War in a Golf Cart

WAR IN A GOLF CART

Fred Bruggeman

WAR IN A GOLF CART

Fred Bruggeman

Copyright Fred Bruggeman 2014

Four Novellas:

War in a Golfcart

Breakfast with Senator Wise

Waiting for a Job

The Struggle for Space

WAR IN A GOLF CART

DONNIE JR

I never really sleep. The best I can do is dream. For the last few nights, the first thing I see and hear is some know-nothing actor reciting Shakespeare, something from an old, already seen it movie channel…

But if the cause be not good, the King himself hath a heavy reckoning to make, when all those legs, and arms, and heads, chopped off in a battle, shall join together at the latter day and cry all, ‘We died at such a place--some swearing, some crying for a surgeon, some upon their wives left poor behind them, some upon the debts they owe, some upon their children rawly left. I am afeard there are few die well that die in a battle, for how can they charitably dispose of anything, when blood is their argument? Now, if these men do not die well, it will be a black matter for the King that led them to it…’

And then I’m pulling a little red wagon, dressed for golf in a punky, I don’t give a shit style, with my one good leg and my two tired hands, and the wagon is heavy, filled with bloody body parts and shiny golf clubs. What the hell is that all about? Can The Somebody tell me? Some guys say golf is a great way to kill time, I think golf is killing me. I mean, even though it’s a dream, I fantasize about getting it real. I’ve spent the last eight years of my life, asleep in the desert 7,000 miles away. Occasionally, I woke up and shot at people who sometimes shot at me. And golf is supposed to cure me of my ailments? Now that I’ve come home and found there is no home?

My mouth moves but no one hears. The words empty out. Is there no forgiveness? All I want is hope. All I want is love. All I want is acceptance. Forgiveness, will it ever find me…

And then my Dad walks in on my nightmare. His arm that is not there ends in a hook, the curve of an evil grin that has followed me all my life. Captain Donald M. Smith, USMC, honorably retired from military service, always angry, always charming to hide the anger when need be, always perfectly well-dressed, on permanent parade. The white uniform and the brass décor blind without pity, the Asian head and the M-16 he carries bizarre and disturbing. He screams in my night, invades my misery, brings his own brand of hell into mine.

Fucking gooks. You never know where they’re coming from. Commie bastards almost never come out to fight. They hide in the jungle, lie low in the paddies, send out their women and children to kill American Men. American Soldiers. American Marines. Thank My Christian God I caught this one.

Now he’s talking to the head, angry traumatized style: How did it feel when I cut your throat? John Wayned your brain? Where’s Uncle Ho now? Ho, ho, ho, Mr. Charles, has The Nam got you down? I’m talking to you, slope head prick slant eyed faggot.

He throws the head into an outer space where all the bad dreams go. But space is curved, the bad dreams will return, gather and fall back into his head and mine. He sees me in the shadows of the mist we share and delivers his gung ho make your bed right military lecture: Son. Look at you. What are you doing? This isn’t military. So what if you fucked up a bunch of towel heads. Sand niggers had it coming. They’re all useless. Olive skin useless. Just like these body parts. Just like all this emotional shit you’re dragging around.

My therapist said--

Oh fuck me. Your therapist said? Whisper your feelings?? Yoga your anger? You pulled three tours in the desert, another in the hills. Saw more action than I ever dreamed of. You fought while all the chickenshits stayed home. Be proud of this! he exhorts, spitting into my little red wagon to praise it. You are a warrior. They had it coming. Sometimes, you have to destroy a country to save a country.

Dad, I don’t know.

You know killing. You should have been an officer. In The Marines. Why’d you enlist in The Army?? If you’d had my training, Annapolis, Paris Fucking Island, you’d have been prepared for the aftermath. Take pride in your work.

I just don’t know. I hated it. I miss it. I’ve got no civilian friends.

So?

They don’t understand, I say, lowering my head. When you spend your day killing people you become hard to live with. A funny night time truth no one wants to reveal during the day.

How could they understand? Pussies and Wussies.

They’re all nice. They say I’m a hero before they turn and walk away.

You are a hero! Dad flares, a horrible flame in my solitary darkness. Fuck, no yellow ribbons for me, when I came home I was spat on. All the cowards on campus, the mean boys in college, looked down their long thin noses and blew snot in my face. I served my country and I was the enemy! They made themselves the heroes! Draft-dodging deferment-seeking scum! President Kennedy called and I answered! I bore the burden and I paid the price!

