by Ruth Kaufman
Chapter 13
“Golf. You need to play golf.”
Like I need a hole in the head.
I’m on the phone with Andrea, sharing my latest dating and stress-reducing efforts. With her stress level, she might benefit from some of my ideas.
“I know you hate sports,” Andrea says. “But golf is so relaxing. Very Zen. Dan and I actually get along better on the golf course than we do at home.”
“Move to one of those neighborhoods where you live next to a course. Then you could get along all the time.”
“Ha. We’re talking about you today. I’ll schedule a tee time at my club. A great way to meet men with money, too. You’ll love it. You’ll see.”
What’s to love about thwacking at and chasing after a recalcitrant little white ball for hours? Willing to try anything once, I allow Andrea to drive me to the south suburbs. As a thank you for the invitation, I give her a package of golf balls imprinted with the WZRJ logo.
The country club is beautiful and serene on this sunny day, replete with weeping willows and other lush landscaping. The air smells fresh and sweet away from city diesel fumes. Silence is golden. I take deep breaths, feeling relaxed already.
Andrea helps me rent clubs. This takes longer than you might expect because she knows everyone. Each member needs to impart the latest gossip and scrutinize me, Andrea’s guest. I am pleased to report I truly don’t care what they think.
We drive to the first tee in our spiffy cart. Andrea’s explanation of golf etiquette isn’t relaxing. She finishes with the importance of divot replacement and moves on to what happens if my ball happens to land in the sand and how to rake. Too many detailed don’ts.
I focus on the course’s tranquil beauty, with weeping willow trees swaying in the breeze and gently rolling hills.
“You never said golf involves yard work,” I complain.
My dad often made us do yard work when we were kids, representing the unfairness of the complete dominion parents have over their children. And now it’s part of the Zen of golf?
“Raking sand is soothing. You know those little rock gardens people have in their offices?”
“Clearly we have different definitions of soothing.”
“And when we get to the green, make sure you don’t step on the path of anyone’s ball.” She pulls a little thingy out of her pocket. “This is what you use to repair your ball mark. And you have to pick up your ball and—”
“When does the relaxing begin?”
“Marla. Give golf a chance.”
We approach the first tee. Andrea sets up her ball and takes a practice swing. I study her movements while appreciating the chirps of birds and crickets compared to ambulance and fire engine sirens and revving bus engines.
After a resounding thwack, Andrea’s ball soars over the fairway, clinging to flight as if reluctant to plop in the soft, shorn grass.
My turn. As instructed, I go to the tee. My left hand is encased in a borrowed leather glove that’s a little too big. The difference in sensation of my ungloved and gloved hands on the club is strange. I take a practice swing. The swoosh is satisfying. This isn’t so bad after all. Maybe I’ve found my sport.
I step up to the ball. I swing. As Andrea did, I raise my hand to my eyes and look out over the fairway.
I’m sure you know the ball is still on the tee. As if glued there.
Andrea stifles a chuckle.
I shift my feet like I’ve seen them do on TV on Sunday afternoons when no matter how much you flip channels you can’t seem to avoid catching part of a golf tournament.
Thwack. The ball doesn’t soar, but flies a respectable distance. We drive in the cart. I thwack. Of course, Andrea is ahead of me. We drive. We thwack. We drive. We thwack. And so on.
I will not reveal my score.
Nor will I let the myriad missed swings or wayward little balls with their cute WZRJ logos annoy me. I concentrate on my surroundings and absorb a bit of peace. I look for attractive men, but everyone is older and has a significant paunch.
We’re putting away on the 8th hole green. We’ve been at this so long it feels like the 80th. Suddenly, someone yells, “Fore!”
Even I know what that means. Instinctively I cover my head and dive for the grass.
Boink.
“Ow!” I screech.
The tiny ball that can’t seem to find its way into the holes managed to hit the only part of my head not covered by my hands. Pain shoots through my skull.
Andrea kneels by my side. “Are you ok? Can you hear me?”
