First Times

by Marthe Jocelyn

  For Ken, champion of writers

  Contents

  Fore!

  NANCY HARTRY

  Wings

  CURTIS PARKINSON

  Career Woman

  SUSAN JUBY

  Blue Jeans

  ALAN CUMYN

  Solitary Night

  SUSAN ADACH

  Issues

  TED STAUNTON

  First Time Never Holding Hands

  RICHARD SCRIMGER

  Golden Boy

  GILLIAN CHAN

  Please Help

  BILL HABEEB

  This Boy

  MARTHA SLAUGHTER

  First Meat

  BILL RICHARDSON

  The Crow in the Classroom

  TIM WYNNE-JONES

  The New World

  MARTHE JOCELYN

  Early Girl

  SARAH ELLIS

  MEET THE AUTHORS

  Indeed, what is there that does not appear marvellous when it comes to our knowledge for the first time? How many things, too, are looked upon as quite impossible until they have been actually effected?

  —Pliny the Elder (c. A.D. 23–A.D. 79)

  Natural History. Book vii. Section 6.

  Fore!

  NANCY HARTRY

  My dad loves bugs more than people. He drifts through the forests of the world New Brunswick, Botswana, the Ukraine doing research. We get postcards. Technically, my parents are married, but I don't think they do much consummation, if you know what I mean. My older brother, Jeb, says I'm a stupid ass because consummation is only a one-time thing and he was it.

  Big deal. I was just being polite.

  One Sunday, towards the end of February, I get sick of Mom's sad moo-cow eyes looking at me across the breakfast dishes because I'm jobless, friendless, and probably just like my father.

  I put on the good pants I wore last June to the grade-nine prom and throw on a tie. I cut through the backyard and down onto the fairway of the Royal St. Stephen's Golf and Country Club.

  Just in case you think we are members of the golf club, think again. We're not in that snack bracket.

  I go into the Pro Shop and put my name on the list for summer employment. Apparently my timing is perfect, but I need references. I put down Phil Armstrong, president of the university and a couple we know from church who've inherited memberships. They don't let in just anybody, you know, even to work there. I thought it was a long shot that they'd call me.

  Did I say my mom is Phil's executive assistant at the university? Did I say that Jeb says Phil has the hots for Mom? Even though she's technically off the market?

  So, I get a call to come to orientation, probably because Phil put a word in for me, but he won't admit it. Until orientation, even I didn't now what a honkin' big privilege it is to caddy at this club. It costs sixty thousand to join, if you're invited, and that's before the annual dues. Twice as much as my mom makes in a year!

  I'm paired up with this guy named Steverino and I want to gag, but he's actually decent enough. He tells me the competition for tips is fierce. You get five dollars for washing golf balls. Another five for unloading clubs from the car. That's on top of your hourly rate, which is already way more than minimum wage.

  When I leave the club, man, I have dollar signs for eyeballs. I can't wait for opening day. Jeb has this crap job at Foodland. It's a big night if he gets to bring home deli meats for free.

  I know jack about golf. I play hockey and lacrosse real sports. But, hey I'd throw dirt at a wall to make this kind of money. So I bone up. I read the rules of golf on the Internet. I invest in a used copy of Golf for Dum-Dums. Nothin' to it, right?

  Wrong. After the first day, word gets around I'm next to useless. How was I supposed to know that the caddy shouldn't stand with his shadow falling over the ball? Or that it's bad form to crinkle your chocolate-bar wrapper when a golfer is about to “address” the ball. Humming and gum chewing are not allowed, even if you are bored bonkers. My so-called father is never home long enough to take me golfing, even on a public course.

  The regulars gravitate to the “old boys,” who've been cad-dying for a couple of years. I'm ready to pack it in on Sunday after lunch. How many times can you line up the golf carts? It's hard work looking busy. And there are no tips.

  I'd actually picked up the pen and was writing my name in the sign-out book when this guy rushes in.

