“Can you imagine a group of PGA Tour players volunteering to spend a few hours posing on the beach to promote their weekend tournament?” Honie asked me.
“Not in a zillion years,” I responded, shaking my head in wonder.
“Exactly,” she said with some heat. “They throw money at the men, beat down the doors to do things for them. But we have to hustle to sell our product. Now you could say that it’s not really fair … Women professionals play the sport just as well as the men. But that’s not the point. Women just have to work harder than men to get up to the same point.”
“I don’t know—” I started to argue with her some more.
“Oh, c’mon,” she said. “It’s the same in any business. You hire a man, you automatically assume that he can do the job. All you do is give him an office, a desk and especially a secretary, and you leave him alone to do the work. You hire a woman, on the other hand, and there’s always a question about whether she can cut it. There’s always that unspoken need for her to prove herself, over and over.”
“You’re damn right!” agreed a voice behind us. I looked around and saw Mary Beth Burke, dressed in her golf clothes, standing with arms crossed.
“Oh shit,” I said. “Outnumbered!”
The photographers, who had now attracted a crowd of onlookers hoping to see some half-naked models or at least a Grade B celebrity, had moved on, back up the beach toward the hotel. Mary Beth pulled off her visor, sank down on the end of my chaise and mopped her brow.
“How’d you manage to escape the sideshow?” I asked.
“Years of practice,” she answered with a sigh. She looked over at Honie. “You’re the new PR girl, aren’t you?” Honie nodded. “Sounds like we finally got one with a head on her shoulders,” Burkey said. Honie beamed.
A waitress came up and I ordered a drink for Mary Beth and another round of pina coladas for Honie and me. My first one had mysteriously disappeared in about three gulps.
“We were discussing the various aspects of the weaker sex,” I said when the waitress left.
“You mean men,” Burkey said slyly, winking at Honie. They laughed together, compatriots.
“Har de har har,” I said. “Okay, the theorem on the table is that in today’s world, women have to work harder than men to get ahead.”
“Agreed,” Burkey said.
“But we have not addressed the question as to whether or not women are entirely suited to the fires of competition,” I said.
“Oh, my God,” Honie groaned. “What year is this? I thought we had worked that all out a few generations ago. C’mon, Hacker, get with the program!”
“No, wait a minute,” Mary beth held up a hand. “I want to hear this. Hacker is no pig. At least, I don’t think he is. I’ve always believed he had a brain in there somewhere. Let’s hear it, Hacker. But it better be good.”
“Okay,” I said. “Here goes. We’ve proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that women are just as smart, just as capable, just as intelligent as men. They can do anything men can do, whether it’s brain surgery or playing professional golf. Except, of course, they can’t pee standing up.”
The two women groaned simultaneously. I laughed and continued.
“But I’ve got this theory that says being competitive, as women must be in business and on the golf course, cuts across the grain of their womanhood and exacts something of a psychic price. Look, no matter how intelligent and sophisticated we think we humans are, we’re still animals deep down, and our behaviors are still controlled by basic instincts—the need for food, shelter and to reproduce the species. When Homo first became sapiens, a certain separation of function developed between males and females. Men’s bodies developed in such a way as to support physical exertion, so they could hunt and gather and provide the food. Women, on the other hand, were assigned the task of birthin’ the babies and keeping the home fires burning, literally speaking. Men hunted and women nurtured, and their bodies and minds developed for those tasks.”
I paused. Honie and Mary Beth were watching me with narrowed eyes, like hungry tigers waiting for their prey to move out of cover so they could pounce. But they still weren’t sure in which direction I was going. So they waited. Ready to jump and bring me down to earth.
“So I think that now, even millions of years later, the brain of every woman still contains a tiny little cell or two that keeps emitting this weak signal. Kind of like a satellite way out in space somewhere sending its signal back to earth. And it keeps saying ‘nurture…nurture…nurture.’”
