by Frank Perry
Steve turned and began walking toward the big garage door exit. He was scared of the bigger man and slowly reached into his pocket for his cell phone.
Peter and the rest of the crew were standing together silently, behind Garza, who had taken a few steps toward Steve. he’d worked himself into a frenzy and was obviously going to do something stupid, pulling a folding knife from his pocket. Peter became agitated, sensing a bad ending to the argument. He wanted to be away from there, but something held him in place. He didn’t really fear anyone, just wished this had not started. Without thinking, his vision narrowed and every ounce of attention was on Garza.
Before the Mexican could lunge at Steve, Peter pushed him in the back. Garza stumbled forward two steps then turned fast with rage in his eyes. The knife was in his right hand, waist high, blade pointing forward. In the background, Steve was frantically dialing his phone.
Garza slashed at Peter, who was circling in a clockwise rotation. He slashed several times testing Peter, who remained unhurt. Both men were tall, but the Mexican was heavier. Peter shifted directions, moving right then left, keeping Steve out of Garza’s vision. Garza was getting angrier at each thrust. Peter ducked and parried with his hands against Garza’s forearms.
“You gonna die Gringo! I’m going to cut you bad and bleed you on the floor!” It was clear to Peter that the big Mexican had probably killed men before.
Both men were crouching; but Peter was lower, with knees bent and hands in front, moving on the inner balls of his feet. Garza was enraged, but growing wearier with each thrust. He knew nothing about Peter except that he was in better shape.
Garza jabbed forward several times yelling obscenities as Peter avoided the knife.
Peter kept silent. Garza drew back and lunged forward keeping his body low as the knife passed under Peter’s left arm. Using Garza’s momentum, Peter grabbed the shirt behind both shoulders, pulling Garza off balance, twisting and throwing him across his right hip. Garza crashed to the floor between other workers. Peter resumed a fighting position, but did not attack.
He said, “Look Garza, stop this before someone gets hurt.”
Jumping to his feet, Garza’s eyes were ablaze, changing his grip to an overhead stabbing position. “You scared jefe? You see it coming?” He stabbed toward Peter twice, but was pushed aside both times. Garza was breathing heavily.
Peter said, “Look Garza, this is crazy. You want to kill someone in front of all these witnesses?”
“What witnesses?” he circled again with the knife at his waste again. “These are my people, they see nothing!”
Peter guessed he was right about that. “Okay, enough said.”
Garza jabbed again, while Peter moved. As the blade passed by, from left to right in front of him, Peter grabbed the forearm with Garza’s knife using his right hand, jerking him forward violently. Garza fell face down to the ground, off balance, as Peter dropped down, slamming his knee into the outstretched arm and shoulder.
The Mexican went down hard as his arm ripped from its socket. As he screamed, Peter snap-rolled, slamming his elbow onto the back of Garza’s neck. The man went limp releasing the knife.
Peter rolled quickly to his feet then checked for a pulse, relieved that the other man was still alive. He pulled the knife away from Garza’s limp hand as police sirens could be heard in the distance.
The other workers moved away, walking silently out of the shed as the police grew nearer.
After that day, Steve Owen was forever grateful to Peter, who probably saved his life. Peter also gained a wary respect from other workers, which he hadn’t wanted.
Despite this notoriety, he continued to be the hardest working person on the grounds crew, but remained more isolated after the fight. He did not want any attention. But that day set the tone for Peter’s relationship and trust by club management.
One beautiful mid-summer evening after work and a shower, he was enjoying the breeze while sitting in a folding chair on his hill near the fourteenth tee. He was leaning back against the shed dressed in a sand-colored tee shirt, running shorts and huaraches sandals. He thought about driving into town for a six-pack, but was savoring the wild-flower scented air too much to move. The view was spectacular. He felt lucky to live there even though others could not understand. For all of his adult life he’d planned on a military career and had advanced at an extraordinary rate. Irony replaced ambition and he could only wonder about the future. The military had been predictable, now each day held a new mystery, or perhaps shear repetition leading nowhere. This night he was simply enjoying the solitude and beauty of nature with no expectation of anything exhilarating in the future. He would sleep well tonight.
