Little White Lies (14 page)

“Mr. Jackson, I’d like to explain…”

“Forget it, there’s nothing to explain. I understand. It’s all history. You’re right, there’s no way you would have gotten the job if you had told me the truth. If you had given me any reason to blow you away that first day, I would have… I would have jumped at the chance. So let’s start over. Do you want the job?”

“Look, I don’t know anything about the entertainment business. I understand contracts and all that, and I suppose I could learn a little about it, but I’m not sure I want to. The restaurants intrigue me. There’s a business I think I could learn, but I’m just not too sure about the other. So far the entertainment business sounds like you’re either on a stage or in a lawyer’s office. I’m not suited for one and I hate the other.”

“I know what you mean,” A.J. says with a laugh. “There really is a lot of bullshit at times, but don’t worry, you can still be a tremendous help. Let’s just work things out as we go. We’ll be partners and split up the duties. You do the work and I’ll play golf.”

I turn and look at A.J. He’s not smiling now. It’s probably the first truthful thing he has said today. He’s worse than I am when it comes to shading, bending, stretching… whatever, to fill in the blank… especially when it comes to doing things to and with the truth.

“There’s something I want to get off my chest.” He leans forward and looks down at the floor of the car. “I’ve never made any secret of the fact that I do not especially like white people.” He looks sideways at me and draws back. “I mean… this is no shit… square biz, I want to come clean here.” He pauses for a momentand then begins once again. “I don’t know why exactly… I guess it’s more a lack of trust than anything else. I come from an environment where that attitude is easy to come by. But I want you to know I honestly never felt that way about you. Even though I may not act like it most of the time, I’ve always felt a certain rapport between us.”

We ride in silence for a time before I speak.

“I don’t think I’m particularly prejudiced in that regard,” I reply, “but I guess I reserve the right to dislike a person, regardless of race, creed or color, without someone calling me a racist or an anti-something or other. Sometimes you just don’t get along with a particular person or they don’t get along with you. It happens. But there’s always some self-appointed expert, waiting in the wings, who has to put a label on it. There are all kinds of people, both good and bad. On the other hand, I suppose we all give in to the stereotypes at times, especially if we don’t like the guy.”

A.J. nods in understanding. “Yeah, I know what you mean. But even you have to agree, I’m sure, that some of those stereotypes are based on fact. For instance, I really don’t think white men can jump worth a shit. Hell, that’s just a natural fact. As far as most of you people are concerned, I don’t think there’s any difference between you jumping and you standing. They even made a movie about it.”

“If they made a movie about it,” I acknowledge, “then it must be true. Based on my personal experience, I can’t disagree… since it sure as hell applies to me. Maybe it has something to do with the law of gravity. It’s accepted that blacks have no regard for the law. Perhaps this is just another case of blatant disregard… not only do you people disregard man’s laws, but nature’s laws as well.”

He gives me a shove with his elbow. “See, that’s just the kind of shit I mean… I say something accurate and true about whites and you trot out some tired old crap about blacks. I think I had you pegged all wrong. You’re just another shiftless, good-for-nothing, lazy piece of white trash that I’m probably going to be stuck with. But what the hell, I suppose it’s better than having you on welfare. Damn!”

At last, someone who understands me. It’s nice to start a new job with a compassionate boss. Someone who can look into a man’s soul and care about what he sees there. A man who can look you inthe eye while he sends you to hell.

***

The meeting was like any one of hundreds of other business meetings I’ve attended. After the introductions we got right down to work. A.J. ran things with only a few wild digressions from the agenda. All in all it was a good time with everyone getting most of what they came for. They hammered out a tight schedule for the January meeting and everyone seemed pleased with the outcome.

Now it’s time for lunch and golf. The meal turned out to be fairly chaotic. Fortunately the club packed usoff and out of the way in a private room in a far corner of the building. Trash talk was the most civil of the conversation I heard. A.J. was correct about bragging rights, only I’m not too sure he is the best there is. I would say this group could pass for a convention of world-class braggarts. But there was more than just bragging going down… every one of them seemed definitely willing to put their money along side their wide-open mouths. A stranger who had no knowledge of golf would think from this cacophony that we were about to engage in mortal combat. Blood would be shed and lives would be lost… and then things would get serious.