My Dad studies his arm that isn’t there. He’s had most of his adult life to adjust to being less than whole. He tries to calm down, give some meaning to his loss. He starts babbling about The 60’s Political Thing, even though it’s my dream, the debate about his war won’t die. It was a conspiracy. Walter Cronkite was the biggest traitor this country ever had. Second guess a war and you lose the war. The Nam math is simple. When nine out of ten stay home and hide, the ten percent who go and fight must be evil. Who wants to be called a coward? Who wants a coward for a father or a son, a husband or a brother? Wars become wrong when men are afraid to fight them.

I try to steer the dream. So. Are you still angry? Disconnected?

You kids amaze me. So happy to wallow in your toilet with your touchy feely crap. You, of all people. How many medals did you win? Four Bronze Stars? Two Silver? You got purple hearts coming out your ass.

Medals mean nothing when you feel like nothing. Can’t you just answer the question? One soldier to another?

I got over the anger, my Dad replies. I silenced the pain. I learned how to hide my military in the civilian life. You live a lie long enough and it becomes the truth. I get by, except for the occasional dream…

What am I going to do? I ask, wondering, almost begging. The Army doesn’t want me anymore. What the hell am I going to do?

He fades away, cliché MacArthur style, my old soldier pop never dying, just fading away, waiting to return in the wings of the next war. My head is pounding and everything is soaked in American Soldier Boy sweat, I don’t know how that can be, I’m in the air conditioned US of A, not blistering dry heat Persian style. And there’s no HVAC where the grunts shit and sleep and fight. And I might as well be dead, real dead not walking, a 3 AM strange hotel room is as close to Hell as you can get, unless you’ve taken a hard round and diamond-like shrapnel and you’re seeing a hole in a missing head where your friend used to be and your leg that used to be yours has exploded into a fountain of bright red, sparkling under the blue Afghan sky…

Merciless. The only way to describe whomever or whatever is in charge…And how I’ve been fucked up…

BETH

Finally, a little peace and quiet. It’s been a crazy morning, crazy sad morning, what with all these disabled vets checking in. And the funny thing is I never really knew. It’s one thing to see a war on TV in between commercials and Mad Men and Modern Family. It’s another to see the consequences up close and personal. And so many of them were so young, younger than me, and I just got out of college last year. They were all joking around, laughing about this or that, but I could see the bruises beneath the banter.

Some of them were badly disfigured in the face. I tried not to stare, I tried not to look away, I didn’t know what to do with my bright baby blues…

I know I’m pretty. I tried to be friendly, got kind of asked out half a dozen times, but I managed to avoid making any commitment to these mangled soldier boys.

The pro shop is empty when the two civilians walk in. One is old and gray, short and pudgy. The prosperous type who plays a lot of golf at expensive courses. The other one, Female Whew, a don’t wobble in your high heels chick magnet. So handsome and hot you almost have to handle. I get my flirting face on. He looks like he’s my age, maybe two or three years older.

Gray, short and pudgy speaks first, words I’ve heard so many times in my six months here. This is going to be great. Pebble Beach. Golf Mecca. Tee to green heaven. I’ve waited my whole life for this.

Studly checks his phone. Yeah, it’ll be great.

Can’t you get more enthusiastic about this? the old man whines, almost begging.

Work. I have to check on things.

You’ve got your whole life to work.

But a limited time to make money, Studly replies. Good, he’s ambitious.

Money.

You made your pile, I only want mine.

But this is Pebble Beach, the old golfer protests. Nicklaus and Watson, Tiger and Phil.

Phil never won here. At least not The US Open.

But he was here with the rest of the greats. Playing.

So am I, Studly murmurs, still on his phone.

You kids, you live, virtually.

But in reality I’m making money. Papers came through on a five million dollar account. My management fee works out to another 20k a year. Yes, he exclaims, a mixture of pride and joy and greed.

20k a year?? For just one deal for whatever it is he does? Wow. I’m making $13 an hour and feel lucky to have it. Studying Art History may not have been the smartest move. This boy is looking even better. Can I help you? I ask.

Marvin Meyer and Michael Mitchell, old gray informs.