He had planned to stay at Cary long enough to build up cash to ramble on, probably heading southwest as the weather got colder. He liked working outside and this was the most relaxed he’d felt in a long while.
The club was located forty miles northwest of Chicago along the Fox River. Sculpted through lush rolling hills, the native areas around the fringes of the course were covered with deciduous trees and shrubs. The breeze carried the fragrance of blossoms that would bother some people. Peter enjoyed the setting, and there were only a few days each year when conditions combined like this.
It was the kind of job that had high turnover, and he had no particular ambitions. He liked his perch on the hill. Living in the shed was primitive, without heat or utilities, except for one light bulb. So small, it was difficult to position his cot. Life in an Army tent had been worse, with no privacy or solitude. The fourteenth tee was the highest spot on the course with an amazing panorama. The shack was located one fairway length away from clubhouse. The arrangement suited him, and he used the men’s locker room and club laundry facilities at night.
He was enjoying the tranquility, watching the river run alongside the road, past the clubhouse. Except for the road and cottages along the shore, the river was in full view. At dusk, boat traffic diminished; and it was quiet except for the breeze wafting through the trees and brush. He was lost in a daydream, enjoying the smell of cut grass. Other workers speculated about his background, but he avoided talking to them.
Club workers began calling him the “night watchman.” People at the club probably thought he was strange, but didn’t try to analyze him. He spent reflective evenings alone when the memories were sometimes good, and sometimes not. Deep down, he knew that he was probably a ticking bomb of emotions that would explode one day, but he was disciplined enough to know it was all in his mind. And he could control it. This evening, instead of the bad times, his thoughts took him back to high school and a girl he’d known. She was the only girl he’d ever loved. Peter’s recollection of Stacey had dimmed only a little. He closed his eyes and drifted back.
They met during the summer before he reported to the Army. he’d enlisted only a few days earlier. Sometimes he reflected on how things might be different if they met earlier. He was a lifeguard at the town pool and got there early each morning to clean it and prepare for opening. On the day they met, it was cool and the pool was empty except for the staff. Children would start arriving before noon for swim lessons, but as he was sitting bored in the elevated lifeguard chair, a girl walked through the gate and came close to his station. She was about his age and gorgeous. He sat up, more alert, assuming a vigilant posture. After spreading her towel on a lounge, she removed her pullover and hat, lying face down, looking away from him. She wore a snug two-piece bathing suit and he could not resist staring. After a while, she sat up and began applying sunscreen.
Peter struggled to divert his attention until she rose and came over toward him. She was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. Approaching the stand she said “Hi, my name is Stacey, you look bored.”
“Oh...hi, I’m Peter, and it’s hard to be bored with so much activity in the pool.” He was bewildered.
“So, where do you go to school?”
“A
h, well, I just graduated from high school in town, Meyer’s High.” After a brief pause, “So, where do you go to school?”
“My folks moved here two years ago from Philadelphia, I just finished at McDevitt boarding school in the city and I’m home for the summer. Dad is a mine inspector.”
“My dad works in the mines.” Peter wanted to disguise his humble circumstances, but Stacey, to his surprise, did not seem to care. He dated a few girls in high school, but had no serious relationships. She had the face of an angel. About five feet three inches tall, slender, but round in the hips with beautiful skin. Her light brown hair would turn blond as the summer progressed. Like all boys, he first stared at her breasts, which were small but nicely shaped. Her eyes slanted upward at the edges and her mouth was heart shaped with perfect teeth.
She kept the conversation going, “Okay Peter, since I’m new around here, what is there to do for fun other than going to the pool?”
“Ah, do you like hiking? There’s a bowling alley and a couple movie theaters, and a drive-in. On my days off, I sometimes go into the hills and shoot at bottles. What do you like?”
“I’ve never done any of that, except go to movies.” As she spoke, she started re-banding her long hair, accentuating her bust line.
With