Again the calculator was pushed to the center of the table. He pressed more buttons. “It appears that golf balls are selling slightly better per acre than plants. This gives me confusion.”
Oh no, don’t give Mr. Vignatti confusion. Anything but that. Good things might become bad things.
Mr. Roycroft winced. “But I pay you on time every month, Mr. Vignatti.”
Mr. V closed his leather binder and rested his hands atop it. “This is true. Even when the hurricane destroys your rhodo . . . what is that plant name?”
“Rhododendron, sir. Everything else was wiped out as well.”
“Yes, even when the hurricane destroys all the Roycroft plantings, you pay in full and on time. This was a good thing.”
He winked at me, as if I should agree that this was good. So I winked back and added a smile.
Mr. Vignatti then placed both hands over his calculator. “But now I have this issue of the taxes, of which man should pay more?” He paused to point at us, waving his finger back and forth. “Who . . . Mr. Golf Ball or Mr. Rhododendron? This is the question that haunts me.”
“Mr. Vignatti,” I inquired with great gentleness of voice, “how much of an increase in property taxes are you facing?”
Mr. Vignatti kept his left hand over the calculator, to where we could not see his number crunching. Finally he lifted his hand and showed us the number: $188.40.
Mr. Roycroft stared at the number, as if amazed at its smallness. “One-eighty-eight more per month? For each of us?”
“No, this increase is per year. And so this is the total of increase.” He divided the number by two, and again showed us the total: $94.20. “You each can agree to this increase, I assume?”
Mr. Roycroft and I exchanged a glance of relief.
“I can certainly handle a ninety-four dollar increase in yearly rent,” I said.
“And so can I,” Mr. Roycroft added quickly.
Mr. Vignatti stood and plucked his leather binder from the table. He tucked it under his left arm and grinned at both of us, his signal that our little business meeting was about to adjourn.
I stood too, as did Mr. Roycroft. Neither of us knew what to say. I figured that he too wanted to get back to his businesses; we were surely losing more than the tiny tax increase by hanging out here with Mr. V.
I cleared my throat and said, “Mr. Vignatti, are there any more issues you wish to talk through today?”
He wagged a finger at me. “You just be careful with the politics, Chris. We do not want any trouble for the Vignatti name.”
“Yessir. No trouble at all. Only fairness.”
Mr. Roycroft opened the conference room door, and I followed him out. Behind us came the departing words from Mr. V. “Fairness, Chris . . . this too is a good thing.”
Back at Hack’s I commenced to filling plastic buckets with golf balls, optimistic that some customers might show up on this very slow day. After I’d filled ten buckets I looked through the back window and spotted out on the grass a lone golfer. She was taking practice swings at the far end of the range, and near her feet lay a jumbo bucket of balls.
At first I didn’t recognize her—she was quite a distance away—but soon the pace of her swing, together with her short haircut, triggered familiarity. Lin Givens had invaded my range. Once again she wore black pants, though this time her top was a soft gray, her golf shoes white.
Immediately I grabbed the walkie-talkie and called Cack down in the maintenance shed. “Cackster, did ya see who’s out on the range?”
It took him a few seconds to reply. “Yep. She came in just before you got back from your meeting.”
“But I thought she went to jail.” I pointed at her through the glass. “What’s she doing here?”
“Beats me, boss. She just said she wanted to hit some golf balls and relieve some stress.”
“So you actually sold her some of our golf balls?”
“At half price. She had a coupon.”
I had to know more. Out of the pro shop I went, walking purposefully toward Lin, my 5-iron in hand just in case we ended up making another bet.
She saw me coming, paused in midswing, and rested her club on her shoulder. “Are you going to insist that I leave, Chris?”
I stopped some ten feet from her, an awkward distance that somehow felt right, given the circumstances. “Why’d you come here?”