Sounds like a firm, I tease. Michael. Nice name for a young man.

Well, I am a lawyer, and he’s a stockbroker in wealth management, Marvin explains.

I have you two down at 10:45. You’ll be playing with Smith and Smith.

Too bad we aren’t Merrill, Lynch, Pierce and Fenner, he says.

Merrill who what?? I know most of these old guys are rich, many of them absurdly rich, it costs thousands to play a few rounds here, but sometimes they seem so senile. Oh well. Old ugly senile. Young handsome clever. Nature, and women, have their ways of working things out.

The old money brokerage house? Marvin says, not giving up. Sir, I would not touch you if you were the last man on earth.

Marvin, she’s young and she’s cute, Studly Michael intervenes. She may have a life.

I do have a life, I agree. But it can always get better, I hint.

Youth. Eternal optimism, Marvin harrumphs.

Another Wounded Warrior shows up. Maybe 30, 31. A half blade runner, the prosthetic on his left leg gleams and moves like an angry broken scissor. You can tell he tried to dress appropriately for his day of golf, but nothing quite matches. He looks like a cross between Arnold Palmer and Larry The Cable Guy, a cross lost and angry. Can I help you? I ask.

I wish you would, he says, way too loud. The joke flirt hangs. Silently, I swear and give the brush off stare. I know these guys have been to and through Hell and back and wherever, but getting hit on every 90 seconds is starting to wear me out. It’s been a long morning, you wonder how those nurses at The VA do it.

Sorry, just kidding, he fumbles, trying to recover some kind of style and grace. Donnie, Donald Smith Jr. I’m here to play golf.

You have reported for duty, I reply with the friendly not flirty smile. This is Mr. Meyer and Mr. Mitchell, they’re in your foursome. I have another Mr. Smith in the group.

That’s my Dad. He’s coming, he’s taking a crap, he tries to explain, as eyebrows rise in the pro shop. He’s using the restroom, he tries to correct himself.

He nods to Michael and Marvin and moves off. Awk-ward. No handshake or introduction or verbal reassurance, this is not the way the usual meet and greet goes. Social skills he has not, golfing etiquette has been broken and they haven’t even started to play. I try to explain it to Marvin and Michael, this is not what they expected for their Pebble Beach Get Away.

This is Wounded Warrior Week. It’s our way of giving back. We comp deserving vets on lodging and golf. A $3,000 gift.

I know the price, Mr. Marvelous shrugs. I can tell this trip was the old guy’s idea.

It’s worth it, Marvin says. This is, Pebble Beach. Golf on steroids. Besides, you can afford it.

Donnie shuffles over to look at some golf shirts on a rack. He’s a little clumsy, you can tell he’s still learning how to use that prosthetic. I bet that leg came off not so long ago. And why wouldn’t his wound be recent, from what I hear they’re still fighting over there 11 years after it started. The whole thing is male nutso if you ask me.

Marvin looks distracted, like he thinks he should go over and formally introduce himself and shake hands, but he decides against it. I can tell he’s thinking he should have booked his trip to golf paradise a week later. Michael, his son, stepson, nephew, golf buddy, I don’t know or care, stays at the counter, pretends to check his phone while I pretend to do something clerical.

So. You’re a stockbroker? I icebreak.

`I wheel and deal on Wall Street, he sort of jokes yet informs.

Sounds exciting.

It is. It’s all a percentage. A man has to make sure he gets his fair share.

I’m sure you get yours, I reply, sensing he doesn’t like the wallflower type.

I sure do.

I’m sure it’s a sure thing, Donnie interrupts. The flirting party pauses. Donnie holds up a golf shirt. I can’t tell if he’s trying to stay in the hunt for me or if he’s really interested in the clothes.

It’s a sure thing this won’t shrink? he asks.

I guess so, I reply

You think it would fit me?

I guess you’d have to try it on.

OHMIGOD. I didn’t mean it like that, the soldier starts to take off his shirt. I meant he should slip it on over the shirt he has on, not do some bare chested sweaty Putin thing. Michael and Marvin stare as the hairy belly and the shiny slick sweat stare right back at them. And then Donnie somehow realizes that that’s not the way things are done around here. The words tumble out. Oh. I guess it’d be hard to sell it to someone else with my b.o. all over it. Sorry. I just got back from Afghanistan a few months ago. I’m still getting used to things.