Our group is the last one scheduled to tee off. True to form, A.J. has picked the strongest team for our opponents. It’s the boys from Atlanta, Billy Batson and Lionel ‘Train’ Wilson. I had not heard the ‘Train’ sobriquet before, but somehow it fits. They are both about the same age as A.J.; late twenties or early thirties, and both claim to be better golfers than A.J., on any course, on any day.

Batson is a tall, handsome guy who looks like he was a fairly accomplished athlete in his younger days. Lionel is just the opposite. He’s well under six feet and about forty pounds overweight. He claims the weight is not a problem for him, it’s just that he lacks sufficient height to evenly distribute all the fine muscle he has gained over the years. Billy says Lionel is ‘vertically deprived’… that he’d be fairly slender at around eight feet or so.

We will have to wait a few more minutes before we can hit, so A.J. pulls out the long needle and goes to work. It’s apparent he is going to use every weapon in his arsenal and bullshit is certainly one of his bigger guns.

“Okay, Phil, my man,” he starts in, “we have a bet with these burglars. We’re playing three fives… that’s five on the front, five on the back and five on the all day. Press bets, or new bets for the edification of those of you who do not know any better… “ he looks pointedly at our opponents, “can be made at any time… none of this two down shit. Press when pissed!” Suddenly A.J. rips his hat from his head and throws it to the ground in a violent motion, then kicks it towards the tee. “In fact, I’m getting so pissed right now I’d just as soon press their black asses before the next shot!”

“What next shot? Billy exclaims. “Nobody’s hit yet!”

“Now that’s just the kind of crap I’ve been talking about, everybody arguing about every little thing! I just said I was thinking about it. Can’t I think about it? Just because you and your fat friend there never think about anything, Billy, doesn’t mean someone else can’t be thinking. Look at my partner here.”

He points to me with a grand sweeping gesture as though I were some particularly fine specimen he brought along for all to see.

“Now my partner’s thinking all the time. In fact, right now he’s thinking you two peckerheads are probably too scared to stick around for all eighteen. You know what? I think he’s right!” A.J. continues totalk as his frenzy gains momentum. “We ought to make you deadbeats post a bond. That way we won’t be cheated out of our just reward for putting up with your ugly selves all day.”

I watch Billy and Lionel during this tirade, but they are unimpressed. Or, if it has affected them in any way, they have learned to conceal it well.

Billy turns to me and says, “You sure have yourwork cut out this time, Phil. If bullshit weregunpowder they’d have to outlaw smoking in thiswhole damn state ‘cause of him. That motherfuckergot the biggest boombox of a mouth I ever did hear or see.”

“Amen to that,” Lionel chimes in.

All this has an equal effect on A.J. … none.

“Lionel, why don’t you just waddle up to the tee there and see if you can’t roll one in the general direction of the green. Be careful now you don’t split your pants when you bend over… hear? You fat fuck!”

Lionel looks at A.J., flips him the bird and heads for the tee. Bending over he farts in a way that would do a mature bull elephant proud.

“That’s for you, A.J. I’ve got another one, but I’ll save it for your backswing.”

It’s not clear if the explosion was intentional, but he certainly does not seem embarrassed in any way. Of course, maybe that’s just hindsight. Forgive the pun. I guess it’s pretty obvious how easy it is to get into this thought pattern.

A.J. cups the back of his hand to the side of his mouth and directs a stage whisper in my direction, “Jesus, Phil, we’re sunk… they’re going to the zone. We’ll never be able to get to the tee with all that toxic gas up there.” Then back to Lionel, “Take your best shot, Train, or was that it?” A.J. turns back to me and comments further on his friend’s prowess. “I’m tellin’ ya, when it comes to farting, no one can hold a candle to ol’ Lionel… at least they’d better not try if they want to stay in this life. When he was a kid, his main ambition was to fart the scale. He’d usually crap out around ‘fa’.”

A.J.’s slight smile could have a myriad of meanings. Most anyone who has played golf is used to occasional banter and swordplay, but there is a new level here that promises to exceed anything in my experience.

