“I thought so,” I said, stifling a yawn.
And then there was an entirely different kind of usetabe.
“I usetabe married, but my sixty-five-year-old husband left me for his forty-year-old Cuban manicurist.”
“I’m sorry about that, Mrs. Weintraub. Have a good round.”
“He doesn’t even speak Spanish, the idiot.”
“You’re on the tee, Mrs. Weintraub.”
“Well, fuck him.”
I’m sure she did, Mr. Johnson said to me.
Twenty minutes later a man told me, “I usetabe married but I left my wife for a hot, Cuban manicurist about half my age.”
“Your nails look great, Mr. Weintraub.”
I found most of the members likeable and interesting although some were more likeable and interesting than others. I had never been exposed to such a heavy concentration of highly successful people before and it took some getting used to for me. I did my best to get along with everyone and to avoid the difficult people I had come to refer to as the Killer B’s: Boca Bullies and Boca Babes.
Boca Bullies were men who simply hadn’t mellowed with age. They maintained an aggressive attitude and turned every situation into a confrontation. They were gimme guys:
“Gimme a cup of coffee.”
“Gimme this.”
“Gimme that.”
Never “May I have” or “Please” Just gimme.
Whether the men were pleasant or not there was something about all of them I found unsettling. These former captains of industry and highly respected professionals appeared to have lost their individuality in this homogenized environment. They blended together in a leisure universe of white hair and tightly scheduled fun. They reminded me of thoroughbred race horses that had been put out to pasture as a reward for a winning career. They could still remember the thrill of the race, but their racing days were over. I don’t know why this bothered me. It didn’t seem to bother them. Most of the men were friendly and active and shared a camaraderie that reminded me of the tight-knit cliques in the North End. The big difference was that the North End groups developed their sameness growing up, while the Boca Harbor groups developed their sameness by growing old.
Boca Babes were a mystery to me. There were a lot of very nice, normal women in Boca Heights who were extremely likeable. But the local phenomenon known as the Boca Babe was totally foreign to me. The Boca Babe was an unmistakable combination of a bad attitude, chic clothing, beauty-parlor magic, and surgical surprises. Under the professionally applied makeup and carefully selected designer clothes were good nose jobs, bad nose jobs, good boob jobs, bad boob jobs, good lip jobs, bad lip jobs, and face-lifts that stretched the imagination.
Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against cosmetic surgery and Mr. Johnson doesn’t care if a woman’s breasts are real or not. He’s a penis. But even Mr. Johnson found Boca Babes scary. It wasn’t just the obvious surgery, either. Many of the women who had cosmetic enhancements were super ladies and if these repairs made them happy I thought that was great. But a true Boca Babe had the same effect on Mr. Johnson as a cold shower. Boca Babes didn’t act as if they appreciated their pampered lifestyle. They acted as if they were entitled to the pampering. I don’t know if this attitude was caused by overindulgent parents in childhood or by indifferent husbands later in life. There were no serious demands on the time of these Boca Babes, so they were free to indulge and entertain themselves. Less than perfect was not in their plans for the day.
For the most part, there was a pleasant working relationship between the male and female gophers at Boca Heights and the male and female golfers. There was little relationship or appreciation, however, between the staff and the Killer B’s. If something wasn’t perfect, someone had to pay. One day it was my turn.
Mike Scarfetti called me into his office.
“Did you read the rule book?” he asked me.
“Cover to cover, boss.”
“You know what a ranger is supposed to do?”
I had studied the responsibilities of a ranger and committed the basic stuff to memory. “The ranger has the full authority to enforce all the rules, including the makeup of each group, the speed of play, the conduct of play, and the care of the golf course.”
“Okay, great,” Mikey said. “You’re a ranger.”
“Is there a swearing-in ceremony?”
“No, but I need a ranger on the course right now at the seventh hole, and there’s a good chance you’ll get sworn at. Consider that your ceremony.”
“Will I need body armor?”
“No, but a thick skin would help.”
“I have that on already. What’s the problem out there?”