The words sit as the crippled soldier wobbles, trying to extricate himself from the golf shirt he really can’t afford. The three of us civilians don’t know what to do, or to say, to this soldier boy amputee who’s looking for some kind of comfort at this strange golf outing homecoming.

What do you guys do for fun around here? Michael finally asks, after Donnie gets the shirt off and turns away.

Some of us meet in the bar at the lodge around 6, I respond.

The 19th hole. My favorite, he smiles. Boy is he cute, all the girls must stand in line and salute. And then another wounded warrior comes in, he’s missing his left arm, but you wouldn’t know it from the way he struts around. A Vietnam vintage, maybe 70, he flashes a toothy grin that’s not too goofy. He immediately tries to make eye contact with me, back off old soldier, even though I like the attention keep your hands and your grenades to yourself. He starts in like he knows how to work a room, Des Moines, Iowa, Holiday Inn-style.

Gentlemen. Going to be a beautiful day. Well, lookie here. You are the prettiest golf pro these eyes have ever seen.

Thank you, sir, I coolly reply. I just work the desk and deliver the drinks.

I bet you do it better than anyone else. And don’t you ‘sir’ me. Donald Smith, Don to my friends, which is just about everybody. That’s my boy over there, Donnie Jr.

We’ve got you at 10:45, with Mr. Meyer and Mr. Mitchell.

The niceties of golf, a gentlemen’s game, are resumed. They start to size each other up like they were lining up their putts.

Marvin. My son, stepson, Michael.

The relationship clarified. Sort of.

Don. Don’t worry about this. I only use it on females and fish, he says, shrugging with the shoulder that is still there. His claw is the same color as the irons we sell.

Sir, Michael says.

Don. Please. But thank you for the respect. It’s so nice to meet young men with manners. Donnie? Did you introduce yourself?

Yeah, Dad. Just trying to find something that fits. This is nice.

Their voices rise when they address each other. It’s always sad when a father and a son don’t like each other. It’s easy to see that there’s a lot going on between Donald Sr. and Donald Jr., a battle that’s brewed and blossomed since the day Junior was born.

Looks to me like Dad’s namesake isn’t carrying on the name the way Papa would like. Donnie checks the price tag. $125 bucks?! For a shirt?? he sputters. This is one price, one lifestyle, he can’t afford to pay.

Put it on my account, Michael quietly and generously offers. It’s the least I can do for you guys. A nice natural impulse, makes a girl get all sweet and soft.

Oh no, I can’t, Donnie starts.

You absolutely can, his dad orders. You’re entitled to it, just don’t make a habit out of it. I didn’t get much of the warm and fuzzy thing when I came back from Vietnam, he sharply continues. A bayonet would shatter and bleed, trying to penetrate that scar tissue. A pause crouches in the air like the moment when a finger finds a trigger, decides whether or not it’s time to twitch. Donald actually looks like he could explode. Then he calms down, a flash freeze, 45 years of learning how to bury the resentment he felt at his homecoming circa 1968 kicks in. He smoothly addresses Michael and Marvin.

That’s a gracious gift, son. That’s quite a boy you got there.

Marvin tries to say something. Well your son, is obviously--

A hero, Donald interrupts, his distaste for Marvin immediately apparent. He’s on the mend, but a hero nevertheless.

I’m sure he’s a wonderful person, a great fighter, a--

Jarhead? Donnie challenges. I don’t think he’s a Marvin fan either.

No, Marvin protests. He wanted golf not hockey.

How many concussions did I have? Donnie kids, not really kidding. Four? Four and a half?

Donnie, Donald says, an officer trying to restrain the enlisted.

Donnie comes over with the golf shirt, tapping his head with a slightly maniacal grin. His eyes glitter like the tracers they’ve seen, his shrapnel scarred face attracts and repulses with a fascinating freak me out, je ne sais quoi weirdness that certain vets possess. His words tumble out in an ADD I got blown up overseas rush. Except, technically speaking, I was in The Army. To be true jarhead you have to shave your head and join The Marines. Semper Fi, like my Dad. I’m really a jump chump, failed airborne so they stuck me in the infantry, the thing every above average I.Q. tries to avoid. Weird, huh? Thanks for the shirt, man.

