by Paul Watkins
“Yeah, I’ll go. What the hell, I’m not doing anything anyway. I might as well tag along and watch you make a mess of things.”
The various replies coursing through my nimble brain would not do much for our relationship, so I decide to let it be. Besides, it’s almost Christmas and I’m very cool and laid back these days… or, at least, I have been for the last twelve hours or so. It’s amazing what a little wine and a lot of sex will do for an agingbody.
***
The holidays have been going well. Karen seems happy when we’re together and we’ve managed to have enough time to ourselves and to attend to our individual responsibilities. The Jacksons, on the other hand, have been busy making the rounds on the party circuit. They went to the West Coast for a few days to see friends and the rest of the time has been spent here at home with the children. A.J. said he was going to stay off the road for a while and so far he has been as good as his word. My employers resolved my dilemma regarding where and how to spend Christmas day. They insisted I stay and spend my time with them and I accepted gratefully. Frankly, I have been looking forward to spending this time with thechildren and Karen.
***
And suddenly, like an intense tropical storm, it’s over and calm has been restored to our quiet country home. Santa came and went for Jeff-Jeff and Shana. A day of surprises had A.J. and Sheri trying to outdo one another while Karen and I enjoyed watching it all happen. It couldn’t have been nicer. New Year’s eve was a different story. We took the limo into town and danced the night away. Sometime around midnight I lost track of all the places we went to, but I managed to stay up way past my bedtime. A.J. had reserved rooms for us at the Plaza, thereby eliminating the late night drive home. I suppose it didn’t make much difference… I would have been asleep one way or the other. Karen thought it was hilarious that ‘old people’ want to turn in so early. I suppose four AM is early ifyou’re planning on staying up for breakfast… but that was all in my youth… she’s right, I am too old.
The first day of the new year is a lazy time for everyone. Fortunately, A.J. and I are heading for Florida and Doral later in the day. The meeting doesn’t start until the fourth, but we decided to go early and check out the facilities… translated means we plan to get in a few rounds of golf before the rest of the managers arrive.
A.J. informed me earlier that he would like me to chair the meeting this time around. Whatever his reasons, I know that chief among them is the fact that he likes to kibitz, which is a lot easier to do if you are not the person running the show. Running a meeting with A.J. in the group is a little like trying to manage a class of delinquents. Whatever else gets done, he’s going to have fun in the process.
A.J. is a very funny guy and his irrepressible humor keeps everyone laughing. He sees humor in almost everything, so one has to be careful or the meeting will turn into an extended stage show. That’s okay. There’s no law that says business has to be serious. In fact it’s much better if you can laugh and still get the job done. In this company, however, we really don’t have much choice… the leader of the band is a comedian so we might as well grin and bear it.
The managers all arrived on schedule and we are set to get things started in good order. Because of the nature of the group and the leader of that group as a particular case in point, I’ve decided to set some ground rules or we will never make it through our agenda. We have a lot to cover and I want to have ample time to discuss everything to the extent that we can resolve as many issues as possible while we’re here. The mornings will be devoted to work sessions. Lunch and recreation will follow. However, anything not completed in the morning session will be picked up in an evening meeting that same day. The message is clear: if you want to have your evenings free, you had better work in the morning.
Included in the subjects to be covered is safety in the workplace for both employees and customers alike. There are all kinds of considerations to be addressed from wet floors to fire hazards in the kitchen. Clean rest rooms are a must and special provisions are made to document any complaints in this area. We stress the need to document any issues, good or bad, with customers or employees. And, finally, there’s the subject of harassment, sexual or otherwise, of employees by management. I go to great lengths to describe the various forms this offense can take and the penalties that can result from this practice.
“You hear that, A.J.?” Lionel calls out at the top of his voice. “What all this means is that you had better watch your big mouth when you’re talking to me from now on or I’m going to slap a lawsuit on your narrow black ass.”
“As usual, you got it all wrong, Fatty,” A.J. counters. “First of all, these rules only apply to competent employees… so that lets you out. Besides, if I have been referring to you by a certain name since we werefive years old, I can continue to do so, because the court will find that you had plenty of time to lodge a complaint or find a job elsewhere. Of course, in your case, the court may not realize that you probably would not be able to find any other job because of your limited abilities… but that’s not my problem. So you’re still screwed you big tub of shit.”
“Bullshit!” Lionel retorts. “I have all these witnesses who will back me up. We’ll own this place when we finish with you.”
A.J. laughs. “You mean all these witnesses who are going to get a nice raise when this meeting is over?” He reaches over and taps Elroy ‘Digger’ Phelps, the manager of the Tampa restaurant, on the shoulder. “How about it, Digger, did you hear anything?”
Digger shakes his head in denial.
“Not me, boss. The only thing I’ve heard in the past few minutes was Fatty shouting something, which I really don’t remember much about. And, oh yeah, I remember you saying we were all going to get a nice big raise when this meeting is over.”
