He pointed to his head. “All in here.”
“In your head?”
“In your head.”
“My head?”
“Yep… almost everything you’ve ever seen, heard or read. Every movie, television show, book, conversation, lecture… et cetera. All in here.” He pointed at his head, again, and then, mine.
“For real?”
“Oh, yes… for real. And, more. Scientific theories, hypotheses, certainties… all constructed by you or ‘gleaned’ from the ether.” Again, he had made air quotations.
“By me? I’m no scientist… I never ‘gleaned’ anything.”
Giddeon gave me an animated look. “Everyone’s a scientist. They just don’t know it… except for the scientists, I suppose. And, everyone’s a philosopher… it’s hard to be one without the other.”
He smiled, and the little lines around his eyes became more indented.
“Melody has a degree in philosophy,” I said.
“And, you would like to have a degree in Melody.”
“Definitely a field I’m interested in.”
Most of my brain, which was apparently seated across from me, laughed. “You just made yourself a pun about academics and quantum physics… clever. I told you you’re smart.”
“I think it was an accident.”
“There are no accidents.”
“What about a golf ball slamming into my temple?”
“Well… maybe there are a few. Then, you just have to make the best of them.”
He winked, and two heaping platefuls of waffles topped with strawberries and cream appeared on the table.
“Orange juice?” asked Giddeon.
“Sure.”
Chapter 12
When we were done, my subconscious decided we should play some golf. We stood up from the table, leaving our mess in that frame of reference. Boris looked at us from his place near the saucer; Giddeon spied something under the table, and held his hand out to me.
“Hold on… I want to try something.”
I saw him stoop down and reach for a penny that was there on the wooden floor near the animal. Giddeon seemed to be concentrating very intensely as he placed his thumb and index finger around it.
Slowly, very slowly, he picked up the copper coin. I had the feeling that it was all he could do to keep it within his grasp. Carefully, he moved it over to the porcelain dish which had been licked clean by the marina’s mascot. I heard a clink as the penny dropped into the saucer. Giddeon then rose back up to his full height, seeming happy with the results of his labor.
“We can’t have her thinking Boris is ungrateful, can we?” He smiled. We then walked back over to the boat to get my clubs, and the cat followed right behind us.
Chapter 13
It was a perfect day for golf. Not a soul was on the course. Apparently, Giddeon had found a day that the links were closed for some reason or other, and we were in that frame of reference. Boris stayed on the boat, curled up in the captain’s chair outside, catching rays from the morning sun. He’s not much into golf, although, I had seen him on occasion beside number 15 (the par three closest to the marina). He sometimes just sat there in the weeds by the tennis courts, watching birds and people with his big, yellow eyes.
Standing on the number 1 tee was like standing in a post-card. The marine layer had burned off and the sky was blue; the green of the grass and trees stood out in sharp contrast against it. Just the slightest of breezes was blowing, and a couple of fluffy, white clouds accented the California horizon beyond the graceful curve of the Coronado Bridge that connected the island to the mainland.
“No place like Coronado,” observed Giddeon.
“It’s hard to beat… probably the best weather in the country,” I replied.
“Sure better than the Sahara in summer, or the Faulklands in winter.”
“Have you been to those places?” I inquired. Then, I realized how odd it was to be asking ‘myself’ that question.
I didn’t expect the answer I received.
“Oh, sure… I’ve been lots of places… and, lots of times. Time and place aren’t really the way you perceive them from your normal viewpoint… well, they are, but they’re other ways, too.” He was bent over, teeing up his ball. When it was oriented just so, he stood back up and took a couple of practice swings using an FT-I driver that had conveniently popped into existence just a few moments before. “Everything’s in the same place and it’s happening at the same time… sort of.”
“How come I don’t remember you going, if you’re really just me?” I questioned.
“I remember it for you. You only use 10 percent of your brain… that’s being generous, by the way… I’m the other 90 percent. We don’t talk much, normally.” He smiled and waggled his club.
“So, you’re my subconscious… and, you have frequent flier miles?”
Giddeon chuckled. “That’s pretty good… wish I had thought of it… that’s a darned good description.”
He addressed the ball. After a few seconds of intense concentration, he took one of the most bizarre, crazy-looking, hitched swings I have ever seen in my life. In comparison, video of Charles Barkley’s golfing form was a thing of beauty. Upon impact, the ball flew off of his clubface 310 yards straight down the middle, and then faded just slightly in order to follow the gentle dog-leg of the fairway.
“I hope you don’t make me look at that swing for 18 holes.”
He grinned. “Nah… I was just making a point. Funky, huh?”
I shook my head and went over and teed up in the same general vicinity as he had. I hit the ball about 275, also down the center.