“So what you’re saying is that we should all be barefoot and pregnant just like God intended?” Honie snapped at me angrily. “You aren’t gonna go all religious right on us are ya?”
The waitress came back with her tray of drinks. I passed a frosty glass over to Mary Beth and another to Honie. I restrained myself from challenging them to a chugalug contest, inasmuch as I was trying to impress them with my erudition at the moment.
“No, no,” I protested. “What I’m saying is that I guess I agree with what you were saying earlier. Women do have to work harder to succeed. Why? Because they have to overcome not only all the obstacles that society throws in their way, but, more importantly, they have to overcome that little primordial radio signal inside their own heads that’s telling them they’re not supposed to be out here slaying the saber-tooth tigers. That voice that says ‘it’s not your job, honey.’”
The two women mulled on that for a while. I did a little work on my drink, fishing around for the maraschino cherry. It went down smooth, out there in the hot sun.
“Burkey,” I said, turning to my friend and wiping away my colada-foam mustache. “Generally speaking, what’s the weakest part of a professional woman’s golf game?”
“The short game,” she said quickly. “Chipping and putting.”
“Exactly,” I said. “And why is that?”
“Because they don’t practice that part of the game as much,” Honie answered for Mary Beth. “Most women have to work so hard on getting more distance, they just don’t have time to practice the short shots.”
“Bullshit,” I said. “Chipping and putting should be the best part of their games. Look, woods and irons require physical exertion, muscle strength and power. Those are all male attributes, not female. The short game is all about feel and touch and rhythm. Those are ‘feminine’ words. Putting doesn’t require brute strength, it takes touch. So why don’t professional women putt better than men?
“Because,” I answered my own question, “It’s where you close the deal. You know that old cliché…drive for show, putt for dough. The putting green is where one thrusts the spear into your opponent’s heart, where you plug him between the eyes, shove him off the cliff or run him over with your tank. Now men have no trouble with that psychic part of the game, because we have our own little radio signals buried deep in our brains. Except ours say ‘kill the mother.’ Our subconscious is all set up and ready to plunge the dagger in.”
I thought a moment, and continued.
“But a woman’s little inside voice is saying things like ‘Oh, dear. If you sink this putt then poor Jane will feel badly for having lost. And I’m supposed to make everyone feel good like the nurturing woman I was born to be.’ So she yanks the putt left or leaves it short. Which is why women have trouble being competitors.”
There was a long moment of silence there on the beach. The young lovely in the purple thong walked by and smiled at me. I smiled back. Not bad, I thought to myself, not bad at all. Hacker’s theory of the universal nurturing woman. I liked it.
“That is about the most preposterous amalgamation of bullshit I have ever heard in my entire life,” Mary Beth Burke said finally. I smiled at her, too.
“Can’t dispute it, though, can you?” I said. “Try this one. Why are lesbians so prevalent in professional athetics? I will assume that neither of you will deny that obvious observation?”
They b
oth nodded, but without any enthusiasm.
“Golf and tennis have always been acceptable sports for women to play,” Honie noted.
I nodded. “True,” I said. “But when you talk about professional sports, you’re not talking about country-club activities. We’re talking about sports as vocation. And professional athletics is not something women are traditionally encouraged to do. Girls are supposed to be nice and quiet and attractive. They’re not supposed to be able to rifle a two-iron in to a protected pin.”
“You may have something there, Hacker,’ Mary Beth allowed. “Lord knows I took a ration of shit from my friends and family growing up. My mom gave me dolls and tea sets every birthday, but I just wanted to play with my dad’s old set of clubs, or go punt the football or something. Drove her nuts!”
“Okay,” I said, “So are lesbians attracted to sports, or do sports attract lesbians? My theory says it’s because the successful female athlete has found a way to overcome that little radio signal in her head. She’s learned, or maybe doesn’t even have, to overcome that natural inclination to be a nurturer, and thus is free to compete without guilt. In effect, she’s learned to become a man: competitive, hungry, aggressive, a hunter. For whatever reason, her natural female inclinations disappear.”
