Looper

by Michael Conlon

  That evening, I phone Owen again, hoping he isn’t still sore about my PGA loop. He won’t take my phone call—all the more reason to join the Lund Gang. No Rocket. No Owen. But there might be Jason, Jack Lott, and Fat Albert. And I can put up with a bit of ribbing from good old St. Nick as long as I’m part of the Cool Zoo Crew.

  I’ve taped a postcard I got from Rocket on my bedroom wall, showing a koala bear with her cub in a tree, watching a cricket match in a huge stadium. He’s scribbled a note on the back: “Ford. Never thought I could get bored, but no one here’s as cool as you. No trampolines, but lots of wading pools and howling dingoes. See you on the other side of the world. G’day, mate. Rocket.”

  ’d give my eyeteeth to play on that course,” Pop says, clipping the shrubbery outside our dining room window while I chip a plastic golf ball at an elm tree under menacing clouds. Pop only plays on the two nine-hole public dog tracks in town. He points the clippers at me. “Remember, keep your head down and follow through. And repair your divots.”

  “I know, Pop, I know.” Don’t worry, Dad, I won’t embarrass you.

  “By the way,” he adds. “Tryouts for the high school golf team are coming up.”

  “Sounds great, Pop.” I hadn’t thought about that option. I’ve been playing and learning a ton about golf this summer. Perhaps that’s something I can play in high school instead of getting my brains bashed in by playing football. “You have to carve out your niche in life,” Uncle Fred once told me.

  A Yamaha motorcycle with chrome fenders screams to a stop next to the large boulder at the edge of our driveway. It’s the coolest, far-out thing on two wheels I’ve ever seen since Nick Lund brought home a stainless steel, gull-winged DeLorean. The driver keeps his helmet on and twists his wrist to rev the idling motor. Kate rushes out the front door past Pop’s shears toward the motorcycle. The biker removes his helmet, shakes out his brown hair, and gives Kate a huge smooch.

  Really, Kate? Theo? Again? Kate hops on the bike, fastens her hands on his hips, and Theo reverses out of the driveway. She taps his shoulder to stop the bike in the middle of the street.

  “Hey, Ford,” she yells over the sound of the motor. “Some girl stopped by last night, and she’s called you a hundred times.” The Yamaha purrs. “Cutesy blonde in a green-mesh shirt … Fooord’s got a girlfriend.”

  Theo punches the throttle, and the Yamaha’s wheels burn rubber down Dot Ave. I’ve been ignoring Gigi, still holding out hope for a Cleo reunion. Mr. Sanders’s white Eldorado drives up, the trunk pops, and I throw my clubs inside, praying for sunshine.

  We arrive at the club, and as I carry my bag past the caddy bench and over to the first tee, Count Bogart’s voice thunders from inside his vampire hollow. “Where the hell’s your caddy uniform, Quinn?”

  In a bright, boastful tone, I say, “I happen to be play-ing today, Mr. Bogart.”

  He leans his head out, and venom oozes from his pores. “Think you’re hot stuff, huh?”

  Why shouldn’t I play the south course? I’ve earned a special member’s invitation.

  My tee shot on Number 1 flares hot down the middle of the fairway. Take that, Bogart. A quick glance back toward the clubhouse. The caddy master stares at me with his hands on his hips. Bobby Walton tips his golf visor to me as if saying “Good fer you, Quinn.”

  Our group doesn’t have any caddies, thank God, which would have been strange and uncomfortable. Jason and I carry our own bags, and his hockey-playing dad rides in a cart with a guest, some management type from the Red Wings, and without a cart jockey. My playing’s superb on the front nine. Along the way, I give golf-course tips to Mr. Sanders and his guest on what clubs to hit and the best angles to approach the green for any easy two-putt. On Number 9, a nice little draw lands softly onto the back of the pear-shaped green from my shiny new MacGregor 5-wood.

  A thunderstorm rumbles in as we descend a big slope on the lengthy 3-par. Rain soon swamps our heads; the wind blows fierce; umbrellas bloom and careen from the hands of their owners. Lightning flashes in the distance and thunder booms—a death knell for golfers. A siren sounds from the clubhouse. Game over.

  Mr. Sanders says, “Jump aboard, boys.” We hop on the back of the cart like it’s a trolley car and head for shelter.

