Sideways (17 page)

“You did not talk to her I hope?”

“Fuck no. What do you think, I’m crazy?”

“Good.”

“Call her,” I said sharply.

“I
will
. Give me a sec, will you.”

“Now.”

He gestured with the golf club for me to wait outside. I got up from the bed and brushed past Jack on the way out. He hadn’t showered yet and he smelled pungent, redolent of sweat and massage oils and incense and the faint christening of sex.

Outside, I sprawled on the hood of the 4Runner, pillowed my head with clasped hands, and gazed up at the Santa Ynez Mountains. An enormous feather of pearl gray fog drifted at the top of its westernmost ridge, a visible reminder

Moments later, Jack came outside. He looked unsettled.

“What’s up?” I said.

“Let’s boogie.”

We climbed into the 4Runner and rode down 246 in the direction of La Purisima Golf Course. Jack had one untied tennis shoe propped up on the dash and seemed to be meditating on something. “What’d you tell Victoria last night when you moronically called her from the restaurant?” he asked without looking at me.

“I don’t remember, to tell you the truth,” I said, glancing over at him.

“Somehow everyone’s got the impression that your coming to the wedding is a really big mistake now.”

I focused on the road and didn’t say anything in response.

“That could be the straw that broke the camel’s back,” Jack said.

I turned toward him. “What?”

He scratched his beard and nodded in a self-satisfied way. “Nothing,” he said, staring forward at some fixed point in his mind. “God, that chick, Terra, is sweet,” he reflected fondly, a picture of her naked loveliness clearly developing in his mind. He closed his eyes and shuddered exaggeratedly. “Goddamn, Miles. Nasty. Nasty nasty nasty.”

I turned away, the oatmeal and coffee still locked in combat in my stomach. Bounding 246 were agricultural parcels, grassy ranchlands, and flower farms so dazzlingly

“I’m not drinking until tonight,” I told him.

“Oh, bullshit,” he said, knowing me better than that. “Turn in.”

“They’re not open on Monday.”

“Oh, man,” he groaned, slumping back in his seat. “I need a fluid change. Big time.”

“Let’s just play some golf and take it easy today. Relax, enjoy nature.”

Jack swung his bearish head toward me, lowered his sunglasses to the tip of his nose, and reproved me with a dismissive look. Then he just shook his head back and forth as if my remark merited no comment.

La Purisima Golf Course is nestled in a humped valley, routed through canyons dense with scrub oak and bordered by grassy, pristine hillsides unsullied by any building or other manmade development. The nearest town is tiny, working-class Lompoc, a grueling two-and-a-half hour drive from L.A., so during the week the course is blissfully uncrowded.

I parked in the nearly empty lot and Jack and I hauled our clubs out and trudged to the pro shop to check in and pay our green fees. We argued about whether to rent a cart or walk, but Jack—bad back, hangover, rubbery legs from all-night fucking—won, and we elected to ride.

Standing on the first tee, we were buffeted by a strong, cool ocean wind that started early, developed to almost gale-force proportions in the afternoon, and didn’t let up until the sun was sinking on the horizon. I was a better

“What’s that?” he asked skeptically while taking vicious practice swipes at the air with his oversized driver.

“You play by the rules.”

“I always play by the rules.”

“No, you don’t. You’re a cheating motherfucker. The best wood in your bag is your pencil. You haven’t recorded a legitimate score in your life.”

“Oh, come on, what the
fuck
are you talking about, Miles?” he said, feet apart, challenging me.

“We’re going to play strictly by USGA rules. The rules that all pros play by.” Jack was notorious for bumping his lies, surreptitiously kicking his ball out of hazards and deep rough, conceding himself all putts within four feet whether he holed them or not, as well as other flagrant infractions. “Play it as it lies, and if you have a rules question, ask me and I’ll set you straight.”

“Six a side?” he said, disbelievingly.

“Six a side. Fifty-dollar Nassau. Fifty on the side if you break a hundred, gross, from the tips. No equitable stroke control. Think you can handle it?”

He rotated his shoulders, loosening them up. “Tee it up, Homes. USGA rules or not, I’ll still kick your ass. But, you’re paying this time. No IOUs.” He pointed his driver at me. “Even if you have to go back and filch from poor ol’ Mom again.”

I pointed my finger back at him in response. “And don’t touch your fucking Titleist from tee to green unless you’re taking a legal drop or I’ll call it on you.”

“Shut your trap and golf your ball.”

