It was Wednesday morning when the telephone woke me. Early Wednesday morning. Too damn early. I had planned to sleep in. It was, after all, supposed to be my vacation and I needed to catch up on my sleep. Especially since I had returned to the hotel bar after hearing Mary Beth’s sordid tale and gotten myself rip-roaring drunk. But it was a little after eight when the telephone woke me. I checked the time on my bedside clock radio, groaned, closed my eyes and fumbled the phone to my ear.
“Morning, Hacker!” chirruped Honie Carlton’s obscenely cheerful voice. “Up and at ‘em, big guy. A new day dawns.”
“Ah, for cryin’ out loud,” I moaned. “Can’t you just leave me alone until lunch? I promise I’ll write nothing but superlatives about the goddam Tour…just let me sleep!” My head was pounding. My tongue felt thick and fuzzy. In general, I felt like crap.
“I got a better idea,” Honie said. “How about an entire whole day at the beach? Doing nothing but catching some rays, drinking pina coladas and watching the parade of beach bunnies. South Beach, Hacker. I hear they don’t wear bathing suit tops over there.”
I opened one eye. “You are, as they say, playing my song,” I told Honie. “What’s the catch?”
“Hacker, you are so cynical,” Honie pouted. “What makes you think there’s a catch?”
“Honie, there is always a catch,” I said. “Always.”
“Well, today is just a practice round. Tomorrow’s the pro-am. But there is a little Chamber of Commerce thingy over at the Fountainbleu at noon,” she told me. I moaned and reclosed my eye. My head began throbbing in a higher key.
“But,” she quickly finished. “You don’t have to do anything. I just promised I’d have you there. As far as I’m concerned, you can park it on a chaise and wave and that’ll count as an appearance. After all, I can’t make you work, can I?”
I laughed appreciatively. “Okay, you win,” I surrendered. “When and where?”
“I’ll come get you in an hour,” she giggled. “Bring your sun block.”
I ordered lots of coffee and breakfast from room service, had a quick shower, downed a few aspirin and perused the morning newspaper that had been laid outside my door. The local sportswriters were waxing ecstatic about the world’s best women players about to play in their town. Someone had done an interview piece with Big Wyn. A sidebar listing all her tour victories covered almost an entire column. The front of the sports section had a big four-color photo of Stilwell. They had taken two pictures: one in golf clothing, holding her driver; one in business attire, clasping a briefcase. The two photos had been PhotoShopped into one, to illustrate the two roles of Big Wyn.
The story was effusive in its praise of Big Wyn and the job she had been doing for the Tour. It mentioned the sponsors she had personally corralled, the tournaments she had helped arrange and the many, many personal appearances she made. It made her sound like a selfless giver, instead of a vicious, power-hungry, manipulative bitch.
By the time Honie appeared to collect me, I had downed most of the pot of coffee and was feeling semi-human again. Honie was wearing khaki shorts with a white top that covered her bathing suit. She also carried a big straw hat and sunglasses.
“Planning on working hard today, huh?” I jested.
“Well, hell, I deserve it, the hours I’ve been putting in,” she said. “Besides, my only assignment for the day is to entertain you. So prepare to be entertained, as long as it’s on the beach.”
Carl packed us into a taxi and we set off across the various causeways to Miami Beach. Sun-and-fun capital of the world. Jackie Gleason and the June Taylor Dancers. Yachts bobbing in marina after marina, and high-rises glistening above the azure sea, home to a new generation of glitterati. Of course, one had to speak Spanish in order to communicate with anyone, except in South Beach, where all you needed was hard abs, roller-blades and the ability to grunt in single syllables.
The reality? Block after block of numbingly depressing motel units, all housing elderly people engaged in a race against time. Which would run out first…the money or life? Days spent waking up, sipping prune juice, popping the colorful array of pills, wandering down to the corner to sit outside, try to make the newspaper last the morning, studying the obits for the names of friends. When the money got tight, cutting back from beer to Coke, then from Coke to water. Meat to soup to kibbles and bits. Trying to cheer dying spouses and friends, and convince themselves, with words like “better than New York!”
Florida is, after all, the land where people go to die. By the millions, they seem to believe that a few extra degrees of warmth, a palm tree or two, and the occasional glimpse of the ocean will inspire them to live long and prosper. It doesn’t work, folks. It just gives the Grim Reaper more to choose from.