  “Oh my Gaw –” The guy takes a breath to stop from swearing. “Hey, kid,” he pants, “give me a break. This is my first day and I'm late for my tee-off time. What's the drill?”

  Because I have one day more experience than this guy, I offer my services. I like his honesty. I can identify with his desire to make a good impression. Been there. Am there.

  I gather up his clubs and put them in a cart. He hands me twenty bucks.

  “Listen, that's too much. The going rate is five dollars.”

  “Take it. It's worth it to me, kid.” Then he shakes my hand. “David Steele. Call me Dave.”

  “Alexander. Call me Alex.”

  But he never calls me Alex. Not once. Always Alexander, but not like my mom when I'm in dog dirt. Important-like.

  Dave looks like a movie star. He's well tanned for this time of year. He's wearing an orange golf shirt that is soft and comfortable looking. And his golf shoes are cool pointed, like cowboy boots.

  “I had them custom-made in Texas.”

  “Nobody here has such cool golf shoes, Mr. Steele. I mean Dave.”

  Dave has a good first round. He breaks eighty, and before he heads to the clubhouse, he slips me a fifty I try to give it back to him.

  “Now, Alexander, take it. You brought me good luck and I can afford it. Will I see you this weekend?”

  “Absolutely Mr. Steele. I mean Dave.”

  He shakes my hand again and palms me a fiver. It doesn't get any better than this.

  “How'd you make out with the new member?” Steverino asks me in the locker room. “Good tipper?”

  “Not so bad,” I say. “He's learning. I'm trying to break him in slowly.” I wink.

  Steve slaps me on the back. No way am I going to tell him about Dave's tipping style. I'm not completely stupid. It's every man for himself.

  The next weekend is better than the first. Dave is so easy to talk to. I tell him about my mom's job at the university and about how I can hardly remember the last time I saw Dad. I confess I keep track by the gifts he sends home. The bongo's from Zimbabwe. An alpaca sweater from Peru, with a llama on the front. We laugh about how uncool that is. Dave is the youngest boy in his family too, so all my stories about Jeb sound familiar to him.

  It's on our third weekend of golf, and about two hundred dollars in tips later, that Dave asks me to do him a “little favor.”

  “Sure, Dave. Anything.”

  “Anything?” Dave parks his hugo boss sunglasses on his forehead and searches my face.

  I laugh nervously, hoping I haven't pissed him off by sucking up.

  “Alexander, you should be more discerning. You should make your decisions after careful, thoughtful consideration.”

  “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”

  It's simple really. All I have to do is take a brown envelope from Dave's car and lock it in the glove compartment of another member's car a red bmw with a license plate holen2. I guess holenI was taken. All this because Dave is late for a dinner party and needs to get in and out of the shower fast. He doesn't need any grief from the ball and chain.

  By week five, Dave tells me that he's in the insurance business and that he's drowning in paper. There are big thick bundles of policies and applications and medical forms going back and forth between his agency and the clients and the insurance company. So much paper that there's a private cour
ier service that picks up and delivers only insurance stuff.

  “Wow,” I say.

  When we get to the seventh hole, Dave turns to me. “You live near here, right?”

  “Sure do.”

  “Do you think that you could put this package in your mailbox? I could get the courier to pick it up from there, and it would save a lot of time. The client is getting divorced and he's selling a business. Very complicated transaction.”

  Dave pouts as if he's sad about the man getting divorced, and I know he's being sensitive to the fact that my mom might as well be divorced.

  “I don't see why not.”

  We have this low fifties-style bungalow on a court overlooking the golf course. We are the last remaining old house on the street. The others have been replaced by honkin' big mansions. All our friends are gone. It's just us and the gardeners. It might as well be a gated community We've had many offers for this house, but we're not selling. This house is our university fund, in case my dad gets killed in the Congo. Besides, Mom says that if anything might bring him home, it would be the lightning bugs that swarm the seventh tee.