I didn’t get off to a particularly good start and those six

On the seventh hole—a difficult dogleg left par four—Jack lost his rhythm and hit a low snipe hook into the barranca on the left. He charged into the dense undergrowth and managed to find his ball and execute a nearly impossible recovery shot. He emerged all smiles, but his face fell when I informed him that I had to assess him a two-stroke penalty for soling his club.

“Oh, fuck!” he exclaimed. “You’re joking!”

“I said we’re playing by USGA rules. You can’t touch the ground with your club in a hazard.”

“I didn’t even know it was a hazard,” he protested.

“What do you think those red stakes are for? Decoration?”

Rattled, Jack carded an eight to my five and the game was back on. But his competitive fire returned and he managed to finish the front side with a four-stroke margin.

Jack went up to the snack bar at the turn to get some beers while I waited on the tenth tee box. The sun had advanced high in the sky and the wind was gusting through the valley with increased velocity, rattling dead leaves in the gnarled branches of the stately oaks. Hawks glided effortlessly on the thermals, their raptor heads angled downward, surveying the barrancas for rodents.

Jack came back from the snack bar with four Firestone Ales and a pair of turkey sandwiches. “You want a beer?” he asked, holding one out to me.

I shook my head. “Don’t drink when I’m playing. Interferes with my swing thoughts.”

“Fuck your swing thoughts. Have a beer. Lighten up.”

“All right.”

He handed me a beer and I popped it open. It was cold and refreshing.

The beer seemed to take the edge off and I finally started to find my swing. Jack, however, played even better when he was drinking and was matching me par for par. It was beginning to look like I was going to lose this Nassau all the way around.

On the fourteenth hole—a very tight, tricky par four—Jack blocked a driver into the canyon on the right. He turned to me and said gloomily, “Is that gone?”

“Yep, I’m afraid so. Want to know your options under the rules?”

He shook his head petulantly. “I know my options. Throw me another fucking ball, will you?”

I squeezed another Titleist out of the ball holder and underhanded it to him. He teed it up and, with another beer-scorched swing, sliced it even deeper into the same canyon. Jack stared at its disappearing arc in disbelief, ragingly pissed. He held out his arm without looking at me. “Throw me another.”

I tossed him a third ball. He stubbornly deposited that one into the canyon. A turkey buzzard, frightened by the errant projectile, shrieked madly and rose out of the undergrowth on anxiously flapping wings.

“Jesus, Jack, you’re a fucking biohazard.”

“Shut the fuck up and throw me another.”

I tossed him a fourth and, astonishingly, he managed to compose himself and hit it into the fairway.

We carted out to where our balls lay and climbed out to survey our approach shots.

“So, what do I lie?” Jack asked.

“Seven,” I said.

“Seven? How do you figure that?”

“Four swings, three penalty strokes for the three that didn’t make the short grass. That’s seven.”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” he yelled, his voice echoing in the low of the canyon. He plucked out an iron and set up to his ball.

“However,” I said, interrupting him, “that canyon is a lateral water hazard. You should have gone to the point of entry after your first one and taken a drop. You’d only be lying three.”

Jack turned slowly to me. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

“You said you knew your options.”

“Fuck that. I’m lying three.”

“No, you’re not. You’re lying seven. You stupidly elected to take your stroke-and-distance option and paid dearly.”

Jack could tell I wasn’t kidding, and he turned away. He was so infuriated he laid the sod over his 8-iron and chunked it into the front bunker. When the carnage was over he had carded a thirteen to my four.

When I was finished holing out I noticed that Jack had ditched me and taken the cart up to the next tee, which was out of view. I walked through the trees up to the fifteenth hole and found the cart, but no Jack. His bag was still strapped onto the back. I called out his name. There was no answer, so I hit my tee shot, then drove out into the fairway. He still was nowhere to be found and I assumed he had walked in.

After two more shots, I arrived at the green. When I circled around it, I found Jack reclining on his towel in the rear sand trap, his back propped up against the steep face.

I unhooked the golf towel from my bag and climbed down into the hazard with him. Jack didn’t say anything. He just mechanically poured a second glass of wine and handed it to me. I leaned my back up against the face of the bunker and lazed there with him, the trap serving as an oversized chaise longue. The fifteenth hole was at the easternmost edge, and highest vantage point, of La Purisima, elevated so that we had an untrammeled view of the entire course. In the distance, a fog bank was lowering on the horizon, slowly swallowing the mid-afternoon sun.