  A winding staircase leads us to a mahogany-paneled basement. Jason’s dad and his friend peel off to the upstairs bar. A painting of a golfer in plaid knickers on a foxhunt hangs from a far wall above a fireplace fit for an ancient warlord. Two kids in Polo shirts play bumper pool. A waitress takes our order—7 Ups and cheeseburgers. Two girls saunter in with wet hair and tennis racquets. It’s no fake mirage this time. My heart pumps wildly in my chest.

  “Our tournament got rained out,” a girl says, sitting down next to Jason.

  “This is Pippa and Cleo,” Jason says. Pippa wears an all-white tennis outfit with a skirt and an Evonne Goolagong perm.

  “I know Cleo.” Doesn’t she hate this Pippa bitch? I barely recognize Cleo from the girl with the Egyptian headband I’d met in the spring. She dons a fake smile, like she’s the daughter of one of the Stepford wives. There’s something missing in her eyes since I last saw her—wide but lifeless. I figure she really must have undergone electric shock therapy, dulling her senses.

  Figures she’s hanging out with Pippa Farnsworth now. Kate told me once that Pippa is the most stuck-up person on planet Earth, and her dad owns some colossal salt plant that supplies Mr. Peanut. Maybe Cleo’s gained admission into the Pippa Gang or has been sprinkled with Pippa pixie dust. A frightening thought occurs to me. What if Cleo spills the beans that I’m a space nerd named Gifford and keep a telescope in my bedroom? I’ll never hear the end of if it from Nick and his gang. Then I thought, You dimwit. Cleo won’t say a thing for fear you’ll tell Pippa about her visit to the nuthouse.

  “Jason, are you going to the dance here Saturday night?” Pippa says, pulling her hair back in a ponytail and tying it off with a pink ribbon. “Mother’s chair of the social committee and wants a good showing or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “Yeah, you’re my date.” He fingers some peanuts from a bowl. “Did ya forget?”

  “What about Cleo here?” Pippa asks.

  “Take Ford.” Jason pats me on the head like a pet poodle.

  Pippa emits a long, drawn-out sigh. “But he’s not a member.”

  Cleo comes to the rescue. “Relax, Pippa. He’ll be my guest. Besides, who’s going to know?” She gives me an approving nod, and I think about our night in the tent. Perhaps she hasn’t changed at all.

  “Pip, does he look okay to you?” Jason asks.

  Cleo serves me up a Pippa-clone smile and answers instead. “Sure does.”

  After that, I play the greatest song in my head. Bowie’s “Hey Man.”

  Pippa scans my rain-soaked head. “I s’pose … if we can dry’im off by then.”

  “Can you manage that, Ford?” Jason asks.

  “I think so.” Hell yeah.

  Pippa waves her precious hand, trying to get the attention of the waitress. “The help around here blows.” Her eyeballs scrutinize me up and down. “Do you even own a blue blazer … or khaki pants? The club has a strict dress code for dances, you know.”

  I swear the sly fox moves in the painting on the wall.

  “Stop with the inquisition, Pippa,” Cleo says, coming to my defense again. “You sound like my mother.”

  Pippa returns serve with a sarcastic “Sawr-ee.”

  “It’s settled, then.” Jason raises both hands above his head in touchdown style. “We’ll have the time of our lives, Ford. Trust me.”

  Cleo scribbles something on a piece of paper with a miniature golf pencil. She leans over and whispers in my ear. “Here, take this, Giff. You can read it later.” She hands me the secret note, which causes goosebumps to ripple and sprout on my skin, and I bet it’s h
er phone number (like I’ll ever forget that) or a message to meet her somewhere to have some long overdue alone time together. I shove the note in my pocket, figuring I’ll take a fake bathroom break and read it then.

  The waitress returns with two virgin strawberry daiquiris for the girls. “Are you Ford Quinn?”

  “Who wants to know?” Jason asks the waitress.

  “Pimples. He’s calling from the bag room.”

  Can this come at a worse time? I know what Pippa is thinking now—how’d he get in here?

  Jason bails me out this time. “Ford’s famous for being on national TV.”

  Pippa raises a cynical chin. “And what might that be for?”

  “Caddying in the PGA, Pip,” Jason says. “A close-up camera shot off the eighteenth green. His player had the lead after the first round.”

