by Terry Fallis
“I open a nationwide chain of Elvis Birthmark waffle houses?” He guffawed.
“No, and it’s not funny,” I said, shaking my head. “No, that’s not what happens. Instead, you get so tired of it all, and so hollowed out from never pursuing your operatic dreams, that one day, almost in a trance, you have a plastic surgeon remove the birthmark. People are shocked and horrified, but you’ve stopped caring. Pretty soon you’re singing in a local choir.”
Curt seemed to recognize that he’d caused something special to happen. He sat back, squinted a little, nodded his head, and urged me on.
I could feel myself getting more animated and energized as I told the story. I was waving my arms around. I was leaning forward in a chair that wasn’t really built for anything but sitting back, relaxed. It was getting hot under the lights. I suddenly noticed that my voice sounded a little different. It was in a slightly higher register, and it was taut and tense. I also spoke much louder than I should have. But I was in no mood to stop now that the dam had burst.
“Then you finally get some voice training. You land a part in the chorus of a community operetta, and you pull it off. You do quite well. Then you audition for a minor role in a minor opera, in a minor company in a minor city. You get the part and earn good reviews for it. Finally, you snag a leading role in a big touring production and you find yourself on the road, with positive reviews in each city. Then do you know what happens?”
I realized I was standing now. I could hear people whispering in the dark beyond the lights. Curt Hammersmith shook his head, his eyes wide.
“There’s a scar on your back that you’ll always have, but for the first time in your interesting, strange, and blessed life, you’re actually happy and fulfilled. You finally understand what being happy really feels like. You’re not at Carnegie Hall. You’re not at the big Italian opera house—what’s that called again? La Scala or something. You’re not at the Met in New York. You’re with a touring production in Spokane, or Edmonton, or North Tonawanda. And you’re happy—happier than you’ve ever been.”
You might think that I sat back down then, but I didn’t. I just stood there over him.
“Now do you understand?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Really? Have I been that obscure in my explanation?” I said in an even louder voice. “Look, you said it earlier. I’ve been given a gift. I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t earn it. I can’t even practise, or I dishonour the gift. So when I’m out there, I’m just a body, swinging without thinking, without working, without even understanding. I’ve done nothing. It’s just my body. So your praise is misplaced when you pile it on for something I literally have had no role in earning. I am a vessel, an empty vessel. I didn’t become the best golfer on the planet, as you so artfully put it, by endless study, hours of practice, and a deep commitment to excellence, where I sacrificed everything else in my life to achieve this lofty goal. No. Now, that would have been satisfying. No. There was none of that. I was born with legs, arms, and a torso that are freakishly well suited to golf. If I practise, I get worse. If I think too hard on the course, I get worse. If I make any effort at all to get better, I get worse. I don’t deserve praise and accolades for my golfing prowess any more than you deserve praise for having nice, thick hair, a handsome face, and a square jawline. We both simply inherited our good fortune.”
I was breathing hard as I headed for the finish line. It started to dawn on me that I’d gone completely off the rails. But you know what? I’d stopped caring.
“And eventually what has earned me riches and fame and all manner of worldly goods, well, it becomes a burden. I know, I know. It sounds almost contemptible to complain about such a gift. But hear me out. You’re taught from a very early age to work hard for what you want, for what you love, to put out the effort and never give up, and maybe, just maybe, success will find you. And when it does, that satisfaction feels so good because you are solely, or at least largely, responsible for what you’ve been able to achieve. That, to me, is the story of a good life well lived. That is happiness. That is rewarding, fulfilling, and satisfying. That’s the story of an opera singer, or maybe a writer. But that is not my story as a golfer.”
With that, I walked off the set, pulling off my microphone and battery pack as I headed for the door.
The limo was outside the loading dock, waiting to take Bobbie and me to the airport.
“What the hell just happened?” Susan asked as the three of us climbed in. “Are you all right?”
“I’m not sure. I think so. I feel a lot lighter,” I said. “But I’m really sorry. It was not the interview I was expecting after all our discussions with Charlotte. He just pushed the wrong buttons and I kind of floated out of myself. I’m sorry.”