But that part of Miami Beach is hidden by the glitz and glamour of the beachfront. On the shore, all is wealth and riches and paparazzi and happiness bought and paid for. With interest. It’s a life of doormen and security guards, delivered groceries and glam dinners out, club-hopping and watching the Beautiful People drift in and out. On the shore, life still has hope and a future. The black despair of the past is kept inland a few blocks, in those hot and humid cellblocks of death.
The Hotel Fountainbleu is a frumpy outpost of the old Miami Beach swimming in a neon, Deco sea of modernism. I already dislike New York City and the Fountainbleu is simply a chunk of Manhattanism moved south. It is loud and brassy and brusque and over-expensive. It is guys with lots of gold chains around their necks, white glossy loafers and broads with black bouffant do’s, ostentatious dangly bracelets dripping with diamonds, loud voices, and enormous bosoms crammed into hideous bathing attire. There is lots of rude finger-snapping and competitive oneupsmanship going on at the Fountainbleu. No thanks.
Honie led me through the cacophony of the lobby, through the back doors and out to the huge swimming pool. One side of the pool is a fake-stone grotto, with a swim-up bar inside the cave and a water slide for the kids. Whoopee.
We strolled out to the beach. Honie arranged for a cabana, paying an obscene amount of cash to a handsome hunk, ordered two extra-large pina coladas, stripped down to her bathing suit and lathered up with sunblock. I enjoyed watching. I parked my chair in the shade of the cabana – no sense overdoing the sun—stretched out on the padded chaise and prepared to get acquainted with the inside of my eyelids. The warm morning sun beat down on the beach and a gentle breeze ruffled the flags around us. The warmth, the sun and the sound of the gentle surf, as well as the overdose of Scotch the night before, made me feel deeply lethargic and listless.
“Okay, Hacker,” Honie said when she finished laying on the goop and had settled herself in the sun. “Give.”
“Eh?” I murmured. I was watching a particularly interesting number in a purple string bikini strolling down the surf line and thinking that even if I wanted to give chase, my body would probably refuse to get up.
“What have you learned about our big happy family?” she asked. “Knowing you, you’ve probably tripped over some of the skeletons in our closet.”
“Is this an official enquiry?” I asked.
“No, you shit.” She frowned at me. “It’s a question from a friend who wants to compare notes. Remember, I’m in marketing, or will be one day. I want to know if our public image matches up with the reality of our product.”
“Well,” I mused. “I have discovered that Big Wyn has developed some rather interesting management techniques over the years.”
“Delicately put,” Honie agreed.
“Tell me,” I said. “Does she sleep with every golfer on the tour?”
“I can’t answer that,” Honie said. “My impression is, only with those she wants.”
“Like Julie Warren?” I asked.
“Yes, well, Julie is part of Wyn’s inner circle,” Honie answered. “Some of the girls call them Wyn’s Mafia. There are about six of them. Some are appointed to the players’ council, some aren’t. I don’t know if they all take turns in Wyn’s bed, and I don’t really care. But all of them are pretty loyal to her and will do pretty much anything she asks them to.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, mostly stuff like making promotional appearances, taking a sponsor out for a round of golf, doing interviews. Favors, errands, special tasks.”
“And how does the beautiful Casey Carlyle fit into this chummy little picture?” I asked.
“Her official title is travel secretary,” Honie told me. “Makes all the arrangements to help everyone get to the next stop. She finds rooms and cars and airplane seats for those who need them. Unofficially, she’s considered to be Wyn’s eyes and ears, and those who aren’t part of Wyn’s Mafia don’t trust her.”
“A cold heart in that warm body?” I said. “What a pity.” Honie just shook her head at me.
“I’m not sure the golfing public is aware of the degree of, er, control that Big Wyn exercises over the affairs of the LPGA,” I said.
“But it’s also true that she has not received the proper credit for all the things she’s been able to accomplish,” Honie said loyally. “Since she’s been president, purses have gone way up, the number of tournaments has increased and we’ve attracted the best players from all over the world. She has uncanny business instincts and she’s been able to pull off some deals no one else – man or woman—has. I’ve got to give her a lot of credit for that. Benton Bergmeister, in case you haven’t noticed, is a zero from the word go. But we need a man, apparently, to schmooze with the inner circle of sponsors and advertisers. That seems to still be a man’s world. But Big Wyn …OK, she can be a royal bitch and she’s had to step on some toes. But that’s what a lot of women in business have to do in order to succeed.”
“Oh, c’mon,” I protested. “That’s bullshit.”
We were interrupted by a gaggle of photographers. They were calling out posing directions to a group of LPGA golfers who had suddenly appeared on the scene, posing on the beach with the ocean as backdrop. About half were dressed in golf outfits, the others were in swimwear. Honie and I watched in silence as the publicity juggernaut rolled on.
