by J. P. Hansen
Though the week passed like a decade, Chase noticed his mood brighten. He hustled to change his corporate costume to his golf gear. Though he desired an hour on the practice range, he just didn’t have it today. Didn’t matter: Dixie-dawg’s trash talking always fueled his A-game.
Chase barreled out of the clubhouse and, true to form, spotted Dixon loading a cooler into the cart. His madras pants made Rodney Dangerfield look conservative. Chase chuckled while Dixon monkeyed with the golf cart as if preparing for a safari. He wanted to snap a picture.
Hearing Chase’s laughter, Dixon spun; he donned prescription Vuarnets, circa 1980s, but so Dixon, “Hey, Boa. You made it.”
“Of course—I wouldn’t miss kicking your plaid ass for the world.”
“Hey, do you have to return your grandpa’s pants later—or can you wear those khakis all weekend?”
The introductory insults ended with Dixon’s frayed hat, then the two buddies drove over to the famous first tee, lining up behind an antique foursome. Both Chase and Dixon frowned, then made enough racket to rouse their hearing aids. The blue-hairs didn’t notice the speedier twosome. Chase hoped Dixon’s pants would scare them away. No avail, so much for golf being a gentlemen’s game.
Instead of griping, Dixon bolted up from the cart, and said, “Ready for a cold one?”
Chase, not a big boozer, rarely drank before nightfall. But, after this week, didn’t hesitate, “Sure, why not.”
The two best friends polished off an entire Heineken each before the group from hell hit their mulligans. The beer that looked so relaxing in the ads had the opposite effect on Chase. He couldn’t shake the stiff neck that he’d had since Tuesday’s hurl-a-thon. Even Dixon’s banter, which usually elevated his spirits, irritated him.
After scrutinizing the senior foursome, on pace to break the course record for slowest play, the college buddies settled into the cart on the third tee in silence. Finally, Dixon said, “Chase, I’ve never seen you double-bogey two holes in a row.”
“Don’t remind me.” Chase stared straight ahead.
“All kidding aside, dude, what’s buggin’ ya?”
Chase turned, and the pain shot from his neck down his side like a taser. Dixon peered over his Vuarnet’s. Usually, all kidding aside, coming from Dixon’s mouth, meant Three Stooges time. Not now. “I had the week from hell.”
“Join the club. I had a guy shit all over my operating table this morning. So much for a routine scope. I’m not sure that’s what they meant in residency when they said, ‘ya never get used to the smell.’ I’ve been around morgues that smelled better.”
Chase’s silence struck Dixon like a stun gun. Dixon said, “You need another beer!” then popped up to the cooler.
Chase said, “No thanks, not yet. I think I need some water.”
“So do those geezers in front of us. They’ve been searching that pond for hours. Sheesh, did they die looking for a lousy ball?”
Chase just stared at the cart path. Dixon said, “I’ve never seen you this quiet. You all right?”
“Huh…Oh, I’m just thinking.”
“You look like a Rodin sculpture.” Still no response. Dixon continued, “Talk to me—what’s up?”
“I’m having a come to Jesus week. They brought in some chop-shop consultant who wants to cut everything I’ve done and hang me out to dry.”
“That’s why they pay you the big bucks.”
“No, they pay you to cut, they pay me to build.”
“Good one. What are they chopping?”
“An entire division…sending it over to India. A bunch of my people lose their jobs so we can help a bunch of maharishis buy bigger hookahs.”
“That sucks. Sorry about that…what about your girlfriend Brooke. Is she getting axed?”
Brooke? Dixon pressed the button that finally brought Chase back to life. That’s what friends are for. “First of all, she’s not my freaking girlfriend. Will you guys stop calling her that!”
Dixon opted to ignore the you guys. Instead, “So, is she getting canned?”
“Looks that way. But, the thing that irks me most is I’m totally out of the loop.”
“And here I thought CEOs had all the fun.”
Chase surveyed his reflection in Dixon’s glasses—one of those moments when Dixon unwittingly hit the nail on the head. Chase said, “It used to be fun. I used to love what I did. Building this company into something. You wouldn’t think I’d hit a roadblock now. Hell, our board of dinosaurs couldn’t build a bridge across a dried up creek.”