She reached out with her club and rolled a ball into place and struck it accurately toward the 100-yard marker. The ball flew high and upon reentry plugged into moist turf. “I just wanted to hit some golf balls, get rid of some stress.”
Her tone was surprisingly reserved, conversational even. I felt tensions ease and stepped a couple feet closer, to where only one hitting mat separated us. “A bellhop at the Hyatt said the cops took you.”
She nodded, rolled another ball onto the mat with her club. “Did he tell you that they were women cops? Friends of mine?”
“No.”
“Did he tell you that they were not arresting me but protecting me?”
“He said you may have stolen campaign monies.”
She shook her head and exchanged her club for a longer one. “Someone made a death threat against me. The campaign money thing was just an excuse to get me out of the Hyatt.”
I had no idea what to say. She sounded sincere, and I couldn’t blame someone from bolting from a class if her life was threatened. “So your class is really cancelled? For good?”
Lin nodded, grabbed a towel from her golf bag. She wiped dirt from her club and admired its sheen. “If you must know, Chris, I was being paid by a radical faction to try to woo female voters. But it wasn’t going well. And you should also know that I’m not quite as radical as I came off in class.”
She swung harder this time, and we both watched the ball soar and fall to earth. “But you’re still, um, partially radical?”
She whopped another ball and spoke while following its flight. “Partially, yes.”
“You were pretty radical when we played the golf match.”
“You brought out my competitive side.” She leaned down and grabbed her bucket of golf balls and handed it to me. “Go ahead, take half of these, and we’ll have a little rematch.”
Somehow I knew this might happen. I poured out half the balls onto a mat and gave her back the bucket. Then I stretched for a moment and took a few practice swings with my 5-iron. “Hit the 100-yard sign?” I asked. “What’s the bet?”
“A quarter per hit,” she said, rolling her first ball into position on her mat. “Loser pays immediately.”
With just the two of us out there and no supporters on either side, the little wager became a kind of good-natured competition. Twenty minutes later, after all the balls were struck, I had hit the sign three times, and Lin had hit it twice.
With a shrug and a hint of a smile, she slung her golf bag over her shoulder, reached into her pocket, and handed me a quarter. “You got talent, Mr. Hackett. I’ll see ya around.”
I stuffed the coin in my own pocket and watched as she walked back toward the shop and the parking lot. When she was some ten mats away, she turned and raised her voice. “By the way, Chris, your Super Blaster story was silly.”
“But it made you laugh, didn’t it?”
“Maybe once.” She loped on toward the lot but spoke over her shoulder and golf bag. “Okay, maybe twice.”
I remained out on the range, picking up empty buckets and pieces of blown trash, all the while thinking how strange this day had become, and how I suddenly felt a little more at peace with the world.
The feeling did not last long.
At closing time Cack came in to the shop with the day’s mail, which we’d both forgotten to check at lunchtime. The small white envelope on top of the stack looked like some kind of invitation, though there was no return address. I opened it to find anything but an invite. On a 3 x 5 card was scrawled a note:
You had best cease entertaining Republicans and encouraging the
m to hit golf balls like bullets. They’ve already wasted enough money on wars and their self-serving agendas. Better watch your back, boy!
—Very worried ’bout you
I crumpled this one just like its predecessor and tossed it into the trash. I didn’t bother to tell Cack about it. You’ve seen one extremist, you’ve seen ’em all.
13
LESSON FOR TODAY
All players must respect the game, its rules and traditions—even if one of the traditions is that dignitaries get preferred tee times.
She phoned me from a TV station lobby in Montgomery, Alabama. “Chris, I plugged your range to a person of influence. Be expecting a surprise.”
It was 7:15 a.m. when Molly called. I lay on the couch in the den of my small suburban house, feet propped on pillows, the sports page doubling as a blanket. I had fallen asleep here while watching the news, and it took me a minute to awaken fully. “Mornin’, Molly. Is this person publicity related or sports related?” I paused to think of more options, though mostly I was thinking of a good breakfast. “Or both . . . or neither?”