“There’s a group on the seventh holding up the pace of play something awful. It’s my fault. I put Mrs. Fine and Mrs. Freidman out there in the finals of a women’s tournament against each other, and they’re like oil and water. To make matters worse, I filled out their foursome with two friends of Mrs. Feinberg, Mrs. Frost and Mrs. First. You know them?”
I nodded. Three Boca Babes. Three face-lifts, two nose jobs, one failed tummy tuck, one successful stomach stapling, and enough dental work to fill a book entitled The Bridges of Palm Beach County.
“The three of them are probably ganging up on poor Mrs. Fine,” Mike added.
I don’t want anyone ganging up on Mrs. Fine except me, Mr. Johnson said.
“Hey, boss, with all due respect, why don’t you go out there and deal with these ladies?”
“Two reasons,” Mike said. “One, I’m a coward and you’re not. Two, this is a job for a ranger and everyone else is busy.”
“I’ll bet everyone else is hiding.”
“Right.”
There were no white steeds available, so I drove to Mrs. Fine’s rescue in a golf cart marked “Ranger.” It was a beautiful February day. The sun was shining, and the temperature was a pleasant seventy-eight degrees. My hands and knees were at peace with the universe. The grass was a brilliant green, the water was dark blue, and the sand in the traps was a glistening white. Everything looked bright and cheery, except for the golfers. Every fairway was occupied by a miserable, grumpy group of frustrated players waiting impatiently to hit their next shot. Some of the golfers shouted at me, but I just kept moving.
When I reached the seventh tee, I saw the problem. The foursome in front of the F troop was already leaving the eighth green, and the F troop hadn’t even hit their drives off the seventh tee. They were either oblivious to the chaos they had created behind them or they just didn’t care. Mrs. Frost was on her cell phone, which by itself was a violation of the rules. I saw Mrs. Mildred Feinberg shaking a finger at and lecturing a subdued Alicia Fine. Mrs. Feinberg stopped her lecture when she saw me approaching. She teed up her ball, took a practice swing, and prepared to hit the ball. My cart screeched to a stop, and Mrs. Feinberg stepped away from her ball to glare at me. Anne First glared at me. Michelle Frost glared at me and whispered into her cell phone, “I’ll call you back.” Mrs. Alicia Fine glanced at me. She seemed upset.
“Yessss?” Mrs. Feinberg said theatrically. I noticed her outfit was an elegant blend of bright pastels. Perfect.
She’s a scary one, Mr. Johnson said. Don’t get me anywhere close to her. Even I have a limit.
No, you don’t. but you got nothing to worry about, I assured my friend.
“Sorry for interrupting you, Mrs. Feinberg, but I have to ask you to please pick up your pace of play. Your foursome is holding up the course.”
“They’re playing an important match,” Mrs. First told me as if I should have known.
“I understand, but you’re still going to have to play faster,” I told her.
Mrs. Feinberg left the tee area and sauntered toward me. “You know why we’re playing so slow?” she asked me. “It’s because of her.” She pointed at Alicia Fine. “She doesn’t know the rules, and she doesn’t know how to count.”
“That’s not true,” Alicia Fine protest
ed. “You’re challenging everything I do out here. You’ve called the clubhouse three times already for rulings. It’s ridiculous.”
“We’re playing for a championship,” Mrs. Feinberg reminded everyone.
“People told me you would try to distract me during the match, and they were right.” Mrs. Fine was livid.
“I’m not distracting you. You’re distracting me.”
I raised my voice. “LADIES! Either pick up the pace of play or let the next group play through.”
“Who are you?” Mrs. Feinberg challenged me.
“I’m the ranger.”
“I know that. But who are you? What’s your name?”
I pointed to my name tag. She read it carefully. “Well, Eddie Perlmutter, no one is playing through us. This is a championship match.”
“You’re backing up the whole course.”