“Think of it on the bright side.”
“How’s that?”
“Now you can bang Brooke, Boa.”
“Quit calling me Boa! I still can’t believe you called me that in front of her.”
“Well, you called me Dixie-dawg…and she was a patient. C’mon man, listen to yourself. Plus, Boa’s a better nickname than dawg any day.”
“Says who?”
“You kidding me? Why? Did she ask how you earned the name Boa?”
“I’m surprised you didn’t tell her.”
“Wah, wah, wah. Here, use this cry towel,” Dixon said, unclipping his golf towel from his bag, and flinging it in Chase’s face. Dixon continued, “You know how many times that nickname got you laid? And, do I get any thanks? Nooooo. You owe me—big time, Boa.” Chase chuckled.
“Are you ever going to grow up?”
“Not till you have another beer. You won’t let me smoke a cigar, and the way you wasted a perfectly good Heineken just doesn’t cut it. You need to get laid, big time.”
“Wah, wah, wah, yourself. Throw me a beer—and a cold one this time. And, I’m doubling our bet.” Dixon nearly fell over, thinking, he’s back. Neither of them realized the Geezer party in front of them had a full hole lead.
After Dixon’s duck-hook drive, Chase made a quacking sound, then stepped up to the tee. Feeling a burst inside, Chase tightened his golf glove, then launched his drive straight down the middle, well past Dixon’s. Sometimes it took a good berating from a guy like Dixie-dawg to pull you off the floor. Snapping the icy beer can open with a spray, Chase strutted like a matador, and said, “Take that!”
“Where’d you go? I didn’t see it down.”
“You’d need binoculars. They’re building a Walmart between our shots.” Take that—that’s what friends are for.
For the next three holes, Chase put on a clinic, beating Dixon like a drum. And, Dixon didn’t mind. Chase was a much better golfer anyway and should win. Dixon was just happy to have his buddy back. Now even in their match, Chase yelled, “What do I have to do to get another beer around here?”
“He’s back—I love it. You didn’t even need a nipple on that one.” They laughed.
At the turn, the geezers called it quits. Feeling giddy from three beers, marveling it was before five o’clock, Chase slogged to the window to re-stock the cooler with green cans.
With smooth sailing in front of them, Chase and Dixon raced around the scenic back nine, laughing and heckling each other on every shot. Buddy golf.
By hole 13, Chase’s beer muscle faded; his swing looked more like flailing while Dixon could have performed brain surgery. Chase still scored well enough to tie Dixon through 17. Then, on 18, Dixon sank an impossible putt to win bragging rights, worth much more than the cash. Chase smirked and before Dixon could say it, handed him his wallet, and slurred, “Take it all, ya cheatin’ bastard.”
“Better luck next time, Boa,” Dixon said while leafing through the green bills like a deck of cards.
“Enough with the Boa!”
“Wah, wah, wah…Hey, since I own your wallet after that ass whooping, the least I can do is buy you a cocktail. You up for the 19th hole?”
“Ah, thanks, dawg, but I can’t tonight. I haven’t seen Parker all week and I’ve gotta set up our fishin’ trip this weekend.”
“This weekend? Have you forgotten about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
&nbs
p; “Don’t give me that look. You better not bag on me like last time.”
“Help me out here. I’m sure I have it on my Outlook. What’s tomorrow?”
“Hello…” Dixon removed his sunglasses and studied Chase’s face, then said, “Charity for Children.”
“Oh.”
“You know I’m on the board and bought two tables at five grand a pop. I need you there.”
“Why do you need me there?”
“Because if you bag on me, I’ll write, ‘BOA’ all over your name tags.”
“C’mon, seriously? I don’t wanna go to a freakin’ charity event.”
“This is no ordinary charity event—this is Charity for Children. Do you know how many babes are gonna be there? Last year was insane. Of course, I’m on the invitations committee.”
“I promised Parker—”
“Take Parker Sunday. He can go to a sleepover Saturday. Problem solved. Besides, I’m letting you off the hook tonight, so it’s a fair trade-off.”
Chase’s eyes swam circles, the final effects of the beer setting in. With shoulders slouched, he said, “Do you always think with your pants?”