“Good drive. What are we playing for?”
“I don’t play for money… especially against dream-genies.”
He grinned. “You do have a knack for descriptions… I’ll give you that.”
“At least my sub-ten percent is good for something.” We made our way down the fairway.
“Ten percent of a lot is still a lot. Don’t forget that.”
Chapter 14
I learned quite a bit about golf that day.
Evidently, the swing doesn’t matter nearly as much as your state of mind. Giddeon did spend some time correcting my stance and my take-away, but, for the most part it was more about Zen Buddhism and metaphysics than mechanics.
After 4 holes I was one over par, which was very good for me. Giddeon had managed a birdie on every hole, and somehow that didn’t surprise me… after floating off the ground, shape-shifting, and making food appear on plates, I figured golf was pretty simple for him. And, it was. My subconscious hit the first four greens in regulation, and drained all of the putts. He actually put it in a bunker on the par 3 number 5… a car horn blew in the middle of his backswing and seemed to affect his concentration. Of course, he then hit a beautiful sand shot that rattled the pin and fell into the cup.
Giddeon whistled while he raked the trap… I think the tune was a bad rendition of ‘Mr. Sandman’.
“You should go pro,” I advised him as he walked up onto the perfectly manicured surface.
“What would you do without me?” he replied plucking his ball, and then, the pin from the hole.
I two putted for a par, retrieved my golf ball, and watched Giddeon replace the flag. “The same as I was doing before… you weren’t around, then,” I said.
“Oh, but I was… you just weren’t paying attention,” he responded as we walked over to number 6 tee.
I shrugged my shoulders even though they were weighed down by my bag. “Too busy playing golf and not getting much accomplished, I suppose.”
“Were you having a good time?”
“I guess. I wasn’t miserable.”
“But, you weren’t overflowing with happiness and a zest for life?”
“Yesterday, I was.”
“Ah, yes… yesterday. The day after you met Melody. I think that would make almost any man’s heart sing… from eight to eighty, from skinny to weig
hty.”
I smiled. However, I’m sure it wasn’t my best smile. “You’ve got to help me get back to her.”
“Nothing would please me more… I am you, after all,” said Giddeon.
“Can you work some of your magic and get me out of this? You know, nod and blink, or snap your fingers… or, something along those lines?”
“I wish it was that easy… believe me, I’ve tried.”
“You have?”
“That’s what I was doing last night… I don’t really need much sleep.”
He teed up his ball and hit another beautiful drive. Giddeon picked up his tee and handed it to me since I couldn’t find one in my pocket. Then, he said, “Apparently, there are some rules that can’t be broken… or, at least that I don’t know how to break, yet.”
I grunted, put my ball upon the little wooden pedestal, and promptly hooked my shot into the trees on the left. “Ain’t that a fine kettle of fish? I hate it when that happens!” I exclaimed.
“Concentrate, young grasshopper. Being in a coma shouldn’t affect your golf game.”
“Sorry… I was thinking of Melody.”
“Want a Mulligan?”
“Life doesn’t give you do-overs, does it?”
“You’d be surprised, you’d be surprised… depends on what you call life.”
The tee I had used lay fractured at my feet, so I didn’t bother collecting it. We began our stroll down the fairway, me carrying my bag, and Giddeon, empty handed. Whatever club was called for at the time simply appeared in his grip just before each shot, and then dissolved back into the atmosphere when he was done. We made our way into the rough, looking for my Callaway.
“There it is.” He was pointing ahead, and I spotted it. Surprisingly, it was sitting up nicely in the thick grass. I pulled out a 3 iron to punch it laterally back out into the fairway. As I was setting up, Giddeon interjected,
“Why don’t you go between those two trees, there? It’s a straight shot.” I looked up and saw him pointing at two young oaks, at least I think that’s what they were… botany’s not my strong point. The nearest one was about 35 yards away.
“Through that little gap? Are you nuts? It can’t be more than 2 feet wide!”
“I can see the flag between them. It would be such a cool shot if you could pull it off.”
I shook my head back and forth. “More likely, I’ll hit one of the trees, and this ball will come straight back at me.”
“You’re already in the hospital… Live la Vida Oaka.”
I assumed he had attempted a pun pertaining to the oak trees… obviously, my percentage of the brain got the sense of humor.
“Oak-kay.” I replied with an equally bad play on words in order to show him just how ridiculous his joke was. Giddeon, however, seemed delighted, and grinned from ear to ear. I shook my head, then repositioned myself and started to line up my shot; he was standing a few feet behind me, watching my setup, and came out with some advice.