“I told you it’s because of her,” she said, pointing at Mrs. Fine with contempt. Mrs. Fine looked away and bit her lip. I thought she might cry, and I wanted to give her a big hug and promise everything was going to be all right. Mr. Johnson had other ideas, but I didn’t give him any space. I noticed the other two women were nodding their heads in approval of what Mrs. Feinberg was saying about Mrs. Fine. I was watching a three-on-one gang bang. I hated mismatches, and I was fascinated by Mrs. Fine, so I decided to even things out. “Who’s winning this match?” I asked.
“What difference does that make?” Mrs. Feinberg snapped.
“I’m winning,” Mrs. Fine said. Her eyes were wet, and her lower lip was quivering. She was losing it completely, and I was getting angry.
“That’s what I thought,” I answered.
“What do you mean by that?” Mrs. Feinberg snapped again.
“It’s usually the losers who complain the most,” I snapped back.
“Who do you think you are?” Mrs. Feinberg’s voice was louder. “You can’t talk to me that way.”
A foursome of men playing behind the F troop had finished playing the sixth hole and had arrived at the seventh tee. Their body language clearly showed how irate they were with the slow pace of play.
“What’s going on here?” one of them asked. They all looked exasperated.
“We’re playing a match. Mind your own business,” Mildred Feinberg scolded them as if they were annoying children.
A big red spot exploded in front of my eyes. DANGER ZONE! Oh, shit, this was going to be close. I got out of my cart and walked to the foursome on the men’s tee. I rubbed my eyes trying to get rid of the dangerous red flashes dancing in front of my eyes. The women watched me curiously. Mrs. Feinberg returned to the tee area and prepared to hit her ball.
“This slow play is ridiculous,” one of the men said to me.
“Yes, it is ridiculous. I’m going to let you play through.”
The four men looked at me with surprise. “You’re kidding,” one of them said.
At this point, Mrs. Feinberg swung at her ball and popped it straight up in the air. It traveled only a few yards forward and rolled down a hill to the water’s edge. She threw her club to the ground. “I’m taking another shot,” she said like a seven-year-old. “You were talking.” She pointed at me. She retrieved her errant ball, ran back to the tee, and hit again. This time she hit the ball long and straight down the fairway. She turned to face the men with a triumphant smile on her face. By then I was at the ladies’ tee area. Mrs. Frost was getting ready to hit. I stepped in her way.
“I’m letting these men play through. Please leave the tee area.”
“You can’t do that,” Mrs. Frost insisted, stepping toward me.
“Yes, I can, Mrs. Frost.” I took my rule book out of my back pocket and offered it to her. “As a golf course ranger, I have that authority.”
She ignored the rule book and glared at me defiantly. When I glared back through the haze of red spots I saw her face turn pale. It must have been one hell of a glare. “And speaking of rules, Mrs. Feinberg, I’m going to see to it that you’re disqualified from this tournament for illegally moving your ball just now and teeing it up a second time.”
“I was taking a second tee shot because you distracted me,” she protested.
“There are no second shots in golf, Mrs. Feinberg.”
“You can’t disqualify me. You’ll ruin this whole tournament.”
“You’ve already ruined this tournament for me,” Mrs. Fine interrupted. “You’re a bitch, and I quit.” Without another word, Alicia Fine drove away, leaving her cart mate, Mrs. First, without a ride.
“Well, I guess I win the championship by default,” Mrs. Feinberg declared, unfazed by the turn of events.
“Not if I have anything to say about it you won’t,” I told her.
“Why you little pissant,” she shouted after me, officially swearing me in as a ranger. “Give a little man a little authority and he thinks he’s a big man. I’ll see to it that you don’t work here another day.”
“I’ll see to that myself,” I said to her and drove away. I called into the clubhouse on my two-way radio. Mikey answered.
“Hey, Eddie, what’s going on out there? Mrs. Fine just came in crying and ran to the ladies’ room. What the hell did you do?”
“I did my job, Mike. And Mrs. Feinberg should be disqualified for cheating. Mrs. Fine should be declared the winner, or you should cancel the whole damn tournament.” I put down the radio then picked it up again. “Mike?” I called him again.