I was rolling now. Mary Beth and Honie seemed to be engrossed, paying close attention. I took another healthy gulp from my drink and continued.
“So it’s only logical to presume that sometimes this un-femaleness will spill over into other areas of her life, such as her sexuality,” I said. “She becomes a male aggressor and a sexual aggressor, and seeks a soft, nurturing partner. Hence, she is attracted to women. Simple, really.”
I tossed back the last of my drink. The Doctor has spoken. My two women friends said nothing at first. Then they turned to one another.
“I’m not sure, but I think Hacker just called me a bull dyke,” Mary Beth said.
“I think I need another drink,” Honie said. “Let’s go get some lunch.”
They didn’t say anything to me. I figured I had ‘em licked. Blinded by my genius. Honie gathered up her beach things and we walked back toward the hotel. I was a few steps ahead as we passed the huge pool, still feeling proud of my reasoning powers and philosophical understanding of womankind.
Until they each grabbed me by an arm and flung me, decisively, into the pool. Proving yet again that there is nothing so dangerous as a hungry female tiger waiting to pounce on her unsuspecting prey.
CHAPTER TEN
When we got back from the beach there was an envelope stuck under my door. It was from the hotel manager, telling me politely that inasmuch as the Ladies Professional Golf Association had declined to honor the charges for my room, would I be so kind as to contact the front desk and make other arrangements. Screw you, too, I thought, and felt my stomach go sour.
I took a long shower and a longer nap. It was dark when I awoke. First thing I saw was that obsequious letter from the manager, and I decided what I needed more than anything in the world was a drink. I dressed casually – no socks – and went downstairs.
I stopped by the front desk and let them take an imprint of my newspaper’s credit card. I could almost feel a collective sigh of relief from the other side of the counter, although all I saw and heard were polite smiles. Loose ends make hoteliers very nervous, and until they have your credit card imprint on file in their hot little hands, you are a loose end.
I headed for my favorite bar off the main lobby. It was getting late and most of the other guests had already headed off to dinner somewhere. I felt like having a liquid meal instead, and ordered up a Scotch on the rocks. I surveyed the room and saw about a half-dozen other customers, talking quietly, heads together. And far off in the corner, all by his lonesome, sat Benton Bergmeister.
He was on a bender. At first glance, you couldn’t tell, but I’m an experienced bar watcher and I could see the signs. He was sitting too rigidly straight, for one. People drinking casually are relaxing. They cross their legs, lean on the table or bar, swing their feet. Their bodies are at ease. Benton looked like he was sitting on the end of a long, brass fireplace poker. He was sitting ramrod straight and his forearms formed a perfect ninety-degree angle to his upper arm as they rested symmetrically on the table. His legs were also carefully placed under the table as if he were posing for an artist. Serious, experienced drunks often look like this. They work so hard to present the appearance of sobriety, so no one will notice them, that they begin to look wooden and contrived. It is one of the signs.
Bergmeister also had two glasses in front of him, another giveaway. One was virtually empty, just ice cubes and a lemon peel. The other was untouched and full to the rim. The waitress had probably tried to take away the empty one when she had brought over the new drink, but he had stopped her, saying there was one sip left. People think drunks are messy and sloppy, but the serious ones are as precise as accountants. I knew that Bergmeister would carefully suck the last vestige of alcohol from the surface of each one of those leftover ice cubes, and then carefully pour the melted water into his new drink. Not a drop to be wasted. Only when the glass was completely empty of any discernable liquid would Benton allow the waitress to carry it away.
This also allowed the drinker to expand the time between drinks so that, again, he could present to the watching world the appearance of pacing his drinking. Only the emotionally distraught drinker will slam down shots one after the other, not caring what people might think. The studious drunk will always take his sweet time making his way into oblivion.