After a moment, Jack began laughing. Then I started laughing. We must have laughed together, in spiralingly convulsive waves, for five minutes until we actually had tears streaming down our sunburned cheeks.

“Homes, you crack me up,” Jack said, his laughter subsiding.

Feeling magnanimous, I said, “Forget the bet. It’s cool.”

“Fuck it,” he said. “I’ll pay you. You won fair and square. Besides, you need the fucking money worse than me.”

I didn’t argue with him. We were silent for a moment, drinking in the fading warmth of the sun—and the Pinot.

“Tastes good right here, right now, doesn’t it?” Jack observed. He held his glass up to the sun and watched the light dance around inside it.

“Excellent,” I agreed. “Perfect. Golf course all to ourselves.

“So, you didn’t get your nut?” Jack asked, sincerely disappointed.

“I was too out of it, to tell you the truth.”

“But you like her?” he persisted.

“Yeah. She’s got a lot of feeling. Brought me coffee and croissants this morning.”

Jack tipped his cigar at me and flicked off a meaningful ash. “I’m telling you. That woman digs you.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” he said, astonished. “You almost do a face-plant and she shows in the morning with coffee and pastries. She digs you, man.”

I didn’t say anything. He had a point.

“I’m thinking we should all go out again tonight.” Jack refilled his glass. I automatically held out mine and he topped if off.

“Let’s give it a rest. Back-to-back night games, especially on the road, are debilitating.”

“You’re always crapping out on me,” Jack whined.

“No, I’m not. I just don’t want to reprise last evening.”

I looked at Jack for a reaction. His face had a dark, faraway expression knitted into a focal point on the horizon that was really some debauched place in his mind. “I think I have to see her again,” he said a little fearfully.

“What?” I said, that sick feeling in my stomach returning.

“It was wild last night,” Jack confided. “I mean way more than just sex. We burrowed into each other like a couple of corn weevils.”

“I’m sure it
was
wild, but let’s not leap into the quagmire, shall we?”

“What quagmire?”

“Fuck, man, you know what I’m talking about.” I was getting angry now.

He tried to reason with me. “Fuck, man, do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had my tongue on a woman’s clit?”

“I don’t want to know,” I said. And I didn’t.

“God, it was pink and sweet as bubble gum.” He turned to me. “Babs doesn’t dig that kind of shit,” he confessed.

I looked away and sighed, audible enough I hoped to discourage him.

But Jack wanted to spill his guts. “That girl last night had me throttled like I was back in college.”

“So, re-enroll!” I said, in rising exasperation. “Teach acting and fuck all the sophomores you want.”

“I might!” he threatened.

“Is that going to buy you happiness?”

“I don’t know. I’m fucking confused.” He quaffed a big gulp of Pinot in an effort to disentangle the knot of emotions warring inside him.

“You’re going to the altar in six days with a beautiful, caring woman who loves you—God knows why!—and you don’t need to have your gonads tweaked and be thrown into the maelstrom, Jackson. You got your mercy pop, my lips are sealed, time to move on.”

“I’m not sure I’m cut out for marriage,” Jack said a little wildly, ignoring my rebuke.

“A little late for that, isn’t it?”

“It’s never too late.”

“Love is love and sex is sex and I hope to God you know the difference.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

I scrambled to my feet and exploded. “Fuck, man, take the gift and forget about it.”

Jack kept shaking his head to himself, fixated on Terra’s pussy and how wonderful his cock must have felt in its cavernous newness. “I went deep last night, brother. I mean, deep.”

“And you’re going to take her, and Babs, and me, down with you?”

“I guess he doesn’t approve,” Jack spoke sarcastically over his shoulder to a make-believe friend sitting on his other side in the trap.

“You got that right,” I snapped to Jack and his imaginary ally. I didn’t wait for a response. Men with fresh pussy experience are unreasonable and irrational creatures. I scrambled out of the bunker and walked back to the cart, unstrapped my golf bag, slung it over my shoulder, irons rattling, and stalked over to the sixteenth tee. The wine had robbed the starch from my legs, and I hit a snipe hook that bounced along the ground on a zigzag course. I was so angry—Jack, my golf game, hangover—that I tomahawked my driver a hundred yards down the fairway. Some minutes later, trudging toward the green, I finally caught sight of Jack approaching in the cart, moving through long shadows cast by tall trees that lined the fairway. He was hanging out one side, waving a white towel and flashing a smile. His disarming approach left me no choice but to forgive him.