  “No big deal,” I say, thinking I’m cocky as all get-out. “Looks like I’m going to have to take this call.” I think back to that bus ride with Reagan Paulson and how lucky I was to ask him for career advice. Maybe a member from the country club wants to interview me about my PGA experience. I’ve heard some of the PGA caddies, like Chip, have been getting calls from the tournament committee to get input on any issues that need improvement because Kensington Hills will be hosting the 1983 U.S. Open. It’ll be the summer after my senior year. By that time, I’m sure to get my choice of bags, not just some lame-o club pro like Winston Somerset.

  I pick up the wall phone to Pimples’s voice. “Bogart wants you … now.”

  “Tell Bogart you couldn’t find me. I’ll owe you one, Pimples.” A waiter brushes by me, carrying a tray of champagne flutes for a wedding reception upstairs.

  “Not a chance. I ain’t takin’ any heat for you.” A few weeks ago Pimples had been promoted from caddy to the bag room—the most choice job in the club next to Bobby Walton’s starter position.

  The long phone cord snakes around my neck and tightens its grip. “Why in the hell does he want to see me?”

  “I guess you’ll find out when you get here.”

  I slam the phone down. What right does Bogart have to pluck me from the clubhouse, ’specially when he knows I’m hobnobbing with members? My cheeseburger hasn’t even arrived yet. A member’s invitation is supposed to be a get-out-of-jail-free card or an invisibility cloak for caddies. I take a trembling walk back to the table, trying to play it like Cool Hand Luke. “I’ll be right back. I need to take care of some business.”

  “The clock’s tickin’, Giff,” Cleo says in a bouncy tone, smiling brightly. Never seen Cleo this happy go lucky before.

  I trudge up the stairs, cross under the veranda, up Yellow Brick Road, and past the practice putting green to the first tee. The hard rain has stalled to a drizzly whimper. Two soggy loppers stand at attention with their bags.

  Gigi.

  And Rat, two bags in front of him.

  A fourth bag lays on the wet sod—Father Steve’s.

  Bobby Walton stands slack in his rain slicker. “Bogart’s inside, wants to see you.”

  Inside the shack, Bogart leans over his chair and spits chew into an empty red Hills Bros. coffee can. Several spikes are missing from his worn black golf shoes, matching the tooth gaps in his mouth.

  “You wanted to see me?” I ask in a get-off-my-ass voice. I fight the urge to tell him: “I’m with a member and that means I’m above you on the pecking order till I decide to don my green-mesh shirt.”

  He raises one eyebrow, taking note of my haughty tone. “We run out of caddies.” He dips into his Red Man and fills his gums. “Need you on a bag.”

  At that very moment, I peer through the small window and see a few green shirts loitering on the bridge. No golfers in sight except for the players on the first tee. “You can’t make me go out now. I’m a guest of a member.” A desperate glance down Yellow Brick Road, hoping I’ll see Jason Sanders coming to my rescue. Nothing but bluish-green grass shavings from a predawn trimmed practice putting surface.

  Bogart spits more chew in his can, then emits a mockingbird hoot. His fat belly shakes, tobacco juice leaking from his mouth onto his swivel chair. His face turns a shade redder than normal, which I didn’t think was possible. Then the words come out of nowhere. “Who the hell do you think got you a loop in the PGA, Quinn?”

  “What do you mean?” A roulette wheel of names spins in my mind—Bobby Walton, Father Steve … Chip?

  “I did. As a favor to you know who. And now you think you can tell me you can’t go out on one stinkin’ loop?”

  “But I earned it.” Least that’s what I was thinking all along, not having asked for a favor from one single soul.

  Bogart scoffs. “The hell you did. There are boys here who have three times the loops you got. You owe me big, Quinn, now get your ass out to the first tee, or you’ll never see this club again.”

  I shake my head and plod sorrowfully out to the first tee, passing two other caddies on the bench. With his ball perched on a tee, Father Steve practices his penguinlike swing.

  Gigi serves me a heaping of deviled-egg eyes. “The least you could do is thank me.”

  Blood leaks from my lower gums after a silent “FOOK OFF, BOGART” escapes under my breath and my upper teeth scrape my lower lip. “You had sumthin’ to do with this?”