Slowly I ease myself to my feet. The new positive me thinks maybe something good will come out of this. If we were in a romcom, the wayward golfer would be a handsome, single man who’d buy me a drink to make up for his carelessness and we’d fall in love.
“So sorry. Are you all right?”
I turn, ignoring the pounding in my head. Two worried looking plump men in striped golf shirts have reached the green.
“You’re not going to sue, are you?” one asks.
“She won’t win, Harold, stop asking that,” the other says. “Assumption of the risk. And though you had no duty to warn a player on a different hole, you yelled ‘fore.’”
“Glad I go golfing with my lawyer.” Harold chuckles.
“May we play through?” the lawyer asks.
Andrea drives me back to the clubhouse where I get an ice pack for my aching head. She buys me that drink.
Eight holes were enough to last me a lifetime. Golf is frustrating and still seems silly.
Despite my near disaster, Andrea is smiling, more relaxed than I’ve seen her in a while. Clearly golf does work for her.
I must figure out what works for me.
Another Saturday night. And as the song pronounces in less grammatical language, I don’t have anyone.
I’m in the mood for some Johnny Depp. I’ve already seen Cry-Baby, sort of Grease! turned upside down, The Astronaut’s Wife, much better and more suspenseful than I expected, Chocolat, of course, yum, and my personal favorite, The Man Who Cried, which is not Cry-Baby grown up, but a moving film set in World War II Paris also starring Christina Ricci and Cate Blanchett.
Tonight, I’ll go with Don Juan de Marco. Low-fat microwave popcorn in hand (my favorite is Skinny Pop in the bag, but that’s so good I can’t stick to one portion so I don’t buy it), I’m on my couch ready to watch.
Johnny’s character believes he’s the real Don Juan and ends up in a mental hospital where Marlon Brando, an aging psychiatrist, tries to cure him of his delusions.
The psychiatrist receives a retirement gift, a gold watch. Engraved inside the watch cover is the popular adage, “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”
Sometimes people tell you things, things that could change your life, but you aren’t ready to listen. I’m ready now. Joy fills my veins and my heart. My eyes are wide open. Suddenly I see.
This is a sign! I’m having an epiphany upon discovering my perfect life credo. I’ll print it in a huge font to hang on my bulletin board.
The concept has been in our lexicon for years, maybe even before the Total cereal commercial. But who took that advice to heart? Who saw past the bowl of crunchy, vitamin-enriched flakes to the true meaning of the words?
Take life one day at a time. Live each to the fullest. Stop wasting so much energy worrying about the future or regretting the past.
I pause the movie to think about this new course of action without missing a minute of Johnny in his nifty red vest.
I call Andrea. “Hi, it’s me. I know what I have to do! I have to live each day like it’s the first day of the rest of my life.”
“Davy, put that down. No, you cannot have another scoop of ice cream. I said no, did you hear me? Put that carton DOWN. I won’t tell you again. Putthatdownrightnow.” I hear various thuds in the background. “Sorry. Minor crisis. Did you get a Total commercial?”
“No. I’ve realized that saying is the key to being ha
ppy. I have to make each day special. There’s no tomorrow, only today.”
“Marla, what happened? Did another agent reject you?” I have Andrea’s full attention now.
“Not yet. I mean, I haven’t heard from anyone.” I pace with enthusiasm, the hardwood kitchen floor cold against my bare feet. “I’ve been a bit bummed lately, but I see now it’s all in the attitude. Sitting around waiting and worrying gets you nowhere. I have to take action and always move forward. If I can make every day special, if I can find something to enjoy and go to bed with a smile on my face, what else matters?”
“Ok, Miss Susie Sunshine. Have you been to see Dr. Smythe again? What’s with you?”
“What’s with you? Can’t I come up with a good idea on my own?”
“Of course you can. It’s just that I haven’t heard you sound so psyched about anything since the div—. Wait a sec.” Andrea screams, “Davy and Emily...stop fighting this minute or I’ll take away your iPad. Did you hear me? I’m back. What brought this on?”