“And that birthmark story, where did that come from?”
“That was a clumsy and feeble attempt at metaphor, or at least an analogy,” I replied.
“That, young Adam, sounded to me like a fable with a very clear moral,” Bobbie said. “I didn’t realize it had come to this. Are you really that miserable?” She looked very concerned.
“No, I’m not miserable. I’m just not happy, and there’s no time to do what makes me happy,” I said. “Sorry, I’m just a little overwhelmed right now. Maybe it’s the looming Olympics. I don’t know.”
“Just try to relax, and don’t do any interviews when you’re in Dubai,” Susan said. “I’ll see if I can talk Charlotte into scrapping the interview, but I’m not hopeful. She knows she holds gold in those last ten minutes, even if she wasn’t in the host’s chair.”
Bobbie was quieter on the flight than she usually was. Come to think of it, she’d seemed a little subdued for the last week or so. We were seated in our own individual pods on the first-class upper deck of the quite amazing Airbus A380. But we’d flown that way before, and she would always hover around for at least the first part of the flight and we’d talk about stuff. That night, she begged off, claiming she was a bit drained.
Susan had set up the Dubai promotion for Nike. I’d be driving Nike golf balls from the roof of the Burj Al Arab. You know the building. It’s the one shaped like a billowing sail, perched right on the edge of the Arabian Gulf. It’s one of the tallest hotels in the world, just a bit shorter than the Empire State Building. Conveniently, we were also staying in the Burj Al Arab overnight before returning to L.A. the next afternoon.
A small, raised platform had been built in the middle of the circular helipad on top of the hotel. We were instructed to stay away from the edge and the very low white railing that wouldn’t stop a chihuahua from leaping over. When I ventured closer to the railing for a look down to the water, I felt a little queasy.
There were two stages of this shoot. First, the cameras would be set up on the helipad and they’d shoot me driving balls off the platform from various angles. They expected I’d be out there swinging for about forty-five minutes to get what they needed in video and stills. The second part involved a helicopter. The director, photographer, and videographer would take all their equipment, dash to a local helipad, jump into a chopper, and return for aerial shots of me hitting more balls. In this era, you really needed the de rigueur drone or chopper shots. The director didn’t yet trust drones, hence the chopper. They would give me instructions via radio. Bobbie had been seconded to handle the walkie-talkie and relay directions to me.
Did I mention that it was about 270 degrees out there as we stood discussing the shoot, fully exposed on the helipad/driving platform? Now I understood why there were four changes of clothes, all the very same carefully chosen Nike ensemble, waiting in my hotel suite. It only took the makeup person about ten minutes to get me camera-ready. That made me feel a little better. Then we were outside in the blazing sun again. They were right. The shoot did take about forty-five minutes, and two of my four Nike outfits. It was kind of cool seeing the balls rocket into the sky and arc into the sparkling blue Arabian Sea below. But man, it was sweltering.
&
nbsp; As the shoot team packed up their equipment from the first stage, the rest of us retreated to the air-conditioned bar—closed down for the shoot—to cool off and rehydrate. Bobbie had a beer, and I had an enormous glass of water and a Coke.
“I hope the aerial part doesn’t take as long,” Bobbie said as we sipped our drinks. “That many drives in quick succession seems dangerously close to practising. Professor Gunnarsson would not be happy.”
“I’ll try not to pick up any bad habits,” I replied. “Don’t worry, I’m not even thinking out there.”
“That’s my lad,” she replied. “I think this promo is a tad too close to the Olympics. I’m not sure Susan should have booked it.” She bowed her head and looked tired.
“Are you okay, Bobbie? You seem, I don’t know, a little quiet lately.”
“Just a little preoccupied, son,” she replied with a weak smile. “Between the Olympics and a lovely blue vintage OMAS 360 with a cursive italic nib I’ve been chasing on eBay, there’s a lot going on.”
I nodded but decided not to push her any further.
The shooters and the director hustled by and said they’d be airborne and in position in about forty minutes. They’d radio when they were approaching.
