Little White Lies

by Paul Watkins

  ***

  The game has turned out to be everything I expected and more. A.J. and I are walking together going down the eighteenth fairway. He hasn’t stopped talking since the first tee. These guys have had me laughing so hard at times it has been difficult to hit some of the shots. But as tough as it has been for me, it has been worse for the caddies. They laugh as only teenagers can. If they had known what they were getting into, they probably would have taken the job for nothing just to have a chance to see the show. A.J. doesn’t care who is hitting, the stream of verbal abuse is directed towards one and all without letup.

  Now A.J. is giving me my instructions, bucking me up for the grand finale.

  “It’s all up to you, my man. I’ve gotten us this far, it’s about time you did something.”

  I turn so I can get a better view of his face and it’s just as I suspected… perfectly straight. The man has no shame. I have been playing these guys virtually by myself. A.J. hasn’t been having a very good day except with his mouth. The match is dead even on the back with two press bets still alive. We managed to win the front side one up, so it all comes down to this hole. I’m not particularly worried at this point because I’m actually playing fairly well. Much better, in fact, than I have any right to expect. I know A.J. wants to win, but if we lose it will hardly be the end of the world. Par is a reasonable expectation after my drive and if that’s not good enough, then so be it.

  The eighteenth is a good finishing hole. The fairway is fairly narrow with a dogleg left that curves around a small pond. I have about one hundred eighty yards to the green. I select a five iron and for once, A.J. is actually quiet as I prepare to hit my shot. He’s probably getting tired. I manage one of my better swings for the day and watch as the ball heads towards the flag. It hits the green, checks and comes to rest about eight feet from the pin. Any professional would be delighted, as am I.

  A.J. lets out a yell. “Take that, you motherfuckers! As I said before, the likes of you couldn’t play a top team like us. Fuck you and your caddies, too!”

  Leave it to A.J. to include everyone in his merriment. An equal opportunity abuser, he is not one to slight anyone present much less any of the participants.

  “Don’t wear out your pom-poms, A.J.,” Billy admonishes. “You haven’t done shit since the first hole. All you can do is run your mouth and hope Phil will save your worthless ass.”

  The words bounce off A.J. as though he’s wrapped in kevlar. A man who’s about as sensitive as a veteran politician at a fundraiser, he’s your basic insufferable winner. I manage to miss the putt, leaving Lionel a chance to tie the hole with his four-footer. He manufactured a fantastic third shot and now he’s licking his chops. As Lionel surveys his line, A.J. goes to work.

  “That putt looks almost straight, Train, which means you don’t have a chance in hell of making it.”

  A.J. follows this with an elbow to my ribs accompanied by an oversized wink.

  Lionel looks at A.J. and sneers, “Stuff it, A.J.” He looks over at his partner. “You know, Billy, it’s too bad we got stuck with these miserable bastards. My friends at home usually give me putts like this.”

  “Too bad you’re not playing with your friends, Fatty,” retorts A.J. “Now why don’t you step up there and miss it so we can collect our money and spend our time with more enjoyable company.”

  I don’t think Lionel ever had a chance. He follows A.J.’s instructions to the letter as the putt travels less than half way to the cup… a complete gas job. I suspect A.J.’s gagging sounds aren’t helping matters either. Lionel looks like he’s going to shove his putterup A.J.’s ass.

  ***

  A.J. enters the bar and brings silence with a shrill whistle.

  “The popular favorites won!” He announces. “Thanks to me!”

  Boo’s and jeers follow. A.J. bows as if it were applause… obviously heady stuff, even for an entertainer used to the roaring affirmation of the masses.

  About an hour later I watch Lionel as he makes his way through the crowded bar. “Here, this is for you.”

  It’s a check for three hundred dollars.

  “What’s this for?” I ask.

  “We lost six ways. The front, the backside pressed, the all day and two additional presses.”

  “Yeah, I know all that, but we were playing three fives.”

  “Right… six times fifty is three hundred. At least it was earlier today.”

  I smile. “Heck, I thought we were playing for five bucks.”

  I hardly finish the sentence when Lionel snatches the check from my hand.

  “I got it all wrong, A.J.,” he calls out, “Phil says all we owe you guys is thirty bucks… almost made a big mistake.”

  “No problem,” A.J. says without smiling, “you’re both fired.” He turns back to his conversation, showing no further concern. Obviously he doesn’t sweat the small stuff.

  Lionel turns without skipping a beat, walks back and returns the check.

  “Fuckin’ troublemaker,” he mumbles. His opinion causes me no end of concern. Now I’m going to lose another night’s sleep.

  “Shit, Phil,” A.J. yells, returning his attention to Lionel, “don’t take a check from that porker. He’s hung more paper in this state than an interior decorator. They’ll probably laugh at you when you try to cash it. Scot Tissue is negotiating with him for the rights to some of his more creative efforts. They claim they can put it to better use in their paper line… the one they sell in those little round rolls. They say it would provide the perfect medium for his literary talent. Every reader would be a critic… and they would all be right.”