“The Johnny Depp movie Don Juan de Marco. He thinks he’s Don—”
“Another movie life theory? What happened to the one you got from Finding Nemo about continuing to swim? How many times did you and my kids watch that? You wouldn’t stop singing that song for days. Neither would David, Nathan or Emily. You all drove me crazy.”
“JKS still applies. My new life view enhances that.”
“Hold on. That’s IT,” Andrea shouts. “No iPad for either of you for an entire week. That’s right, a WEEK. No, Emily, you cannot paint your brother’s toenails. Because I said so.” Her voice drops. “Oy. ‘Because I said so.’ My mom always said that to me and I swore I’d never say it to my kids. Why can’t Emily paint Davy’s toenails? It just seems wrong, doesn’t it? Why do they get on my nerves all the time? I love them so much.” I hear tears in her voice. She sniffs. “I think I’m ready for a new life view, too. One involving an ocean, a beach chair, a pitcher of margaritas and lots of quiet.”
I am so glad I don’t have kids. I’ve got enough problems.
Is anyone truly happy? Somewhere, somebody must be. I soon will be.
Chapter 14
Three days pass. Jeff doesn’t call. He doesn’t text. Despite the endless bonsai tree lecture, he was fairly interesting and definitely desirable.
He’d said, “Let’s keep this casual.” Certainly one casual person can ask another if he wants to go to dinner. Who knows where a nice, tasty meal could lead. I hope to lots more kissing.
I dial. He answers on the second ring.
“Hi Jeff, it’s Marla. I thought if you weren’t busy we could grab some dinner.”
“Ummm.... Another time would be better.”
A woman laughs in the background. He has a woman in his apartment. With a throaty, sensual voice. Could it be Maggie?
“Oh, ok, then. Give me a call,” I squeak. Thankfully he can’t see my mortification over the phone.
“Yes. Will do. Bye.”
I hang up, a strange burning in my stomach. You can be sure I’m not going to call him again. Godzilla mocks me.
On the other hand, the woman could be a relative or friend, not a romantic interest. But I never heard any cousin laugh like that.
Why am I upset? Practically the first words out of his mouth were “not exclusive.” He never misled me or cheated on me, acts worthy of misery. It’s just that I never thought I’d hear the other woman. Or is she but one of many?
Time flashes and I’m a junior in college again, dancing at one of the few sorority formals for which I’d been able to snare a date.
I’d met him the first week of rehearsals for the musical Of Thee I Sing. Me, simple chorus girl. Fortunately, the chorus had many numbers and scenes, with lots of costume changes. I played everything from a tourist at the White House to a Senator, and loved my assortment of red, white and blue costumes and fun hats. Him, gorgeous, ever so talented, ever so tall male lead. Mark Majors as John P. Wintergreen.
I knew I liked him more than he liked me. And I knew he was seeing someone else, though not exclusively: Stacy Brown, one of the lovely, long-legged bathing beauties who scampered around in swimsuits for most of the show. Yes, I yearned to be a beautiful bathing beauty.
I summoned the guts to ask Mark, and he agreed to go to my formal. I was thrilled. For once I had the perfect date.
After the dance, we had plans to meet a bunch of fellow cast members, including said other woman Stacy. I so wanted to go out with Mark Majors, so wanted to bring this wondrous male to meet my friends and have pictures to put on my mirror, I pretended I didn’t care that we’d also be going out with his other woman. I pretended I didn’t care I had no way of knowing who he might end up with that night or any other.
I was having a fantastic time with him. I looked good in my green silk wrap dress. My sorority sisters had been duly impressed. He’d been courteous, conversational and romantic...lots of handholding, which I loved. Of course he was a good dancer.
Mark and I were cheek to cheek. The music, “Endless Love,” was way too loud, the beat pulsing through the floor into my high-heeled sandals, but I savored the feel of his arms around me, firm and secure as we swayed.
Suddenly Mark stopped dancing...because of the new song, Hall and Oates’s “Your Kiss is on my Lips?” I almost tripped over his feet. I glanced up at him, then turned to see what he was staring at.