“Just ignore the trees and focus on the opening. I’ll tell you a little secret… there’s nothing around the gap you’re aiming for… it just seems like it is.”
“Those trees look pretty solid to me.”
“Don’t worry about them,” said Giddeon. “Think only of your target, which is on the other side of the space… anything else, is a distraction. Distractions are only real if you make them real.”
He then stepped away.
I looked at the small target area, and he could tell I wasn’t sure about such a low percentage endeavor. “Jack Nicklaus would say to play it safe,” I said.
Giddeon smiled. “I’m not Jack Nicklaus. A perfect shot is a perfect shot, and you’ve already hit a couple of those, today… it just looks more difficult when ‘things’ are near the path.”
“I’ll try,” I said, gripping the club a bit too tightly.
“Ahhh… ‘try’ implies doubt. See it as inevitable and your swing as part of that inevitability,” advised my subconscious.
It sounded like hocus pocus, but, I cleared my mind and attempted to picture it. I relaxed my grip just a tad. When ready, I made what felt like a really nice, smooth swing.
The ball jumped from my clubface as if eager to be on its way. I saw it accelerate towards the trees, and, for just a brief moment, I believed that all that Giddeon had said was true.
It felt like everything was in slow motion as I watched the tiny orb tunnel through dappled sunlight. Then, the little sphere just caught the edge of the tree on the right, ricocheted into the tree on the left, and careened off of it straight backwards… directly towards my head. I ducked, and heard it whistle past. Giddeon laughed like a maniac and ran over to pick it up.
“That was awesome!”
“Awesome?! I almost put myself into coma number 2!!”
He came back excitedly with the ball and positioned it exactly as it was.
“You almost put yourself into a superposition of states! The ball was traveling like a wave… remember the double slit experiment?”
“There’s only one slit between those trees!”
“Don’t get hung up in numbers!” he exclaimed. “Think of the trees as slits, too. The problem was you tried to observe the path. You crashed the system. Make the same swing, only this time don’t look. When your right shoulder brings your head up, close your eyes at that moment! Practice it a few times, first.”
“If I wasn’t looking, I would have been hit in the head!”
“If you weren’t looking, the ball would be on the green.”
I gave an exasperated grunt, looked at him with distrust, and finally took a practice swing. I forgot to close my eyes on the follow through, so I did it again. It felt very unnatural, so I did it, yet, again. After four or five more times, it seemed more fluid.
Giddeon said, “I think you’re getting it. Do that a few more times.”
“If I get hit by the ball, I’m holding you personally responsible.” I continued with the drill.
“I have liability insurance.”
“No you don’t… you’re me, remember?”
“Then I guess it’s lie-ability, huh?” I could tell he was grinning at his joke, even when I closed my eyes. After I had taken two more practice swings he said, “I think you’re ready.”
I addressed the ball, looked at the gap one final time, inhaled, and then let my breath slowly escape on its own. At the beginning of the next inhalation, I started my backswing. I could tell that at the top of my swing that the club head was in a perfect position; the beginning descent seemed to be on track, and I held my breath while the forged blade entered the bottom of the arc in order to strike the low punch shot.
Impact was again in slow motion, and I could see blades of grass shearing off just in front of where the ball had been microseconds before. As my right shoulder started to carry my chin forward, I closed my eyes and could see only red blackness behind my lids. I opened them after a couple of seconds, but was disoriented and couldn’t find the Callaway in flight. Then, I saw it settle down, roll up over the fringe and onto the edge of the green… 180 yards away.
“It worked!” I shouted, excitedly.
“Of course it did.”
“It really worked!! I can’t believe it… that was amazing!”
After a few seconds of jubilation and a high five from Giddeon, a thought occurred to me.
“Wait a minute… you did it, didn’t you?”
“I’m you, remember?”
“You know what I mean… it wasn’t really me.”
“That was your 10 percent, or so… at least, I think it was,” said my coach.
“You wouldn’t lie to me, again, would you?”
“A lie is just the truth on vacation in Bermuda shorts.”
“You’re like the worst philosopher in the world.”
He grinned. “We don’t have a degree like someone we know, now, do we? Whose fault is that?”
“Humph.” I made my way towards the green, thinking of Melody.
Giddeon whistled something that vaguely resembled ‘The Impossible Dream’ all of the way there.
Chapter 15
I shot a 79 that day, thanks to the Mulligan between the trees. Not a personal best, but still good for me. Giddeon had a 53… 17 consecutive birdies and an eagle on number 18 just for good measure. We were in the parking lot, and I was putting my clubs and golf shoes into the trunk of my Ford Focus.
Coronado Dreaming (The Silver Strand Series) Page 4