“Kinda sports related,” she said. Even at this early hour, Molly’s phone voice was verbal honey; no wonder they put her on television. Then she added, “And with good possibilities for increased publicity.”
“You’re being evasive,” I chided.
“I’m a woman in politics. It’s my nature to be evasive.”
My yawn had nothing to do with her. I was a multiyawn per morning guy, and one who welcomed Molly’s call no matter the time of day. “The publicity you’ve already sent is still paying off. Last night I had fifty more liberals whacking balls at the conservative jester.”
“Cack?” she asked.
“Nope, I did it myself. But my customers said I wasn’t as funny, that they wanted to be insulted by Cack or not be insulted at all. Anyway, within an hour I sold another four hundred dollars worth of golf balls.”
“That should keep syrup on your plate.”
“Speaking of, when can we—”
“Chris, I’m sorry I have to go.” Her tone had changed from casual to hurried. “The makeup person needs to prep me for this interview. Let’s talk again tonight. Take care.”
Before I could even say “bye” she’d hung up.
At 1:45 p.m., three men in dark suits and sunglasses came striding into my pro shop. They had no golf clubs, just serious expressions on their faces. My first thought was they were those cloned Mr. Smiths from the The Matrix.
“Is there a Chris Hackett here?” the middle one asked. He nudged his sunglasses down his nose and peered over them.
“I’m . . . him.”
“Sir, would you consent to a head of state stopping by your facility?”
“A head of which state? South Carolina or Georgia?”
The serious man in the suit frowned. “The president, son. The President of the United States is passing through the low country today on a campaign run. He would like to hit a few golf balls on your driving range.”
Just now realizing that this guy was Secret Service, I quashed my nerves and blurted, “Would you like me to reserve an hour later this evening? Just for him? I’ll be glad to close the range for the president, give him some privacy.”
The suit shook his head. “Unless he changes his mind, he’ll be here in the next thirty minutes. Can you concur with this arrangement?”
“Um, yes,” I stammered. “Hack’s Golf Center is thrilled to concur.” I didn’t even know what I was saying; I was just blabbering words. “Let me tell my groundskeeper to bring up some new golf balls and to clear the range of customers.”
Secret Service Man held up his hands in protest. “No. Don’t tell the customers to leave. We’ll want a crowd around . . . a publicity thing, you understand. There’ll be TV cameras.”
The other two suits fanned out across my pro shop, looking through windows at the range, staring up at the roof, at surrounding trees.
Secret Service Man looked me over, head to toe. “Do you keep a gun on the premises, Mr. Hackett? If so, we’ll need to confiscate it until the president has departed.”
It was the nature of his job, I figured. “No gun in here, sir. Just lots of golf clubs.”
He nodded, then came around my counter and peered inside the drawers.
The second suit stepped outside, and through the glass door I saw him speak into a thick walkie-talkie.
I called Cack on my own walkie-talkie, which wasn’t nearly as thick or expensive. Ours were purchased at Target, made of purple plastic, and had a range of about three hundred yards. In fact, if Cack toiled at the outer fence picking up range balls near the 315-yard sign, our walkie-talkies wouldn’t work. I pressed the talk button and said, “Groundskeeper? Are you there?”
A scratchy tone gave way to clarity. “Yeah, boss?”
“Whatcha doing?”
“Well, at the moment I’m dumping tubs of used golf balls into plastic buckets in order that you and I may present them in an attractive package so that you and I can sell them over and over and thus earn the monies necessary to survive the escalating costs of subsisting in the overpriced city of Charleston.”
Sometimes Cack talked like that after he’d consumed too many Mountain Dews—I always blamed it on the sugar in his system. “I mean what are you really doin’?”
“Washin’ golf balls and trying to come up with more one-liners to tick off Southerners, teenagers, and dumb athletes.”
“You’d better change that to Republicans.”
“Why, boss?”
