by Rex Bolt
And of course right there front and center was Chris’s boss Gibbs, running around like a chicken with his head cut off, nervous and excited and looking foolish, rolled into one.
And Gee . . . quite a turnout when you looked around, and plenty of folks were still filtering in -- and there was little podium set up and there were some pre-tee announcements . . . and Holy Toledo, some guy had put up 10 grand to play 18 holes with Joaquin Washington.
That was hard to wrap your head around, but Chris supposed more humans than just Gibbs were awed by celebrities, especially sports ones . . . and the other numbers were announced -- $2500 each for Bolton, Fritsckie and Webb, and someone forked over 500 bucks to play with Waylon. You did feel a little bad for the guy in that context.
Chris’s big first task, relayed by Gibbs’ assistant Ardith, was to golf-cart beverages to the celebrity players on various holes. Not something Chris would have selected, not a role he was used to playing . . . but what the hay, it was part of the job, and the charity was hopefully for a good cause, though no one quite told you where exactly the money -- plus the raffle scratch and other associated fundraising -- was going.
Bolton and Webb and Washington were black dudes, and they were reasonably polite when Chris caught up to them with his cart stocked with refreshments, which included some hard liquor mixed in. Webb asked how his day was going, Bolton said please and thank you . . . and Chris figured he could bring up the catch on Monday Night Football, why not . . . and Bolton pretended to downplay it but you tell he was happy to be remembered. Washington was joking around with his entourage and didn’t really acknowledge Chris but didn’t talk down to him either.
Fritsckie was another story. Chris caught up with Fritsckie on 13, and you could tell right away the guy was irritated at his $2500 patron who was standing there with him, because the guy talked the whole time and could barely play.
Instead of asking Chris what was available in the beverages department, he took charge himself and poked around fairly recklessly in the back of Chris’s golf cart.
After a minute he frowned at Chris and said, “Bud. Y’all got club soda up the ass, but I’m requiring me some tonic water. Hows about we giddy-up on back to your piss-poor faggoty kitchen set up, and bring me some?”
Chris took a moment to digest this.
“We?” he said to Fritsckie.
Now it was Fritsckie taking a moment. He was smiling.
“Well ain’t you got a mouth on you . . . Boy, I was you, I’d best not be back-talking.”
“Is that right,” Chris said. “Though the Boy, I’ll take, I guess.”
The patron who paid the money was trying to intervene, talking fast about cooler heads prevailing, and adding, “Mr. Frank, why don’t we hit our second shots?”
Fritschkie regarded that comment now like he had been doing with Chris. He said to the guy, “Well seeing as how you’re so peachy keen, how about you retrieve the tonic water for me then, Sweetie.”
Not really asking.
And son of a gun, the guy did as he was told. Or started to . . . meaning started to get in Chris’s cart and drive back to the refreshment zone at the first tee . . . and then he realized what he was doing and got back off the cart.
“Be my guest,” Chris said. “I appreciate it. Just tell the gal with short hair and glasses -- that’d be Ardith -- what you need. For Mr. Frenchie, here.”
“That’d be Fritsckie,” Frank said.
“Right,” Chris said.
Meanwhile the patron guy nodded like a bobblehead and sped away on the cart.
“That’s more like it,” Frank said. “Them jigaboos, you might find more agreement there. Y’all er dealing with me now.”
Chris assumed by ‘them jigaboos’ Frank was referring to the three black-guy former NFLers.
Chris said, “How about Waylon? Same thing there?”
“No,” Frank said, “Way’s good people.”
“I know him from the hot tub,” Chris said, leaving it at that . . . and Frank pulled out his cell phone, and talked for a minute to someone, yukking it up . . . pointing out that the ‘help’ around here, this charity golf deal, they needed a little learnin’ in the manners division, not to mention respect.
Frank was looking off toward the 12th green, the red rock hills silhouetted behind it, and he was pointing that way as he was talking, though Chris couldn’t figure out any connection.