  “How about taking it out of his pay?” I ask, ignoring A.J.’s graphic descriptions.

  “Yeah, if there’s any left after those two settle up for this party. I forgot to mention it on the first tee… we were also playing for drinks and dinner for everyone.”

  “Would you have remembered if we had won?” Billy asks laughing.

  “We’ll never know, Billy, we’ll never know,” A.J. replies.

  Looking about at all the laughing faces sharing the good times, I realize this is something that has been missing in my life for a long time. Upon reflection, I conclude I’m not only happy now, but I’ve been happy for quite a while. I guess that’s a good sign, even if I am only the token white man in this rowdy bunch.

  CHAPTER 11

  Riding back in the limo there isn’t much to say. It has been a long day and while it has been fun, we are both knocked-out tired. A.J. is tickled with his victory and the supposed hard feelings all around. Challenges were made and gauntlets thrown for the next time we meet and so on. All the normal horseplay grown men engage in when they act like children. I wasn’t much more than an observer, for I’m still an outsider in every sense of the word and probably always will be. That’s to be expected, but it’s not going to stop me from enjoying the party.

  We pull up to the front steps and A.J. pops the door open before the car comes to a full stop. He’s on the ground the instant we have terminated our forward motion. Not that he’s in any particular rush… it’s just the way he moves at times. He gets a bee in his bonnet and he has to do something about it. He opens the front door ahead of me and walks backwards across the foyer, talking as he goes.

  “I know it’s late, but I’m not ready to turn in yet. Feel like I got a second wind… are you interested in a nightcap?”

  “Sure,” I reply, “no sense going to bed feeling good.”

  I’m physically tired, but wide-awake for some reason. A little wind-down time might be the ticket. More alcohol at this time of night is totally unnecessary, but what the hell. This is hardly the time in my life to start doing things in an intelligent fashion.

  A.J. smiles knowingly and heads straight for thebar.

  “What’s your p
leasure?” he asks, raising a bottle of brandy and holding it to the light to see the Courvoisier label.

  “That looks good, but make it a small one… I don’t want to be up all night.” Still not smart, but a reasonable compromise.

  A.J. nods in agreement. “Yeah, I know what you mean. It’s good stuff but it can get awful angry if you tangle with it.”

  The voice of experience. A.J. pours the brandy into two cut-glass snifters and we take our drinks to the sofas near the fireplace. He swirls the drink in the glass, takes a small sip and places the glass on the table ever so gently. I tasted my drink on the way over, so my glass goes directly to the table without any further attention from me. The room is silent except for the steady tick of the mantle clock. Long moments pass comfortably. There’s no challenge, pressure or deadline to talk about anything in particular. Today we crossed some kind of threshold and our relationship has taken on another dimension. If we could measure it somehow, we would probably find we are beginning a friendship of sorts, the kind of thing that happens without rhyme or reason, and needs none. With luck it will continue and grow in the very best way… shared experiences.

  “It went well didn’t it?” A.J. asks.

  Without any prompting on my part he clarifies his question.

  “I mean it was a good meeting. I think the guys are beginning to feel like we are getting to be a real company.”

  I agree with a nod and A.J. continues, “You know that little newsletter you put out last month really makes a difference. I think it’s good for the guys to know how the other operations are doing, instead of feeling like they’re all alone in their little outpost. Also, it can spread some good ideas around… maybe even create a little competition.”

  I reach for my drink and use the glass to mask my smile. A.J. wasn’t that hot for the idea when I first proposed it, but he started getting phone calls from the different managers almost immediately after the first issue hit. With all the kudos, he had to cave. Then it took him about ten seconds to make the idea his own. But it’s all just another way to bust my chops. In private he owns up to my ideas, but in public he takes all the credit himself, daring me to contradict him. I guess it’s kind of a game between us at this point because he thinks I care. I’m amused, but I don’t care. After all, it’s not as though I’m going to get a promotion out of it. If I were in this job for other reasons it might be a problem, but I’m not so I just take another sip and give my drink a spin. Before I can say anything in reply, A.J. continues.

  “You handle a lot of stuff around here, Phil, and you’re doing one hell of a job. Sheri and I were talking the other day and we think we should change our arrangement. We would like to work out something where you would be a more permanent part of the group… you know, have a piece of the action. That’s part of the reason I would like you to think about expanding your responsibilities. All that stuff in the car this morning… hell, I wanted to change things anyway.”

  “That’s very nice, Mr. Jackson,” I reply, “but it isn’t necessary. I’m really happy with things as they are. I don’t mean to say I won’t take on more responsibility… I just don’t want to change our employment arrangement. Everything here is yours and it should stay that way… including the restaurants. If you become a jillionaire, great… more power to you. Someday I’ll be able to say I knew you when…”

  Heck, I’m more than happy and what he’s talking about is very nice, but I don’t want a part of his business. I suppose there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to move too fast or get too involved, if I’m completely honest about it. I am honest every now and then, if only with myself. The other part is being sincerely happy for the Jacksons and their success. I’m enjoying it almost as much as they are.