“Is that a ‘yes’?”
“What time?”
“Cocktails at six sharp. And, you gotta rent a tux.”
“I own more tuxes than you have ties.”
“Oh, excuse me, mister CEO. I wear pajamas to work so I have to rent one.”
“Oh, you poor doctor…”
“Orthopedic surgeon. Especially tomorrow. Hey, and no Dixie-dawg please.”
Chase shook his head, thinking why do I like this guy so much? The seven beers didn’t help him solve the mystery. Maybe he’s my alter-ego? Though not easily led, Chase felt like a sheep being herded by Dixon.
Standing beside his BMW—more like swaying—Chase called a cab, by far the wisest thing he ever did with his smart phone. Chase said, “I’m not drinking tomorrow.”
Chapter 12
Question: what’s the worst way to cram diametrically opposed families into one room? Answer: The Racer – Brenner Rehearsal Dinner.
At last, Melissa Brenner’s long term relationship with Eddie Racer headed toward the finish line. Before the checkered flag, there were plenty of red and yellow ones. Amid the scenic backdrop of Raleigh’s Pine Shadows Country Club, the love in the air felt like a Hatfield-McCoy reunion—only with shoes.
Clifton Brenner, Melissa’s father, had thrown Eddie out of his house three years ago when Eddie asked for Clifton’s daughter’s hand. No-good scumbag was the nicest term said during the ensuing exchange from Eddie’s souped-up car that looked like it missed the cut in Joe Dirt. Someone would have called 911, but they figured Eddie would outrun the cops. It took Melissa two and a half years just to be able to say “Eddie” in front of her father without causing a tantrum. When the EPT displayed positive, she pressed Eddie Racer for a speedy wedding. Even withholding the pregnancy news, Melissa faced a wrath from her father—not helping her nerves on their special night.
Clifton had been warned to behave so many times. He still called Eddie his son-out-law, but it was an improvement from the porch. Thanks to the invention of elastic, Melissa wasn’t showing—or the night would have rivaled the real Hatfield’s and McCoy’s.
Eddie’s parents wanted to have the rehearsal dinner in their backyard. Clifton drove by once and said, “No chance. I’m not going to make my relatives eat white trash.” Melissa threatened to elope and run away. He told his daughter either it’s at a nice place or he wouldn’t pay for the wedding. Melissa used this as leverage to force her father to pay for half of the rehearsal—she agreed to cover the other half. Not exactly a great kickoff for two families to join in marital bliss.
Eddie’s parents pulled into the stodgy country club looking like they were attending a NASCAR event. You didn’t need to draw a dividing line, there were three:
1) Brenners: Jewish, sophisticated, rich, educated.
2) Racers: Atheist, Klan, trailer-park, schooled at Boy’s Town.
3) The Wedding Party (except for Eddie’s brother, all Melissa’s friends): attractive, thirty-something, North Carolina alums, Generation STBR (Soon-To-Be-Rich).
Fortunately, no lines crossed, and dinner eventually ended.
Pacing to her car, Brooke thought the Jewish-Atheist ceremony would rival the millennium fireworks show.
Brooke did as well as anyone to keep Melissa calm, and ignored Eddie whenever she could. It helped her through the Tanner baby anxiety. Arriving home as thunder and lightning alternated with the darkened sky, she collapsed on her bed, thinking, tomorrow should be interesting.
***
“Whenever I see your smiling face…” boomed from Brooke’s bedside. Usually, the upbeat song made her smile—as she guessed James Taylor had intended—but, today, her first thought was Tanner. The memory of their first date together hung in the air like the ominous clouds visible through her window. Even with constant lightning flashes last night, she slept with the shades open.
Guessing it was round one of Melissa’s Wedding Day meltdown, she lunged for the phone and missed, spilling her purified water all over her dusty end table. Oh shit.
There are plenty of great ways to start a weekend morning— a nice smile, a deep invigorating breath, watching the sunrise, even ignoring the sunrise with an exaggerated turn in the opposite direction. Oh shit wasn’t how Brooke wanted to open an emotional rollercoaster day. She grabbed her phone and ignored the spilling water.
“Hi, daddy.”Oh shit. Saturday. She completely forgot.