Meanwhile, Chris reached down into Frank’s golf bag, pulled out a 7 iron, took a moment to get a good grip . . . and when Frank ended his call Chris swung it all his might into Frank’s ribs.
He’d hoped for a bit of cracking sound, but there didn’t seem to be one. It was more like you hit something that was pretty dang hard on the outside, and inflated on the inside, and there was a thump -- closer to a big marching bass drum being pounded than a guy’s ribs getting broken.
Either way, the effect was decent. Frank doubled over, looking back over his shoulder at Chris with a maniacal expression, kind of a grin though, which was semi-alarming.
Chris backed off a few steps but still wondered if he’d have to outrun the son of a bitch.
Frank probably weighed in these days at 275-plus. Which of course is probably the ballpark of his NFL playing weight, except fat had pretty clearly replaced muscle.
But the neck on the son of a gun . . . if Chris thought The Tank was a rough customer in that regard, ol’ Frank’s neck was double the size, at least, and it did make you cringe to imagine having to similarly loop a wire around that thing and see it through to conclusion.
The other point being . . . even though you could diminish Frank and other 4 as not being superstar NFL players . . . there was something worrisome about dealing with any guy -- as you were with Frank now, who had luckily sat down on the grass -- who made it that far. Meaning professional football, period. The show.
Chris thought of the time he was playing tennis in Golden Gate Park, and there was a local tournament going on, on the main courts, and the word spread that Jack Malkin’s daughter was playing.
Malkin played left tackle for the 49ers back in the 80’s. Chris was born in 1976, so he was a kid when Malkin was there, and the guy was an ordinary player, workman-like, basically blended in. Chris did remember having the guy’s football card, though he had the whole team’s back then.
In any case, they mentioned that Malkin’s daughter had just taken up tennis, and the Golden Gate Park pro talked her into trying the tournament.
So Chris saw her warming up, a reasonable crowd in the stands, and he went over there too -- and the opponent was much better, more skilled and experienced, and Chris didn’t stick around very long -- but wouldn’t you know, the very first point of the match, the Malkin daughter kept the ball in play for over a hundred and fifty shots.
So . . . there was unique genetic material in these people, and they obviously passed it to their offspring . . . and yeah, Chris did wonder if he could outrun the guy if it came to that, the adrenaline and fury and of course genes kicking in.
But Frank didn’t look too good, or too threatening down there.
So Chris said, “You okay?”
“We’re good,” Frank said, and it was horse and dry, but definitive enough . . . and Chris figured you had to give the racist redneck a-hole a modicum of respect . . . he was tough, and he got what he deserved (arguably), and he acknowledged that fact . . . hopefully.
Frank still could file a report when his 18-hole charity deal was over -- if he made it that far -- but what was he going to say, really.
One thing you knew, guy like that, you could drive a truck over him before he’d want to show weakness -- and it likely wouldn’t look great to the other NFL dudes--Waylon included -- for big tough Frankie to be filing a claim or calling the cops on a wimpy course attendant who supposedly took him down with a golf club.
The patron-guy was coming back down the fairway now in the cart, full speed ahead, and he produced a quart bottle of tonic water and
was a bit startled to see Frank sitting there, his legs wrapped over each other almost yoga-style now, in the middle of the manicured grass . . . but the guy didn’t question it and asked Frank how he’d like his drink mixed.
And Frank took a minute, rolling his right arm around, convincing himself apparently that he could still play . . . and he told the guy to give him his hand and help him up, so they could get this son of a bitch show back on the road, and that the 18th green couldn’t come soon enough.
Chris stuck around a minute longer -- maintaining his distance -- to make sure Frank could still play golf -- and the sucker’s first shot after the incident, he must he have driven it a hundred yards . . . and Chris got back in the golf cart and decided that was enough for now -- that the other NFLers could adjust their own beverages the rest of the way -- and he drove the thing straight to his condo, put on a swimsuit, and plunged into the pool.