No problem, Michael nods.

So. What time do you get off work? Donald Sr. asks, taking his self-induced obligatory swing at me.

Mr. Smith, I dryly reply. Some of these old guys need their iced Arnold Palmers dumped down their pants. But I manage a small smile, the guy did lose an arm fighting for his country.

Don’t look so shocked, he says. Old soldiers never die, we just fade away and try to have some fun while the candle burns down.

You’ll miss your tee time, I nag. My mother told me there are two kinds of married women, those who nag their husbands to get off the golf course and those who plead for them to stay on.

There are more important things than golf. Sorry, Marvin, Donald kind of kids. Poor Marvin. All he wanted was the rapture of a round of golf at the Holy of Holies, Pebble Beach. And now he looks like he’s been banished to the Seventh Circle of Golf Done Rudely Hell. Donnie tries to rescue me from his father.

Dad, I bet she’s been hit on a dozen times with this Wounded Warrior thing.

Two dozen. On the hour every hour. Male hand grenades exploding like it’s the Fourth of July.

Us military guys are oversexed and underappreciated, Donald concedes. But, to quote our Commander In Chief: We thank you for your service.

Michael and I laugh. The old sonuvagun has a certain charm. Somewhat practiced, my dad was in sales, I bet Donald is too. You can always spot them a mile away, always laughing and grinning, smooth white teeth bared while they try to take something away from you. Something valuable, either your money or your pride. The good ones even make you feel happy while they screw you, literally or figuratively.

Marvin just stares.

Dad, Donnie says, like he’s embarrassed by him. But I think Donnie is embarrassed by himself.

Sir? Don? You have a great sense of humor, Michael contributes.

Thank you, son, Michael, Donald replies. You learn a few moves when you’re missing one of these. And then he’s dancing around the pro shop, flirting with me and every other female west of the Mississippi. All these macho men, trying to prove themselves with the ladies, peacocks in and out of uniform. Without his medals and ribbons Donald has no feathers, but he keeps trying to fly even though he’s missing a wing. A broken bird, no, I’d say he’s a hawk or an eagle, I bet he fought like mad when the shit was flying, he sings with a strong fearless voice, running cross country and in country with his boys. Moon River, cha-cha-cha, wider than a, what do they call that space between a woman’s breasts?

He dances a little more, offers to take me for a spin, turns the claw on his prosthetic like he’s trying to break the ice with the civilians in the room. Marvin has a frosty smile on his face, most golfers don’t like having a show off in their foursome, and Donald throttles it down a little and addresses Michael. We better go before your father strokes out.

That would be a head fake. Michael says. He’d just be looking for some CPR from the staff.

And then the four of them move out, going on patrol for the next four hours over 18 holes, a five mile slog. It’s amazing how purposeful and serious golfers can be when it’s time to play, the game was invented to kill time. Michal and I exchange a glance, I’ll see him in the bar later, a different kind of swinging. Donald notices, the old soldier almost nods his head in approval of our little tete-a-tete. Maybe he figures that was the reason he went to war, so the people he left behind could go on living and breathing and loving. Or maybe he went out of instinct, guys have been fighting over guns and gold and girls since Day One, it’s HIS fault with the way HE programmed the male DNA, and they’re out of here and the next foursome rolls in to my little checkpoint…

MARVIN

Pebble Beach. Along with rounds at Spyglass and Cypress. The crown on my golf bucket list. I saved the best for last, last spring it was Augusta, took years of finagling to get an invite there. I’ve played all The Open courses, England, Scotland, done Ireland twice. I’ve crisscrossed America, golfed 73 out of the top 100 courses. It’s been a great golfing life. And this is perfect, maybe it was too perfect…

Wounded Warrior Week. They didn’t mention that when they took my reservation. Not that these guys don’t deserve a break, all these wars weren’t their fault. Even if they did agree to serve. I would have taken the conscientious objector status if the college deferments hadn’t gotten me out of it. I can still remember draft lottery night, you never saw male students quite so attentive. We all nervously stood around small black and white TV sets, wondering if our lives were going to be wasted on an overseas horror show, or lazy days spent sitting on college lawns smoking grass with pretty girls.