After I’d changed clothes again, the makeup artist worked me over one last time. Her challenge was to keep me from looking as if there were rivulets of perspiration cascading down my face, when in fact there were rivulets of perspiration cascading down my face. The AC had me feeling just about back to normal by that stage. About fifteen minutes later, the security guard who’d been with us on set approached us.
“Okay, the director has just called on the radio to say they are earlier than expected and that we should go back up,” he said.
“I didn’t hear that on my radio,” Bobbie said.
“Yes, we changed the frequency so we wouldn’t disturb you,” the guard explained. “The director also said that I should only bring you two outside for the helicopter shots. He doesn’t want others with us to get in the way of the photos and video, yes?”
Bobbie nodded. “I guess that makes sense,” she said.
“Fine with us,” I replied.
“Okay. We should go now,” he said.
The guard led us up the staircase to the door. He waved us through and back out onto the helipad, where my clubs awaited me. Then he locked the door from the outside, pulled an iron bar from behind a large planter, and pushed it through the double door handles. I thought that was kind of odd, and looked at him.
“We take your security very seriously, sir. Especially when you are here almost by yourself,” he said, with a reassuring smile.
A couple of minutes later, I was giving my driver a few easy swings while Bobbie looked on. Then suddenly she looked past me with a puzzled expression on her face. I turned and saw the guard reach under a tarpaulin rolled up near the door. In what seemed like slow motion, he pulled out a rather powerful-looking rifle.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Bobbie shouted as she moved over to where I stood.
He turned with the gun and trained it on us. He looked scared. He was bobbing from foot to foot and aiming the gun, first at me and then at Bobbie.
“You both shut up! No speaking! Now throw your phones and that radio over to me. Slowly! Do it!”
My heart rate skyrocketed. I felt my knees trembling. I looked at Bobbie.
“It’s okay, son,” she whispered. “Let’s stay calm. Our friend is clearly shaking in his drawers, but we’d better do what he says.”
She then looked at the guard.
“Just relax. We’ll do what you say. Just be careful, please.”
We slowly pulled our phones and Bobbie’s radio out of our pockets and slid them towards him along the rooftop. He kicked them further away, towards the railing. He then reached into his jacket, struggling a bit to balance the gun with one hand. He pulled out two plastic tie-wraps and tossed them to us.
“Put these on each other’s wrists. Quickly. Quickly! Do it now!” he screamed.
He kept sneaking glances up the coast, out into the distance.
Bobbie slipped the tie-wrap around my wrists and pulled it snug. Then I did the same for her. It was a little harder with my wrists already constrained, but we managed.
“Do not play with me!” he shouted. “Pull them tighter. I must see the skin being pinched. Do it!”
We tightened one another’s tie-wraps so that we were both in some discomfort.
“See, it’s cutting into my skin,” Bobbie said, lifting her arms so he could see.
“Me, too,” I said, mimicking Bobbie’s moves.
“Okay, okay. Sit down on the floor over there so I can see you, and do not move.”
Bobbie and I followed his orders and sat next to one another on the rooftop helipad, leaning against the wooden platform from which I was supposed to be driving golf balls. The guard—I guess it’s safe to say he wasn’t actually a guard—moved to the far edge of the helipad and, while still pointing that big gun at us, scanned the horizon and checked his watch.
“What’s he looking for?” I whispered to Bobbie. “And why does he keep checking his watch?”
“Let’s leave that question alone, shall we? We might not like the answer.”
The guard continued to survey the clouds while checking his watch and aiming that big gun our way.
Bobbie leaned towards me.
“That, young Adam, is an AK-47,” Bobbie said. “I’m sure you already know this, but the Kalashnikov, as it’s affectionately known, was designed in 1947. 1947! It’s older than I am!”
I tried to ignore her little assault rifle treatise, but after years alongside Bobbie, I knew resistance was futile. Oblivious, she prattled on with her little biography of a firearm.
“I mean, that weapon has played a defining role in so many revolutions across the last seventy-five years. It deserves credit and blame, in nearly equal measure, for most of the coups, terrorist acts, territorial skirmishes, insurgencies, and armed conflicts from one side of the globe to the other!”