“Because I think you’re about to have an opportunity to antagonize the president.”
A short pause. “The president of Carolina First Bank? I told that guy last week he couldn’t swing worth beans. Spends too much time countin’ money.”
“No, Cack. The President of the United States. He’ll be here in less than thirty minutes.”
Another pause. “I’ll need some proof before I fall for this one.”
“Step out of the maintenance shed for a second and look toward the pro shop. See those guys in dark suits and sunglasses?”
Ten seconds of silence. Then, “I see ’em.”
“They look like golfers to you?”
“No, they look like they’re packin’ guns under them suits.”
“I imagine they are. Now, I need you to put fifty new golf balls in a plastic bucket and set them out on the newest hitting mat. Then start your cart and get ready to annoy the president.”
“I can’t annoy the president, Chris. I voted for the man.”
“You can annoy anybody, Cack. Just pretend he’s an average hacker.”
His sigh was followed by a conciliatory, “Ten-four. But this is mighty spontaneous for a Republican administration.”
“I know, but this is how things work in the political world.”
“How do you know how things work?” Cack asked with a full dose of sarcasm. “All you’ve done your entire adult life is teach golf and date your students.”
“Molly told me this is how things work.”
“Are you two dating?”
“Just get your bullhorn ready.”
Sirens preceded police cars, which preceded the first black limo, the second black limo, the third, plus the TV vans and other media who trailed behind. By this time I had e-mailed every Charlestonian who’d signed my guest register, including the atheists, the Bubbas, Tongue Depressuh, the conservative teenagers who did not dress conservatively, even Benny and Pauly Three Seeds, who said if he made it there in time he’d have many questions for the Prez.
Soon a dozen policemen and Secret Service gathered at the door of the third limo. Mere feet away, cameramen jostled for position, anticipation on their faces. People parked in the street and streamed like ants toward my parking lot. Then, just as one of the Secret Service guys reached for the door of the limo, three other SS rushed to the second limo, snatched open the door, and led the president through the crowd. South Carolina Senator
DeMint trailed in his wake, followed by, in descending order, the rest of the political food chain.
The scene was surreal—the Prez tromping through my green and white pea gravel toward the glass doors, behind him the cheers tainted by boos, the boos diluted by cheers. He strode right toward my counter, looking confident and upbeat. “Hi there,” he said and extended his right hand. “They call me Dubya.”
I shook his hand firmly. “And I’m Chris. Chris Hackett.” It felt strangely patriotic to grasp the presidential palm. After he let go I pulled from behind the counter my Mizuno 5-iron. “Do you need to borrow a club, sir?”
Presidential fingers wrapped around the grip. He backed from the counter and tested the club, which caused the Secret Service and the media to domino backward behind him. The Prez waggled my club a second time, gave it a nod of satisfaction. “This’ll do fine, Chris. Which way to the range?”
I pointed behind me, and just like that, the entourage flowed past. From the parking lot I heard someone yell, “With troops still dying in the Middle East, should you be practicing golf, sir?!”
I wondered what it must be like to be constantly surrounded by a wall of human protection, to have your every sentence, every blunder, recorded on camera. As the entourage made its way through my pro shop and out toward the hitting mats, I felt honored to be host, yet glad that my life was simpler than his. Other than the increased publicity due to Molly’s promotional snippet, my job was unencumbered by attention, unspectacular in comparison. Just Cack, myself, some golf balls, and routine maintenance. We liked it this way.
I followed the crowd out behind the hitting mats. Someone nudged me up to the front until I was standing there beside W, who rolled up the sleeves of his blue button-down and turned to the cameras. “Where do y’all want me to aim? The 100-yard marker?” He motioned with my 5-iron toward the marker.
“No, sir,” I replied. “Here at Hack’s we have moving targets.”
W looked as confused as W could look. He turned to an aide. “What does he mean . . . moving targets?”
Par for the Course Page 11