I knew all these secrets after years of experience watching some of Boston’s best drunks. I knew, therefore, as I grabbed my drink and headed over to his corner table, that when I sat down he would first be startled, then perplexed as he tried to recognize and place my face. Then he would be overly effusive in greeting me to try and cover up that alcohol-haze-induced lapse.
Right again.
“Hi, Benton,” I said affably as I sat down opposite him. “Mind if I join you?”
He jumped. Lurched, really, startled out of whatever private reverie he had been in. He turned his rheumy eyes on me and stared for the long count. Who the crap is this? Oh, yeah. Hinker. Holder. Hackley. No…that’s not right… Oh yeah.
“Hacker,” he said thickly. “So nice to see you again. Have a drink?”
Pretty good. The old coot wasn’t totally in the bag...just about halfway there, by my reckoning.
“Got one already,” I informed him, holding my glass up for his inspection. He turned his head to look, then turned it back. “So what’s new?”
“New?” he repeated dully. “New? Ah, Mr. Hacker, until today there was nothing new in my world. Just the old…as in the same old bullshit. But, I am glad to say, there is about to be a whole vista of new in the world of Benton T. Bergmeister.”
Wow. The old guy on the juice was pretty eloquent. Too bad he was totally unintelligible.
“Well, that’s great, Benton,” I said. “But what exactly are you saying?”
He took a good-sized pull from his glass, the full one, then dumped the remaining contents of his empty one into the full one to replace the booze he had just consumed. I’ll bet he was calculating the exact number of milliliters. He glanced around the nearly empty bar and leaned over towards me conspiratorially.
“Can you keep a secret?” he asked in a stage whisper.
I leaned back and gave him my best winning smile. “Secret is my middle name,” I told him.
He straightened up and raised his bushy gray eyebrows in surprise.
“Is it now?” he said. “’Secret’ Hacker? That’s a strange name.”
He took another healthy dollop of booze and thought it over. I could imagine his turgid, swollen brain cells trying to process the information, and all his imaginary brainscreen would give him back would be ‘syntax error.
’ I waited while he tried to think. Eventually he gave up and remembered his secret.
“I am resigning as the commissioner of the Ladiesh Perfessional Golfing Ashociation,” he announced grandly, putting some drama into his slurred words. He sat back and waited for my stunned and surprised cries to say it wasn’t so. I kept silent instead and after an uncomfortable pause, he looked at me with some disappointment. It wasn’t the reaction he had hoped for.
“Finally got tired of the bullshit, eh?” I said finally.
It was like I had clicked a switch that released something deep inside the man. Even as heavily boozed up as he was, Bergmeister’s tank emptied with a rush, and he spoke to me without any pretense.
“Ain’t that the truth?” he gushed. “Ain’t that the goddam’dest truth? You will never know the crap I have had to put up with in this job. Incredible.”
“How long have you been commissioner?” I asked.
“Seven and a half years, Hacker,” he said somewhat sadly. “Seven and one half long and trying years. I still don’t know why they hired me. I was with the network in sales, you know, and was looking forward to retiring in another few years. I guess Wynnona figured I could help obtain a better TV deal for the Tour.”
“Did you?” I asked.
“It’s not bad,” he said. “Could have been better. But I had very little to do with it. Wynnona Stilwell thought she could do it better. Woman negotiates with the best of them. Brass balls. Brass fuckin’ balls, the woman has.”
“She must be hell on wheels to work for,” I commented.
“I have a bleeding peptic ulcer,” Bergmeister told me, looking at me with pitiful eyes. “I’m taking six different kinds of medications. Every drink I take could be the one that kills me. Can I stop? Can I heal? Not so long as that woman continues to rule my life. I am a wreck. Can’t sleep. Can’t eat. I have had enough.”
“Why did you wait so long?” I wondered.
“Hah!” he snorted. “That’s what everyone says. ‘Why don’t you just quit, Benton? Why don’t you tell her off? Just leave!’ they say. Hah! You just don’t understand. You don’t just work for that woman. She has to own you, lock, stock and barrel.”
Death from the Ladies Tee Page 8