“Can you imagine a group of PGA Tour players volunteering to spend a few hours posing on the beach to promote their weekend tournament?” Honie asked me.
“Not in a zillion years,” I responded, shaking my head in wonder.
“Exactly,” she said with some heat. “They throw money at the men, beat down the doors to do things for them. But we have to hustle to sell our product. Now you could say that it’s not really fair … Women professionals play the sport just as well as the men. But that’s not the point. Women just have to work harder than men to get up to the same point.”
“I don’t know—” I started to argue with her some more.
“Oh, c’mon,” she said. “It’s the same in any business. You hire a man, you automatically assume that he can do the job. All you do is give him an office, a desk and especially a secretary, and you leave him alone to do the work. You hire a woman, on the other hand, and there’s always a question about whether she can cut it. There’s always that unspoken need for her to prove herself, over and over.”
“You’re damn right!” agreed a voice behind us. I looked around and saw Mary Beth Burke, dressed in her golf clothes, standing with arms crossed.
“Oh shit,” I said. “Outnumbered!”
The photographers, who had now attracted a crowd of onlookers hoping to see some half-naked models or at least a Grade B celebrity, had moved on, back up the beach toward the hotel. Mary Beth pulled off her visor, sank down on the end of my chaise and mopped her brow.
“How’d you manage to escape the sideshow?” I asked.
“Years of practice,” she answered with a sigh. She looked over at Honie. “You’re the new PR girl, aren’t you?” Honie nodded. “Sounds like we finally got one with a head on her shoulders,” Burkey said. Honie beamed.
A waitress came up and I ordered a drink for Mary Beth and another round of pina coladas for Honie and me. My first one had mysteriously disappeared in about three gulps.
“We were discussing the various aspects of the weaker sex,” I said when the waitress left.
“You mean men,” Burkey said slyly, winking at Honie. They laughed together, compatriots.
“Har de har har,” I said. “Okay, the theorem on the table is that in today’s world, women have to work harder than men to get ahead.”
“Agreed,” Burkey said.
“But we have not addressed the question as to whether or not women are entirely suited to the fires of competition,” I said.
“Oh, my God,” Honie groaned. “What year is this? I thought we had worked that all out a few generations ago. C’mon, Hacker, get with the program!”
“No, wait a minute,” Mary beth held up a hand. “I want to hear this. Hacker is no pig. At least, I don’t think he is. I’ve always believed he had a brain in there somewhere. Let’s hear it, Hacker. But it better be good.”
“Okay,” I said. “Here goes. We’ve proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that women are just as smart, just as capable, just as intelligent as men. They can do anything men can do, whether it’s brain surgery or playing professional golf. Except, of course, they can’t pee standing up.”
The two women groaned simultaneously. I laughed and continued.
“But I’ve got this theory that says being competitive, as women must be in business and on the golf course, cuts across the grain of their womanhood and exacts something of a psychic price. Look, no matter how intelligent and sophisticated we think we humans are, we’re still animals deep down, and our behaviors are still controlled by basic instincts—the need for food, shelter and to reproduce the species. When Homo first became sapiens, a certain separation of function developed between males and females. Men’s bodies developed in such a way as to support physical exertion, so they could hunt and gather and provide the food. Women, on the other hand, were assigned the task of birthin’ the babies and keeping the home fires burning, literally speaking. Men hunted and women nurtured, and their bodies and minds developed for those tasks.”
I paused. Honie and Mary Beth were watching me with narrowed eyes, like hungry tigers waiting for their prey to move out of cover so they could pounce. But they still weren’t sure in which direction I was going. So they waited. Ready to jump and bring me down to earth.
“So I think that now, even millions of years later, the brain of every woman still contains a tiny little cell or two that keeps emitting this weak signal. Kind of like a satellite way out in space somewhere sending its signal back to earth. And it keeps saying ‘nurture…nurture…nurture.’”
“So what you’re saying is that we should all be barefoot and pregnant just like God intended?” Honie snapped at me angrily. “You aren’t gonna go all religious right on us are ya?”
The waitress came back with her tray of drinks. I passed a frosty glass over to Mary Beth and another to Honie. I restrained myself from challenging them to a chugalug contest, inasmuch as I was trying to impress them with my erudition at the moment.
“No, no,” I protested. “What I’m saying is that I guess I agree with what you were saying earlier. Women do have to work harder to succeed. Why? Because they have to overcome not only all the obstacles that society throws in their way, but, more importantly, they have to overcome that little primordial radio signal inside their own heads that’s telling them they’re not supposed to be out here slaying the saber-tooth tigers. That voice that says ‘it’s not your job, honey.’”