Stacy sashayed across the dance floor in time to the music, vaguely reminiscent of John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. She looked amazing, her straight black hair flowing, wearing high blue stilettos, tight jeans and a tighter bright blue top that matched her eyes and drew attention to her perfect breasts. She came to a halt with a hands-on-hips model pose, bouncing and jiggling to the beat. “Hi, Mark.”
Why had she crashed my formal? For an instant I thought he’d asked her to come, but his surprised look reassured me this was her idea.
“What are you doing here?” Mark demanded.
I reveled as he put his arm on my shoulders, barely able to keep a smug smile off my face even as embarrassment whisked through my veins. Friends standing nearby had noticed her outrageous intrusion. Others turned to face us.
Stacy’s smile faltered. “We’re on our way to the bar and I thought you’d like to go with us.”
“Marla and I will be by later, like we said. The dance isn’t over yet.”
Stacy never looked at me. “But—”
“See you later.” Mark stared her down until she turned and left.
We continued dancing, talking and laughing. But my good time had been ruined.
That’s how I feel now, after hearing Jeff with his other woman. Grismal: dismal and grim. I thought the new, stronger, live-each-day-to-the-fullest-me couldn’t care that Jeff dated other women as long as I was having fun, but I can’t, not without shredding serious holes in my self-esteem. Kind of like in Terminator 2 when Arnold shoots the T-1000 Terminator and you can see right through it. Except the android’s holes filled back up automatically. Mine would take more time to repair.
No more Jeff.
Next.
“What?” I shriek into the phone the next day.
“Josiah Barnaby is coming to town and wants to meet you,” Sue Pasqual repeats.
You may recall that Sue is my boss’s boss. I’m double shocked. This is the first time she’s called me.
Mr. Barnaby is too many layers of bosses above me to count. Maybe seven. “Why?”
“He’s asked to meet our top performer and so far this year that’s you.”
“Oh.” No interest in me, Marla Goldberg the person, just whoever happens be bringing in the most revenue. Of course Mr. Barnaby wouldn’t contact me himself. Everything at Barnaby Broadcasting must go through proper channels. Which is one of the reasons why Sue so rarely talks to me. She talks to Janet, the station manager who talks to my manager Brenda who talks to me. “When and where?”
Not like I could refuse to meet the company owner
and CEO.
“Wednesday. He’ll take you to lunch to ask for your success stories and the like and wants to know if there are any areas in which you think WZRJ could improve.”
Hmm. A minefield, that. Do I dare tell the truth? “Thanks, Sue.”
I call Catherine. “You’ll never guess what just happened.”
“Adrian Paul asked you out?”
One of the most gorgeous actors on Earth, who I got to meet when I was a homeless washerwoman when the villain first appeared in Highlander 5: The Source. “Ha, ha. But something just as unlikely. Sue Pasqual called.”
“Ohmigod. Why?”
“Josiah Barnaby wants to take the top performer to lunch, and that’s me.”
“Ohmigod! You’re kidding. I mean, not about being top performer....”
“I wish. I should view this as a career opportunity. How often do we get quality one-on-one time with any high-level exec, much less Mr. Barnaby himself?”
“I’d view it as persecution,” Catherine says. “As top performer, you should be rewarded, not punished. Mr. Barnaby scares me to death. I’d clam up from nerves. I’d spill my soup. Are you sure it’s just lunch? You know how he is at company meetings.”
So I do. Reminiscent of Darth Vader in Star Wars, in both looks and attitude. And rumored to have worked his way through half the female execs, despite being married.
“Sue says he wants to hear how WZRJ can improve. Do you think he means it? Dare I be honest and tell him how low morale is...how we really feel about the baby cubes and losing our cheese? Can I tell him about our struggles with the compensation plan? Or do I have to be politically correct?”
“That’s a tough one.” There’s silence for a minute. “I’d have to be PC, but I think you’re brave enough to tell the truth.”
Inside I smile. Catherine thinks I’m brave.
I decide to tell the truth. I will be the crusader for unappreciated account executives everywhere. I will pave the way to career happiness for us all.
If I don’t perish from anxiety first.