  I run up the bank, rip through the house, tear down the lane, prop open the mailbox, stuff the envelope inside, and flick the flag up in the air, even though they only use those things in the States. It might help the courier guys find our house.

  I'm back pretty quick, and Dave is on his cell phone to the courier. Cell phones aren't allowed on the course, but it's our little secret. Dave says some silly rules are made to be broken. The trick is in not getting caught.

  Every weekend after that, there is a courier package to be picked up for the insurance company. And every weekend, Dave gives me a twenty-five-dollar tip.

  So I make a big mistake and buy a cool pair of Oakley's.

  “Nice shades, man,” says Steve. “Job going well?”

  “Not bad. Could be better.”

  All of a sudden, the old-boy caddies are seriously interested in Dave. Swarming him. Introducing themselves to him and to me. I feel I have to get to the club earlier and earlier to protect my turf. Like, Dave's my guy. I'd be lying if I said I hated all the attention.

  On the Sunday after the Oakley thing, Dave misses his tee-off time. I wait and wait and finally go over to talk to the starter. It seems that Dave switched it up and had the first tee-off time of the day. He comes swinging off the course around eleven with Steverino caddying for him.

  I lift the clubs from the cart.

  “Hi, Dave, had a good round?”

  “Exceptional, Alexander, a wonderful way to start the day.” He turns to Steve and slaps him on the back. He palms him a tip. Steve doesn't look at it, but puts it in his pocket. He's in for a surprise.

  I'm in a sweat. Has Dave dumped me? What did I do wrong? I notice that the other caddies are all over Steve. I'm out of it, man. My new best friends have fresh meat.

  On Saturday of the next weekend, I'm waiting at the Pro Shop as soon as the birds are up. I scan the list. Dave has a tee-off time for noon. Tons of time. I can get in two rounds.

  My first guy is old and creaky and unbelievably slow. He has arthritis and can't stop talking about his grandchildren. I try to hustle this guy and his cronies along. Everybody is playing through! We fall further and further back. I get to the eighteenth hole just in time to see Dave take his first swing. Good old Steve is standing by.

  My life is over. You think I'm being melodramatic? Think again. I spend my entire week waiting for the weekend, so I can hang out with Dave.

  And then Dave calls me from his cell phone on a Friday night about eleven. After asking about my mother's health, he says, “Alexander, could you do me a little favor?”

  “Anything, Dave. Anything for you.”

  “There's a hundred bucks in it, Alexander.”

  “Come on, Dave. You know me. It's not about the money. What do you want me to do?”

  “I'm going to be late for the Canada Day tournament tomorrow. I'll leave an envelope to Crown Royal Insurance in my locker. Could you run it up and leave it in your mailbox? The courier should be around about three to pick it up.”

  “No sweat, Dave. Leave it to me. I'll call you when I'm done.”

  I wait until all the members are out of the locker area. My hands are slippery because I'm out of bounds, but after three tries, Dave's lock opens. I stuff the envelope under my shirt and walk out of there like I own the place. Maybe, one day, I will own the place. You never know.

  I pretend there's been a call for more soft drinks at the ninth-hole hut. I volunteer and I get in a golf cart. I drive directly up a path, onto the street, and right up to my mailbox. I place the envelope inside and flip up the flag.

  I phone Dave from the house. No answer. I make a bacon-and-tomato sandwich and call him at the office. I drink a quart of chocolate milk from the carton and try him in the car. No answer.

  And then the doorbell rings. Two police officers fill up the door, blocking out the light.

  “Is your mother home?”

  “No. Is there something wrong?”

  “Are you Alexander Burke?”

  “Yes.” I straighten up to make myself look taller. “Is this about my dad? Has something happened to my dad?”

  “Is that your golf cart?”

  “Well, it belongs to the club. I just borrowed it to drop something off at home.”

  “And what did you drop off?”

  “Nothing, really. Just an envelope. Why? Is there a problem?”