The two women mulled on that for a while. I did a little work on my drink, fishing around for the maraschino cherry. It went down smooth, out there in the hot sun.
“Burkey,” I said, turning to my friend and wiping away my colada-foam mustache. “Generally speaking, what’s the weakest part of a professional woman’s golf game?”
“The short game,” she said quickly. “Chipping and putting.”
“Exactly,” I said. “And why is that?”
“Because they don’t practice that part of the game as much,” Honie answered for Mary Beth. “Most women have to work so hard on getting more distance, they just don’t have time to practice the short shots.”
“Bullshit,” I said. “Chipping and putting should be the best part of their games. Look, woods and irons require physical exertion, muscle strength and power. Those are all male attributes, not female. The short game is all about feel and touch and rhythm. Those are ‘feminine’ words. Putting doesn’t require brute strength, it takes touch. So why don’t professional women putt better than men?
“Because,” I answered my own question, “It’s where you close the deal. You know that old cliché…drive for show, putt for dough. The putting green is where one thrusts the spear into your opponent’s heart, where you plug him between the eyes, shove him off the cliff or run him over with your tank. Now men have no trouble with that psychic part of the game, because we have our own little radio signals buried deep in our brains. Except ours say ‘kill the mother.’ Our subconscious is all set up and ready to plunge the dagger in.”
I thought a moment, and continued.
“But a woman’s little inside voice is saying things like ‘Oh, dear. If you sink this putt then poor Jane will feel badly for having lost. And I’m supposed to make everyone feel good like the nurturing woman I was born to be.’ So she yanks the putt left or leaves it short. Which is why women have trouble being competitors.”
There was a long moment of silence there on the beach. The young lovely in the purple thong walked by and smiled at me. I smiled back. Not bad, I thought to myself, not bad at all. Hacker’s theory of the universal nurturing woman. I liked it.
“That is about the most preposterous amalgamation of bullshit I have ever heard in my entire life,” Mary Beth Burke said finally. I smiled at her, too.
“Can’t dispute it, though, can you?” I said. “Try this one. Why are lesbians so prevalent in professional athetics? I will assume that neither of you will deny that obvious observation?”
They both nodded, but without any enthusiasm.
“Golf and tennis have always been acceptable sports for women to play,” Honie noted.
I nodded. “True,” I said. “But when you talk about professional sports, you’re not talking about country-club activities. We’re talking about sports as vocation. And professional athletics is not something women are traditionally encouraged to do. Girls are supposed to be nice and quiet and attractive. They’re not supposed to be able to rifle a two-iron in to a protected pin.”
“You may have something there, Hacker,’ Mary Beth allowed. “Lord knows I took a ration of shit from my friends and family growing up. My mom gave me dolls and tea sets every birthday, but I just wanted to play with my dad’s old set of clubs, or go punt the football or something. Drove her nuts!”
“Okay,” I said, “So are lesbians attracted to sports, or do sports attract lesbians? My theory says it’s because the successful female athlete has found a way to overcome that little radio signal in her head. She’s learned, or maybe doesn’t even have, to overcome that natural inclination to be a nurturer, and thus is free to compete without guilt. In effect, she’s learned to become a man: competitive, hungry, aggressive, a hunter. For whatever reason, her natural female inclinations disappear.”
I was rolling now. Mary Beth and Honie seemed to be engrossed, paying close attention. I took another healthy gulp from my drink and continued.
“So it’s only logical to presume that sometimes this un-femaleness will spill over into other areas of her life, such as her sexuality,” I said. “She becomes a male aggressor and a sexual aggressor, and seeks a soft, nurturing partner. Hence, she is attracted to women. Simple, really.”
I tossed back the last of my drink. The Doctor has spoken. My two women friends said nothing at first. Then they turned to one another.
“I’m not sure, but I think Hacker just called me a bull dyke,” Mary Beth said.
“I think I need another drink,” Honie said. “Let’s go get some lunch.”
They didn’t say anything to me. I figured I had ‘em licked. Blinded by my genius. Honie gathered up her beach things and we walked back toward the hotel. I was a few steps ahead as we passed the huge pool, still feeling proud of my reasoning powers and philosophical understanding of womankind.
Until they each grabbed me by an arm and flung me, decisively, into the pool. Proving yet again that there is nothing so dangerous as a hungry female tiger waiting to pounce on her unsuspecting prey.