His comment is followed by universal laughter, including Lionel, but it’s also a good opportunity to drive home the point.
“What you have just witnessed is the type of behavior we are trying to prevent. On the other hand,” I continue, looking directly at A.J., “I think we will have all the managers sign a release holding A.J. and the company harmless, so we can continue to be ourselves when we’re among ourselves. One never knows when the ‘thought police’ might rear their perfect heads.”
The grudge match is on. We’re going to play the boys from Atlanta again, Lionel and Billy. For some reason we haven’t seen either one of them since lunch. Normally we would have expected to run into them on the practice tee or the putting green, but they haven’t been around, and the starter is getting a little anxious. The Blue Course, or the Blue Monster, as it is sometimes described in the press, is very busy and the starter isn’t about to give us any leeway. Just as we are about to throw in the towel, Batson expertly weaves his way towards the tee in his golf cart.
“Where’s Lionel, Bat?” A.J. asks with a frown, clearly worried we’re going to lose our tee time. “We’re going to have to tee off now or lose our turn.”
“He should be here in a minute,” Billy replies looking back at the club building. “He was getting ready to leave the pro shop when I last saw him.”
Hardly have the words been spoken, when Lionel appears from behind a group of people standing in the path a few yards back from the tee. A.J. has remained sitting in the golf cart, looking down the fairway towards the first hole. Lionel’s arrival brings A.J. to his feet, but he is not prepared for what he is about to encounter.
Lionel is dressed in red plus fours or ‘knickers’ as they are sometimes called. Along with his red pants he is wearing yellow knee-length stockings and a bright yellow shirt. His shoes are two-toned, green and whitewingtips. All this is topped off with a green, wide-brimmed straw hat. The effect is eye-catching, to say the least.
Stunned, A.J. grabs the cart in an apparent effort to keep from falling down.
“Holy shit, Train, where’d you get th
at outfit?”
“Fuck you, A.J.,” Lionel retorts, ignoring the question, “just hit the ball.”
But A.J. is not to be put off with a little direct language.
“Well I want you to know, Train, we’re calling the management of this flea bag as soon as we get in. I’m lodging a complaint about your room. All the money we’re paying here and one of our top people gets a room without a mirror. These people are fucking with the wrong guy. I mean, you look bad enough under normal circumstances, but to allow you to go outside dressed like this is absolutely unacceptable.”
Lionel’s face remains impassive during A.J.’s tirade, but his countenance is grim.
“Okay, A.J., you’ve had your fun and now we’re going to have ours. All bets are double the last time. We’re going to kick your ass.”
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to pass on the bets,” A.J. announces in a sad tone of voice.
Billy comes to life.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m injured and I don’t think I can play,” A.J. complains, leaning against the cart.
He appears to be in pain, but this is the first I’ve heard of any problems.
“When I saw Lionel here,” he continues, “I pulled something in my gut. I think I might have a hernia… could be serious. It will definitely affect my game.”
“What game?” Lionel retorts laughing. “You have no game. The only reason you beat us the last time was because your partner got lucky on the last hole. You never helped him once the entire match. You could have phoned that round in, A.J. You can’t play a lick and the only reason no one ever tells you is because you play exclusively with people who live in fear of losing their jobs. In our case, we haven’t told you because we’re all nice guys and we don’t want to hurt your feelings.
“Thanks, Fatty,” A.J. says over his shoulder as he pulls his driver out of the bag. “You just gave me a good reason to beat your fucking brain out. I use the singular because I know you don’t have more than one or two live cells working up there. Obviously your sight is already failing… witness the clown suit. Well I want you to know this cheap trick isn’t going to work, Fatso. Every time we look your way, we’ll simply close our eyes.
“You sonofabitch,” he continues warming to the subject, “if I told you to wear an outfit like that to work you would sue me… and you would win. I don’t know, maybe that getup is fine down here, except I think you’re a little too far south… Ringling Brothers’ winter quarters are farther north, on the west coast I believe.”
The starter has been witnessing the swordplay with great amusement, but he can delay no longer.
“Come on, gentlemen, please tee off. We have agolf course to run here,” he chides.
***
Try as we might, we can do no better than a tie on the front nine. The bet, one hundred dollars, is added to the back. We’re playing the back for all the marbles, three hundred dollars. The match has seen holes won by both sides, but the score is still tied when we hit the eighteenth tee. Neither Billy nor Lionel is playing great, but when one is out, the other is in, the ol’ ham ‘n egg routine. A.J. has been in a couple of holes, but his main value and effort has been to jawbone the opposition. I really don’t think Lionel and Billy could be trying any harder than they are now. They want to nail A.J.’s carcass to the clubhouse wall.
The last hole on the Blue Course is bordered on the left with water and on the right with a line of palm trees running along the outer edge of the right rough. The hole plays long enough from the regular men’s tee, which we have been playing during the match, but we elect to go to the back tee to experience the feeling the pros have every year when they play here. The eighteenth ranks as one of the toughest par fours on the pro tour.