  “I saved you from them.” She swipes a trace of blood drool from my lips and wipes it on Mr. Valentine’s towel. “After the time we spent together the other day, I figured you’d rather be with me.”

  “Gigi, I’m here as a guest.” I nod toward the clubhouse. “They’re waiting for me.”

  She pouts with her pouty lips. “Well, so am I, and you haven’t even called me.”

  I have no excuse. “I’ve been pretty busy.”

  “Busy doing what? Who gives a crap, anyway? They’re all stuck-up A-holes.” She crosses her arms in a fit of anger. “I’d rather kill myself than hang out with the likes of them.”

  “You don’t even know them.” This is true. Sure, Nick’s a bit of a prick and enjoys the charisma of an undertaker, but Jason and Jack Lott are decent guys. Their parents’ membership in a country club doesn’t disqualify them as human beings. I’ve learned that social status doesn’t necessarily make the person. If I have to form my own gang, I wouldn’t pick the kid based on their parents’ income or zip code. My Justice League would include Rocket, Owen, Jason, Jack, Chip, and Pimples. And Fat Albert, too.

  Gigi shakes her head. “I don’t need to know them. All I know is I have to wipe their parents’ balls clean.”

  “They’re not all that bad.”

  “You think that because you’re one of them.” She pulls out a club from the bag and shows it to me. “Born with a silver sand wedge in your mouth.”

  Damn. I have to figure a way out of this with Gigi. I really want Owen back as a friend, figuring he won’t resent me forever for getting a PGA loop. Not so for a Gigi loop. “You didn’t tell Owen about us, did you?”

  The penguin on the first tee waddles and waggles. CRACK! A kaleidoscope of Monarch butterflies flutter for cover.

  “Don’t you worry about Owen.” She lifts the strap of the bag onto her bony shoulder. “He’s obsessed with his new bass guitar, anyway, not me.” So that’s the sudden interest in me? Owen’s engaged to his Fender bass.

  As our group trudges off after their balls, splashing through the swampy grass, I realize I have no way of informing Jason I’ve been recruited to carry a bag. It’s not like we carry walkie-talkies. He’s going to wonder why I’ve disappeared into rain-soaked air. And now Gigi is royally ticked because I don’t bother to call her back. I really do like Gigi, but I’m still stuck on Cleo and don’t want to betray Owen, but perhaps I already have, and he can’t stay sore forever about my PGA loop.

  On the fourth fairway, my mind wanders back to what Bogart said about the “favor” he did for me at the
PGA Championship. Perhaps Pop lobbied Bobby Walton but didn’t want to tell me. But that isn’t like Pop; he’d expect credit for something like that. Perhaps Father Steve put in a prayer for me—even Bogart can’t refuse a priest; vampires fear the cross. I ask him on the fourth green if he put a good word in for me, but he denies it and says he hates the PGA. I ask him why. Before answering, he jerks his putt past the hole, and it sails toward the perimeter frog hair.

  “Grow teeth!” The ball teeters on the edge of a cliff before falling into a deep bunker. “Are you kidding me? Right in the kitty litter.” He removes his hat and scratches his head. “What were we talking about, son?”

  We exchange sand wedge for putter. “Why you hate that the club hosts golf tournaments.”

  “Three things I can think of right off the bat. First, the gallery tramples the course. See this rough?” He points the butt end of his wedge toward the ground. “Looks like Hell.” He genuflects to the course. “To me, this is a slice of Heaven.”

  He climbs down into the quicksand and continues to rant.

  “I get a low turnout at Mass on Sunday. Plus, I can’t play here all week. I need my golf. It’s God’s way of keeping me humble. You caddies just happen to have the burden of carrying my cross.” As he says this, he laughs at his own joke and tops the ball, airmailing it into oblivion. “Why do you ask, son?”

  “Nothing.”

  He reaches his hand up, and I pull him out of the fox hole. “It’s something, then. Don’t worry, you deserved getting a bag in the PGA, believe me.”

  At the end of the loop, I lurk around for any sign of Jason. The clubhouse is locked. I check the tennis court, where an employee pushes puddles toward a fence with a broom. No kids in sight. It’s then I remember the note Cleo gave me at lunch. She probably wanted to meet me at some secret hiding place along Yellow Brick Road or down at the waterfalls, wondering why I never showed up.