  “We'd like to take a look in your mailbox.”

  “Ah-h-h. Okay, I guess. Ah-h-h, do you have a warrant?”

  This question is a big mistake. It makes me sound like I have something to hide. That I'm being uncooperative. Like maybe I'm a criminal and not someone who just watches too much tv.

  Quickly, everything begins to sound like a movie for real. A bad, bad movie. I could call a lawyer if I wanted. I could remain silent. I could wear handcuffs, cold and biting on my wrists. I could sit in the squad car, smelling like bathroom deodorizer, barely covering up the odor of puke. I feel like puking myself.

  Do I know Dave? Was this the package that I put in the mailbox? The questions go on and on.

  “I want my mom,” I say. “I'm just a kid. I'm entitled to an adult.”

  They give me a cell phone. I can't have a phone book. Information is blocked. I can't remember anybody's number. Only Dave's. Dave's numbers are the only ones that spring to mind.

  “Could I call my dad in Chile?”

  “Your dad is in Chile? Is your dad a drug dealer? Does your dad know … Dave Steele?”

  My face gets hot and then my body starts shivering. Drugs? Dave has been getting me to run drugs? From the golf club? I'm so stupid.

  “Were there drugs in those packages?” My voice is a croaky whisper.

  The officers stare at me for a long time. I count the nostril hairs hanging from their noses. Then they say something crap-inducing I need to go downtown with them to the station.

  “Can I leave a note for my mom?”

  The policeman scrawls the phone number of the cop shop and his name and badge number on an envelope and sticks it in the door.

  The interview room in the police station stinks of dirty socks. There are more questions. More and more and more, which I try to answer, but the cops are tricky and put words in my mouth. Suddenly the phone rings. I levitate five feet in the air.

  It's Phil. He dropped over to the house and saw the note and rushed right down. I don't care anymore that he wants my mom. I need him. I need the useless tax lawyer he brings with him from the golf club who has never been inside a police station in his life. He's better than nothing.

  I'm not proud. I throw my arms around Phil's neck and sob my guts out. I can go home.

  My mom blames herself. She was the one who harangued me to get a summer job in the first place. She put the bug in my ear about the golf course. If she hadn't tried to run my life, as she puts it, I wouldn't have (a) a probation
officer (b) a social worker and (c) community service. For something I didn't do. Or, didn't know that I was doing.

  In my mind, I've gone over the moment I first met Dave. If only I hadn't introduced myself. If only I hadn't shaken his hand. Dad used to say that you could tell a lot about a person just by shaking his hand. I thought I could tell everything about a person by shaking his hand.

  Ms. Debbin, the social worker, looks hot, but she's dumb. I must be her first case, because I'm not an ax murderer or anything. Just your ordinary, run-of-the-mill kid MONEY LAUNDERER. Not a drug runner, after all. Until this year, I didn't even know what money laundering was.

  Ms. Debbin and my mom sit around the kitchen table and cry into their coffee cups. Ms. Debbin thinks I have attachment issues because my dad is an on-again, off-again figure in my life. Ms. Debbin is full of crap.

  I have way too many father figures in my life.

  There's Jeb, who watches me. “Where ya going? What're ya doing? Who ya doing it with?”

  There's Phil, my rescuer. And surprisingly, there's Steve. He showed up one afternoon to say hi and see how it's going. It was Steve who told us that Dave buggered off before the cops could catch him. Steve says the club is afraid my mom is going to sue their asses off for exposing me to scum like Dave.

  So now, me and my new buds watch golf on tv. They watch the game. I scan the crowd, looking for a certain orange golf shirt and a movie-star tan. I thought I saw him once. I even called the cop shop. For sure, there's another stupid teenager out there desperate to make big tips for doing next to nothing.

  And about that community service? I'm coaching hockey for little kids in the poorest part of town. There's lots and lots of ice time.

  And no father figures in sight. Not a one.