The old guy, Donald, the one around my age, swings his club pretty well, that right arm of his still works. Donnie, his son, the one missing his right leg, oy. I don’t think he knows a sand wedge from a hybrid. It’s going to be a long round, I hate playing golf with people who are terrible, it’s so distracting.

Michael swings his driver without a thought in his mind or a care in the world. He always was a great athlete, I practice twice as much as he does and he’s three times better. That cute girl in the pro shop sure was giving him the once over. Well, they all do.

No one’s saying anything. I try to be friendly, get to a certain comfort level. Just the way Pebble Beach should be, I say. Beautiful. Damp. Foggy.

The fog of war. In a golf cart, Donnie jumps in, trying to say something impressive. It comes out flat.

I do play military golf, his dad says. Left, right, left, right.

And then Donnie whips out a pair of Flash Gordon hi tech binoculars. Huh?? There’s something off with this guy. I guess he wasn’t joking when he said he had multiple concussions.

I study his face as he focuses. Scratchy, uneven, wounds I guess. Slightly wild of eye, spiky black hair that stands up and sprays out like bullets. Too urban tough for my taste. He looks like he’s around 30 but he can’t stop acting 18. 380.125 yards to the flag, he says. These are great for targeting insurgents, he says, waving the binoculars like a flag.

What?? Insurgents?? I don’t want to play a round of Apocalypse Now golf. I try to change the subject. These are the tees where they play The US Open from.

Is that a big deal? he asks. I ignore the crazy question.

What tees would you guys like to play from? I ask.

Well, we got girlie, old man, average, above average and championship, Donald says, pointing to his crotch with his scorecard. He’s trying to be funny, public golf course style. I’m exempting myself from showing the one eyed wonder after a bad ball. I’ll hit from the ladies tees.

I’ll hit with Dad, Donnie says. I’m still trying to learn how to use this thing, he continues, sadly staring at his prosthetic.

I’ll hit from the seniors, I say. My distance is gone.

When you’re 70, that sums it up.

I’ll hit with you, Michael offers.

You sure? With your game?

What’s your handicap, Michael? Donald politely inquires.

Michael’s a minus two, better then scratch player, I reply.

Hm, I took you for a football player, Donald says.

He was all state in soccer, I inform.

Marvin, Michael speaks up, annoyed. No one wants to hear about my glory days in high school.

I bet you get a lotta chicks, Donnie inserts.

His girlfriend senior year was prom queen, I reply. Michael is tall and muscular. I’m short and soft. He’s Hollywood handsome, I’m Mr. Rodgers on a rainy day. Even though I’m proud of him I know I shouldn’t brag, makes it look like I want to live his life.

You’re embarrassing me, Michael says, his annoyance growing.

Tell him to shut the fuck up, Donnie urges.

Whoa. Dropping the f-bomb before anyone has taken a shot. How rude, my relationship with Michael is none of his damn business. The sunlight peaks through the clouds, glances off the blade of his prosthetic, nearly blinds me.

Donnie. Let these two work it out, his dad says. Almost an order, but his son of a sergeant does not look like he will come to attention.

I’ll play from the blue, Michael says.

Only above average? I pester. Don’t you want to play from the championship tees? It’s Pebble Beach.

Michael looks like he wants to hit me. I know I shouldn’t nag and second guess but I just can’t help it. If I had his game I’d always play from the championship tees.

Out of nowhere Donnie strikes again. A man’s got to know his limitations, he pontificates. Dirty Harry said that. Great line.

Michael swings, ignoring all the distractions. What movie was that? he asks.

Magnum Force, Donnie replies. The verbal jumble matches his jumbled appearance. We watched a lot of movies in Afghan and the gulf when things got slow. War is weird. You do nothing, nothing, nothing, and then there’s action. Big action. Real Action. Something blows up, somebody gets shot, all hell breaks loose and free. One time, in Fallujah going door to door--

Donnie-- Donald says, trying to calm him down. It’s the first tee.

Gomez took a slug in the shoulder, an RPG came in, knocked me out for a second, you know I still have trouble hearing out of my left ear--

Donnie. We are here to play golf. Let him hit, Donald says, with a little more authority.

Oh. Sorry.

No problem, Michael graciously replies.

Marvelous. The next 18 holes are going to be some kind of clinic in dealing with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I wonder if I can get a refund, but how do you approach management and say you want a $3,500 credit because a disabled vet threw you off