“Bobbie,” I whispered.
“A few years ago, I read a fascinating account of the Kalashnikov’s pivotal place in world history, and…”
“Bobbie,” I said a little louder.
“…it would not be an exaggeration to say that governments were toppled and born, wars were won and lost, and national borders were drawn and redrawn, all on the trigger of the same gun that guy standing in front of us is holding right now.”
“Bobbie!” I snapped in a voice that quite accurately reflected just how freaked out I was at that moment.
“What?” She looked genuinely puzzled.
“Bobbie, that’s all very fascinating—actually, at this precise moment, it’s really not—and I’d be pumped to learn more about this historically significant firearm were it not for the complicating fact that he’s pointing it directly at us…on purpose…with malevolent intent and little chance of missing us should he decide to squeeze off a burst.”
Bobbie fell silent for a moment, but not nearly long enough. “But look how the sun glints off it,” she continued after a moment, shaking her head. The faraway expression on her face seemed somewhere between admiration and awe. “Quite stunning.”
I lifted my eyes to the man standing about thirty metres away. He wore an expression that balanced rage and anxiety on a knife edge while brandishing what I now knew to be an internationally celebrated assault rifle.
“Yeah, and look how angry he is,” I replied. “Quite frightening.”
While his gun was pointed our way, his eyes were not. He just kept staring into the clouds.
Bobbie ignored me and turned to scan the horizon.
“Man, what a view from up here.”
By this time, she seemed completely at ease. I was not. I was terrified—all-in, flat-out, and full-on. On the fear spectrum, I situated myself somewhere well past freaking and heading fast to fainting. If I knew of a stronger word than terri
fied, believe me, I’d be trotting it out right about now.
“Aren’t you scared?” I asked.
“Quite,” she replied. “But so is our friend over there.”
I looked over at Mr. Kalashnikov, who kept his weapon trained on us while taking furtive glances into the sky and tilting his head like a dog hearing a sound we could not. Bobbie and I sat next to each other with our backs literally, and in every other sense of the word, against the wall.
“These things are so much more effective than handcuffs,” Bobbie offered, examining the plastic tie-wrap that bound her wrists. The one that secured mine was too tight and dug into my skin. It hurt.
“I mean, they’re strong, light, easy to carry, and just as effective as overbuilt steel cuffs against the modest power of the human forearm,” Bobbie continued. “Plus, the pièce de résistance, there’s no key to lose. Brilliant!”
She actually chuckled as she said “brilliant.” I’m not kidding. With a bad man training an assault rifle on us, she chuckled. I felt like I might pass out, but Bobbie didn’t notice. She continued her enthusiastic, even fawning, dissertation on the advances in personal restraint embodied in the lowly plastic tie-wrap, but the sound of my own pounding heart nearly drowned her out. Yes, I know. I plead guilty to the charge of cliché. I’m a writer—or at least I want to be a writer—so I’m programmed to hate clichés. But sometimes they’re clichés for a reason. I had never really believed that old adage—that old cliché—that your life actually passes before your eyes in moments of dire peril, in that little space that exists between passed out and passed on. But you know what? It’s true. Perfect memory fragments, intact, whole, pristine, flying at you almost faster than you can take them in. And with more detail than you’d ever recall without the catalyst of a life-threatening event. It’s true. It’s all true.
We heard it before we saw it. A helicopter. No doubt heading our way.
“Okay, now that is not a positive development,” Bobbie said.
The sound of the chopper grew. Somehow, I knew it didn’t carry the director, photographer, and videographer for our fun little promotion. Bobbie and I followed the chopper with our eyes as it grew from a speck to, well, to a full-sized helicopter. The guard still had the famous firearm aimed in our general direction, but he seemed more focused on the chopper as it approached and hovered above us. He motioned to the pilot to land the helicopter closer to the edge because of the wooden platform. We were buffeted by the downdraft of the rotor blades, but it actually provided some welcome relief from the oppressive heat. The noise verged on deafening. Bobbie suddenly leaned over until her mouth was almost touching my ear.