Seemingly unaffected by the running commentary, Lionel takes a mighty swing at the ball and manages to hit a wild slice that starts out well over the left rough, crosses the entire fairway and drives hard into the right rough, settling out of sight in the long grass. If one had watched Lionel and not the ball, it would be easy to imagine a three hundred yard shot straight down the middle. The man has all the right moves following the swing… which is probably important to some. He poses like a pro.

“The man farts better than he drives, that’s for sure,” A.J. observes to no one in particular, but managing to break the mood. “I think you might have lost all your power, Train. You should time those outbursts better. If you want to go back and change your pants, go ahead… we’ve got time.”

Lionel acknowledges A.J.’s comment by thoughtfully scratching his ass, then raising his leg to rearrange his shorts.

In the meantime, Billy has moved to the tee and placed his ball in position. He glares at A.J. and admonishes, “Quiet on the tee while a true player executes his shot.”

“Executes is a good word for it,” A.J. replies, clearly not affected by Billy’s injunction. “That ball will be so far in the woods it will never see the light of day again. Died and gone to golf ball heaven. Hundred dollars says you don’t hit the fairway… and you have to use a golf club… I hear you’re pretty good at throwin’ it.”

Billy backs away from the shot, turns to A.J. and gives him a cold hard stare. He sniffs haughtily and then turns slowly back into position and, without further comment, once again addresses the ball. Christ, if it keeps going like this, we won’t finish beforedark. This is just the first tee!

***

The game has turned out to be everything I expected and more. A.J. and I are walking together going down the eighteenth fairway. He hasn’t stopped talking since the first tee. These guys have had me laughing so hard at times it has been difficult to hit some of the shots. But as tough as it has been for me, it has been worse for the caddies. They laugh as only teenagers can. If they had known what they were getting into, they probably would have taken the job for nothing just to have a chance to see the show. A.J. doesn’t care who is hitting, the stream of verbal abuse is directed towards one and all without letup.

Now A.J. is giving me my instructions, bucking me up for the grand finale.

“It’s all up to you, my man. I’ve gotten us this far, it’s about time you did something.”

I turn so I can get a better view of his face and it’s just as I suspected… perfectly straight. The man has no shame. I have been playing these guys virtually by myself. A.J. hasn’t been having a very good day except with his mouth. The match is dead even on the back with two press bets still alive. We managed to win the front side one up, so it all comes down to this hole. I’m not particularly worried at this point because I’m actually playing fairly well. Much better, in fact, than I have any right to expect. I know A.J. wants to win, but if we lose it will hardly be the end of the world. Par is a reasonable expectation after my drive and if that’s not good enough, then so be it.

The eighteenth is a good finishing hole. The fairway is fairly narrow with a dogleg left that curves around a small pond. I have about one hundred eighty yards to the green. I select a five iron and for once, A.J. is actually quiet as I prepare to hit my shot. He’s probably getting tired. I manage one of my better swings for the day and watch as the ball heads towards the flag. It hits the green, checks and comes to rest about eight feet from the pin. Any professional would be delighted, as am I.

A.J. lets out a yell. “Take that, you motherfuckers! As I said before, the likes of you couldn’t play a top team like us. Fuck you and your caddies, too!”

Leave it to A.J. to include everyone in his merriment. An equal opportunity abuser, he is not one to slight anyone present much less any of the participants.

“Don’t wear out your pom-poms, A.J.,” Billy admonishes. “You haven’t done shit since the first hole. All you can do is run your mouth and hope Phil will save your worthless ass.”

The words bounce off A.J. as though he’s wrapped in kevlar. A man who’s about as sensitive as a veteran politician at a fundraiser, he’s your basic insufferable winner. I manage to miss the putt, leaving Lionel a chance to tie the hole with his four-footer. He manufactured a fantastic third shot and now he’s licking his chops. As Lionel surveys his line, A.J. goes to work.

“That putt looks almost straight, Train, which means you don’t have a chance in hell of making it.”

A.J. follows this with an elbow to my ribs accompanied by an oversized wink.

Lionel looks at A.J. and sneers, “Stuff it, A.J.” He looks over at his partner. “You know, Billy, it’s too bad we got stuck with these miserable bastards. My friends at home usually give me putts like this.”