  I watch A.J. as he leans back and looks at the ceiling. He slowly massages his eyes with his fingertips, wearily drops his hands to his lap where he studies them for a moment and then gradually looks up.

  “Phil, what the hell is it with you? You work your ass off all the time, you have no life of your own… you don’t want anything… what makes you tick?”

  I try to put myself in his place, but it’s difficult to do. I imagine when you’re a star and everyone always has a hand out, or actually in your pocket, I must be an enigma. But there’s no sense in making more out of it than there is. I have my own success and all the wealth I will ever need. Besides I never played for money anyway. I just hated to lose. In business, if you do things right, the money follows. Sure, some people can never have enough, but I’m not one of those people. Business for me is a means to an end. At times it becomes life itself, but there’s more out there and I don’t want to fall into the corporate trap again. I want to enjoy life with a little business mixed in, not the other way around. It’s a tough thing to explain.

  “I’m just happy with things as they are, that’s all,” I tell him. “We had a deal when I came here. You have lived up to your end and I’m trying to live up to mine. And I don’t want you to think I’m looking for more, because I’m not. I’m well paid for what I do.”

  I laugh, thinking of an old joke that sort of illustrates my point.

  “I’m trying not to be like the businessman who when rushed to the emergency ward with what appeared to be a heart attack was placed on a bed and immediately attended to by several doctors and nurses. ‘Are you comfortable?’ the doctor asked while taking his pulse. ‘I make a decent living,’ the businessman replies, gasping for air. I think that’s losing your way and so far I’ve been fortunate in that regard. I don’t want to end up like that guy on the gurney.”

  A.J. waves his hand through the air as though the gesture alone will erase everything I just said. My attempt at humor is completely ignored.

  “Look, I know I was defensive at first about you sticking to your business… I didn’t want you in my other operations, but I was wrong and you have convinced me otherwise. Looking back I can see where I wasn’t on top of things as I should have been. I needed help and I didn’t realize it. I have no experience in business and I didn’t understand that each new restaurant doesn’t increase the workload proportionately. As you have often said, it’s a geometric progression, and I’m just beginning to understand what that means, both now and in the future, when it will only get worse.”

  He leans forward and takes a sip of his drink, places the glass on the table and pushes it towards the center as if to take it out of the conversation.

  “Then, too, maybe I was afraid of trusting someone too much, like I did with my previous business manager. Hell, I turned everything over to him and just turned my back on it… I trusted him completely.”

  Now he stops abruptly and looks about the room with an agitated motion before returning his gaze to me.

  “I know we haven’t been at this very long and I really don’t know you very well in some ways, but I know this… you’re different from the others. I believe I can trust you with anything. It’s just a feeling I have about things… and Sheri agrees. She didn’t trust Monte and she didn’t like him. I should have listened to herthen. I didn’t, but I’m listening to her now… she wants you to stick around and be a part of everything. You know, you have sort of become our mentor. Hell… neither one of us knows of a lot about the business world… and I sure don’t want to learn the hard way.

  “You know when we first started out there wasn’t much at stake… but now it seems like we have a real shot at making something out of it. I mean you could make something out of it. I’m not sure I could with everything else going on, not that I’d be broke, it’s just that I have a feeling we could go big time… really big.”

  “I appreciate your comments.” I reply. “About the only thing I can add is that the feeling is mutual. I like you and your family and I would love to get this thing off the ground in a serious way, we could have some fun with it.”

  “Well I want you to be happy and I w
ant you to stick around, too… I think we can do a lot together.”

  Once again his hands come to his eyes and he rubs them with the heels of his palms.

  “You know it’s funny… I made up my mind I would never get close to anyone in business… but a white man?”

  “The white thing again, huh?”

  He pauses and looks at me for a moment before continuing.

  “I told Sheri it’s not so bad in the summer… you brown up a little. But now winter’s coming and you’re going to get all pasty again… it’s going to be hell to pay. Embarrassing too, having an anemic old man running around here.”

  “Which is worse… the white thing or the old thing?”

  “Hell, I don’t know,” he says with a shake of his head, “they’re both awful. I don’t know how you deal with either one. Look, don’t change the subject… or before we do, let’s agree to at least think about it. I want you to take on more responsibility… help me out more. I know this isn’t the time to solve anything… I don’t want to do it in the middle of the night. But you’ll keep an open mind about it… right?”

  I nod agreement.

  “I’m open… and I want to help, you know that.”

  “Good. Okay, now we can change the subject. Talk about anything you want. Talk about safe stuff… religion, politics… anything you want.”

  I smile. Yeah, right, it’s always nice to end the night with a shouting match.

  “Tell me about your politics,” he persists. “I just want to hear what you think… no arguments… I’ll just listen, maybe ask a few questions. I’ll bet you’re another tight-assed conservative. Right?”

  Nice even-handed way to start a discussion. I know I shouldn’t, but I rise to the bait anyway.

  “I’m conservative about some things, that’s for sure,” I reply, “but I wouldn’t say I’m conservative across the board.”