“I was just calling you,” he told me. “What’s up?”
“I quit.” I disconnected again. I felt good. I didn’t belong in this place.
I returned to the golf-cart area where I parked the ranger’s cart. I left my two-way radio on the seat and headed for the parking lot.
“Hey, Eddie,” Mike called my name from the pro-shop door. “Get in here. We got a problem.”
I saw the three F troop Boca Babes lurking behind him. Mrs. Feinberg looked like a vulture. Obviously, they had gone directly to the clubhouse from the eighth tee box. “We haven’t got a problem,” I called to him. “You’ve got a problem.”
“Hey, Eddie,” he shouted, “us North End guys have to stick together.”
“Not this far south,” I said.
“I took a chance on you, Eddie,” he reminded me. “You owe me.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I’ll paint your house.”
“Come back here, please.”
“I’m too dangerous right now,” I told him honestly. “I need some time to cool off. Make an excuse for me and I’ll get back to you.”
“Hey, you were the toughest cop in Boston,” Mike reminded me. “You can handle a little thing like this.”
“Nothing I ever did before prepared me for this place,” I said.
I drove west on Yamato, passing the Morikami Museum on my way to State Road 7 (aka 441). I wondered what Sakai and Morikami would think of their plantations now. My cell phone rang, but I didn’t answer. I drove north on 441 for about twenty minutes before I realized I didn’t know where I was or where I was going. I was operating a motor vehicle under the influence of red spots.
I decided to stop the car before I found myself in southern Georgia.
I pulled to the side of the road and turned off the engine. I rubbed my eyes. The red spots were fading, but my hands were shaking. I got out of the car and walked in no particular direction. I put my hands on my knees, bent over, and took a few deep breaths. When I straightened up I noticed small, flimsy-looking shacks across the highway on the southbound side. I noticed a few dark-skinned people walking in and out of the dilapidated structures, which had incongruous television antennas on their roofs. Apparently people lived in these shanties, which could not have complied with any health or zoning laws. My guess was that these were illegal immigrants working for minimum wage at one of the various commercial enterprises located on this section of 441. There were construction companies, tree farms, and other agricultural enterprises on either side of what was also
called State Road 7. Apparently neither the town nor the state cared about the living conditions of these people. I couldn’t help but compare these squalid shacks to the palaces of Boca’s kings and queens only a few miles east of the highway. Boca’s history was probably filled with an endless supply of “shack people” who had helped build the palaces and the gated walls that surrounded them. The walls were built to keep out the people who built them.
I saw a small brown-skinned girl of about five or six emerge from one of the shacks, followed by a woman who appeared to be her mother. They were both laughing. The mother took the little girl in her arms, lifted her off the ground, spun her around, and kissed the child’s face repeatedly. The girl giggled helplessly and feigned displeasure with her mother’s affection, but they were both obviously delighted with their game. I envied them. They were happy living in squalor with nothing to save them from complete hopelessness except their love for each other.
I thought of Mildred Feinberg. She was a person who had everything, but who could only be happy when someone else was unhappy. She seemed to be a woman who would never be content with who she was or what she had. There are some people whom nothing can make happy and then there are some people who are happy with nothing.
The little girl and her mother noticed me watching them. They stopped playing and looked at me curiously. I waved to them. The little girl waved back at me as the cars whizzed by on 441. The mother hugged the girl tighter, and her eyes told me to leave them alone.
When I returned to the car, my cell phone was ringing again. The caller ID told me it was Mikey Tees. I also saw that I had a voice message, which I figured was from him, too. I didn’t want to talk to him, but out of respect I flipped open the phone and said hello.
“Eddie, where are you?”
“I’m on 441 with the shack people.”
“Shaquille O’Neal?” He was serious.
I laughed. “No. I’m talking about people living in shacks by the side of the road on 441.”
“There are shacks on 441 in Boca?”
“I’m not sure where I am, to tell you the truth.”
“Well, what are you doing there?”
Boca Knights Page 8