Chapter 10
The thing Chris remembered, while working on his freestyle in the slow lane of the lap pool, was unfortunately there was a barbeque event attached to the NFL charity thing, once everyone finished the golf.
He was trying to master breathing on both sides. Some old guy in the pool a few weeks back had it down pat, had probably been swimming that way for 60 years, and he gave Chris some pointers.
Chris was once on a competitive swim team when he was a kid in San Francisco, 4 days a week at the USF pool, but he didn’t last long enough to get the double-breathing down. The concept was you breathed to the right like normal, then another stroke down the middle with no breathing, then the third stroke to the left, the tricky one.
It made sense, and he wouldn’t say he had the hang of it but he was making progress . . . but if you were supposed to be working the barbeque and you missed that, you’d probably get fired . . . not the worst thing, but why let it happen . . . and Chris hopped out and went back to work.
By the time he got there the participants were all milling around the patio outside the golf pro shop, and there were about 8 grills fired up, and Chris’s boss Gibbs came racing by carrying a high waiter’s tray, and he gave Chris some instructions -- so at least that part was good, Gibbs didn’t seem to notice he’d been missing.
Chris made himself busy, not the stacking plates business that Gibbs asked him to do, but he opened and closed the barbeques, moved the meat around a bit with the tongs, and closed them up.
Joaquin Washington was watching with amusement. “So you a chef,” he said. “You got the touch today with the metal, man.”
Chris figured Washington was being sarcastic -- but something else occurred to him, that bit about the metal. Chris said, “Oh yeah? And what kind of touch would that be?”
The guy laughed. “You proving to be a source of entertainment. More ways than one.”
And that was over the top. Chris didn’t anticipate it, but this guy must have heard about the incident with Fritsckie.
What could you do?
So Chris said to Washington, “Big tough guys, stud ballplayers . . . I’d take a flying guess that none of you lasted the full 18.”
“Naw man, you got that right. Whad’ya expect?” Still laughing, having a good time, not really at Chris’s expense, so you couldn’t blame the guy.
McBride came over, and then Waylon showed up, and Waylon opened the grill, fiddled around with the tongs same as Chris, and stuck the top back on and said, “Frankie’s not feeling too good. We was just giving him our condolences.”
“Indirectly,” Washington said.
“The nose tackle guy?” McBride said. “What happened to him?”
“He fell on his club,” Waylon said, deadpan. Eyeballing Chris.
The three of them had cocktails in their hands, so Chris figured why not, and went behind the little bar and fixed himself a double scotch on the rocks, and came back. “That’s too bad,” he said. “Leading up to that, evidently, the man required some tonic water which I wasn’t carrying. I went to retrieve him some -- I return -- the poor guy’s stretched out in the fairway.”
“That bad, huh?” McBride said, picking up on it, that it didn’t go down exactly that way. “I mean the thirst.”
Washington shook his head. “A man’s got to have what a man needs,” he said. “Lookee here, at the end result.”
They all looked around, but nothing to see in the way of Frank, Washington was apparently speaking figuratively with the lookee here.
‘Well,” Chris said, “before he placed his order with me, Frank was saying how harmonious it was in the NFL, the racial divide business . . . and how everyone’s open-mindedness continues to this day . . . in that regard.”
“That’s refreshing to hear,” Washington said, still smiling easy and loose, but the sarcasm thick enough to cut.
Chris glanced to the left and there was Reba now, looking pretty decked out for a barbeque, holding Waylon’s arm, who was introducing her to Washington . . . and the other NFL guys too, Webb and Bolton . . . and Man, people kept showing up out of the blue . . . and Chris thought for a second should he do any real work, but nah, this was more interesting.
The men were pointing toward the first tee and laughing about something, hopefully nothing to do with Fritsckie this time, and Chris saw there was some drunk guy out there trying to carry a fairly stout woman on his shoulders, and every step was a little rough and unpredictable.