“I called you last night. Are you okay?”
“I’ve never been better.” A lie, but it held some truth.
“Have you left yet?” Brooke hated when Weston Ingram, Esq. did this; she swore he could secure a book deal for The Book of Rhetorical Questions.
“Didn’t I tell you? It’s Melissa’s wedding today. She’s finally getting married—can you believe it? I’m in the wedding party.”
“Oh. So, I guess that means you’re not coming for lunch?” There he goes again.
“No, they’re getting married in Raleigh at four o’clock.”
“Oh.”
Before he could say, you can still make an early lunch, Brooke went on the offensive, “I’ll come next Saturday—I promise.”
“I hope so. How’s work?”
“Actually, I’m glad you asked. I’m really starting to love it. I finally have a full staff and I handpicked each of them.” “That’s great, congratulations.”
“I’ve had a chance to spend time with our CEO Chase Allman. He’s actually a great guy. He’s sort of taken me under his wing.” Brooke blushed as the pun hit her—how would Freud interpret that one?
“Well, I probably saw a different side back then. It was a couple of years since that case and maybe he’s matured with the new job and all.”
“Anyway, I better go. Love you. See you next Saturday.”
Brooke laid down while gazing at Tanner’s picture, the bottom of the frame still moist from her water spill. And the memories began flooding in. Her tender ankle was the least of her worries. She said, “I hope I hold up today.”
Brooke closed her eyes and allowed the silence to quell her nerves. Brooke propped up on her elbows, and glanced away from Tanner’s smile. Spotting the pink dress and slip, dangling from her closet, she wondered if she needed a shoehorn. Brooke pondered a brisk run—a nice sweat wouldn’t hurt. She slid out of bed, and her voice of reason stopped her before she made it to her running shoes. The threat of Melissa killing her if she re-injured wasn’t worth the risk. Plus, it looked like rain.
Brooke did an about face and headed to the dress. Holding it up to her frame, she frowned, then eyed her Nikes, deciding on a compromise—a power walk. She remembered Shane’s live-in-the-now advice, and for the next thirty minutes, Brooke marched pain-free and carefree—as close to the elusive now as she could get.
Back inside her apartment, Brooke’s voicemail alert
beeped—three missed calls. All Melissa. Uh oh.
“The wedding’s off!”
Brooke half-expected this. “What? Why?”
“Eddie’s an ass. I can’t possibly marry an ass.”
Bachelor party? Brooke suppressed her natural instinct to throw Eddie under the bus. Today, her role was to hold the net under the rooftop. Being Melissa’s friend meant loosening her strings at times. This was one of those times—but, she had to assess it fast. Rather than ask what happened? and invite a four hour diatribe, Brooke asked the rifle shot question, “What did he do?”
“Where do I begin?”
“I know Eddie’s past. What bugs you the most?”
“He’s pigging out at some brunch right now.”
“So?”
“He’s not following any Jewish customs. We agreed to fast today.”
“How do you know?”
“His dumbass brother just texted me.”
“How do you know he’s eating and not just being social?”
“Hello—he, like, emailed a picture of bacon hanging out of Eddie’s mouth. He thinks it’s funny.”
Brooke, raised Catholic, considered the issue. She recalled those Lenten days as a girl, and remembered how religious Melissa’s parents were, just like her own father had been. At eleven, he caught her eating meat on Friday during Lent—pepperoni pizza—and she thought he was going to perform an exorcism. No mention of bachelor party, no DUI or even drunk and disorderly, no fleeing the country; Eddie surpassed her expectations. “He’s just acting out. Plus, he’s not Jewish.”
“If my father knew, he’d have a conniption.”
“He won’t find out, and if he does, so what? He’ll love Eddie less? Look at the bright side. Imagine how your dad would be if he knew you were knocked up?”
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m not being funny, but I know you. You love Eddie. I think he loves you so much it scares him and he acts out. You’ve been wanting to get married for the last ten years. Relax. Take a deep breath. Everything’s going to be fine. I almost called off my wedding like three times.” In hindsight, marrying Tanner fulfilled Brooke’s dream; though she had some doubts, most moments felt magical, especially their wedding day. Brooke liked her answer—Shane would be proud.