. He was late. He’d have to rush to make his tee time. He grabbed his bag and headed towards the locker room.