Reba was by herself for the moment, and Chris said quietly, “So. You gonna bang the NFL guys now? . . . I mean not currently, but, you know.”
“Eventually, you mean?” she said.
“Something like that,” Chris said.
“We’ll have to see,” she said. Matter of fact.
“Well,” Chris said, “I have to hand it to you. You don’t duck the tough questions . . . even if you’re not sure of the answer.”
“Thank you. I think.”
“Listen, by the way, I took a look at the art you told me about.”
“Oh.”
“Oh? That didn’t sound too good . . . What it was, I was prepared to lie to you just now, and remark how much I enjoyed it.”
“It’s dumb,” she said, “my work’s a joke.”
“Ah,” Chris said. No point disagreeing with her.
“However,” she said, “a possible new lease on life, as they say.”
“Oh yeah?’
“Yes. I will have you know that I sold one painting. Yesterday. You can probably detect a bounce in my step.”
Chris gave it a little thought, ran the collection through his memory as best he could. He couldn’t come up with one that would appeal to a buyer, honestly -- but hey.
“You’re cringing,” she said. “It’s okay, you can tell me what you’re thinking.”
“You can handle it?” he said. “Man to man?”
“Of course.”
“Well . . . only that, there’s no accounting for taste, I guess.”
“Fair enough,” she said, “though perhaps you didn’t need to be that blunt.” She’s raised her voice a tad, but not enough to distract the NFLers and McBride, still getting a kick of out the guy hoisting the big gal.
“Hmm,” Chris said.
“So yes. I tried something different. I changed it up. One painting.”
“And you say, yesterday?” Which was when Chris was in the bank checking them out.
“Correct. Around 2 o’clock I bring in the new one, hang it up, the wall across from the teller with the glasses on the chain, the older woman.” Chris remembered her.
“So after my time then,” he said. “I screwed up in there, I forgot a lesson with Karolina. But that’s another story.”
“Whatever. At 4:30 the manager, Mr. Knowles, he calls and says a regular customer wishes to purchase the painting, and should they take it now, or leave it up until the end of the show.”
“Jeez. Great then.”
“Yes. The first great part being, Mr. Knowles referred to it as a show. He’d never done that before.”
&nbs
p; “Can’t beat that,” Chris said.
“No,” Reba said. “That, in conjunction with the sale . . . I’d have to say that’s the first time I’ve felt like a real artist.”
“Twenty-four hours then.”
“Jeffery, why do you insist on putting me down?”
“Sorry, I don’t mean to be.”
“Well you’re not exactly, but I feel you’re sticking in the knife, or something pointy.”
“The needle, maybe,” Chris said. “But meanwhile . . . congratulations of your sale. I mean it. That sounds like a world record, too, a couple hours.”
“Well as I said, I was fairly floored . . . The painting was different of course, than the rest of my work in the bank.”
“Different how?”
“You know . . . more colorful, vibrant. I wasn’t trying to do too much, but that which I did do, I excelled apparently.”
“You need to speak English, babe.”
“Fine . . . I faked the painting.”
Chris’s eyes got big. He couldn’t help it.
Reba was nodding. Staring right at him. Biting her lower lip slightly, a determined focus to the woman all around. Chris had a vision for a moment that if she was riding him -- if the other night back in his apartment had proceed further, for instance -- this would be her expression. He found himself second-guessing the other night, the cutting things short. But you couldn’t worry about it now.
He said, “That’s interesting. How do you fake a painting?”
“You copy it off the internet,” she said.
“Oh,” Chris said.
“So,” she said, “you caught me at a good time. In fact that’s what I’ll be doing later tonight, pulling an all-nighter. Producing more work.”
“Hmm . . . Same artist and everything then? Or different ones.”
“Same one. Someone who paints in obscurity, out around Pebble Beach. Below Carmel.”
“Wow. So you . . . reproduce them exact? . . . Or not quite?”