Lionel and A.J. hit short and elect to lay up to the right of the water with their second shots. Billy and I hit considerably longer drives well down the left center. We’re both in position to go for the green, but Billy is going to have to decide first since my tee shot is about two yards longer. I must have gotten a lucky bounce because Billy is normally a lot longer off the tee than I am.
He is taking his time and I don’t blame him. If he decides to go for it, he has at least a two hundred yard carry over the water. The wind is coming out of the right front and is slightly against the player, making the shot still longer. A sea level wind is no bargain under any circumstances, but the added ingredients on this shot might combine to make grips a little tighter and swings a little faster. As the saying goes: swing hard and fast in case you hit it. Lionel is conferring with Billy… it has all come down to this single stroke. I pull out a five wood and take a few practice swings.
Lionel watches me and whispers to Billy. “He’s going for it, Bat. He makes four… we’re fucked.”
Billy glances up, looks at me and then directs his attention to the green. He turns to his bag and pulls out a five wood… his mind made up. As he addresses the ball I remain still, but once he makes contact, I move to return my club to the bag. I have no intention of hitting anything more than a seven iron lay up. I watch as Billy’s ball hooks into the center of the pond. It’s difficult for me to focus on my shot with all the commotion following this unfortunate turn of events.
“That motherfucker never intended to hit a wood,” Lionel shouts. “He was going to lay up the whole time.”
“It’s two-on-one fast-break time, Fatso!” A.J. chortles. “How does it feel to be all by your pudgy lonesome?”
“That’s dirty pool, Phil!” Lionel shouts throwing his hat on the ground. “I thought you were a better man than this.” Glaring at A.J., “Playing with this prick is starting to rub off on you. You’re getting to be a no-good bastard, just like he is.”
Lionel’s emotions are still in control when he hits his next shot and my bogey five is good enough to win the day.
“We’re not paying,” Lionel grouses as we leave the green and walk to our carts. “This shit’s not right, Phil.”
A.J. comforts me with his arm around my shoulder, lest I fall victim to Lionel’s verbal onslaught.
“Don’t listen to that pile of shit, Phil. I want you to know how much I admire your little move out there. That was pure craftsmanship, excellent course management. It’s the way the game should be played.”
A.J. starts to laugh so hard he begins to stagger and he reaches back to hold my arm so he won’t lose his balance.
“Did you see Train try to hit that last pitch shot?” he asks wiping tears from his eyes. “He had everything moving on that swing but his bowels… and that’s just a guess. He might have had a little problem there, too. Too much pressure to be playing the likes of us.”
‘I’ could have lost the hole, but fortunately ‘we’ won it. Chalk up another ‘W’ for the undefeated team of Jackson and Richards.
Notice I made certain who got top billing.
***
We kept up with our agenda this morning, so we have no meeting to contend with tonight. I, for one, hate to be in Miami and not visit Joe’s Stone Crab House at least once. Tonight would be as good a time as any and it would offer us the opportunity to mend fences with the boys from Atlanta. Of course, all this assumes they’ve cooled down since this afternoon’s match.
Joe’s is located on Miami Beach, about fifteen minutes from Doral. As usual it’s packed with a one and a half to two hour wait. But it’s the best place in the world to get stone crabs, so we’re prepared to deal with it. Tonight, however, A.J.’s celebrity status gets us a table ten minutes after we walk in the door. I’m sure he’ll see to it that they won’t regret giving him the star treatment.
More a food factory than a restaurant, Joe’s turns out good food fast, as long as it’s stone crabs. They have other items on the menu, but even the waiters look at you funny if you don’t order stone crabs.
The general noise level is high and we have to stay close to the table to make ourselves heard. Our meal arrives in a timely manner and it tastes as good to me as others have in the past. The only real surprise is how such a small plate of stone crabs can be so filling. But that’s what happens every time I come here. I’m always starved when I arrive and then I can never finish my meal, strange combination, but consistent. However, I’m not alone in my distress since no one asks for dessert… including my porky little opponent, Lionel. So it’s wine and a little fruit and we’re ready to roll on out of here.
The night is typical for Florida this time of year. It’s balmy with a cool breeze coming off the water. A.J. suggests a short walk before heading back to Doral and no one objects. We could all use a little exercise after our recent eating binge. If I carry this load to bed tonight, I might not make it to morning.
The neighborhood around here is not the best, but with four adult men we have little to fear. We don’t plan to go far and if we stick to the main thoroughfares we shouldn’t have any difficulty. Our pace is more of an amble than a walk, but we’re all loose and relaxed with no agenda for a change. We get there when we get there.
A.J. and Lionel are leading the way with Bat and myself trailing by a few yards. There’s some cross talk, but not a lot. We turn a corner and standing before us are three young toughs. A.J. has his back turned, about to make some comment to Bat when things start happening very fast. Knives appear in the hands of two of the young men, while the biggest of the three moves towards the building to our left.
