Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Warning: Long Post

I can't tell you how many times I've brought up this site and just stared at the monitor wondering if anything noteworthy will pop up. Because at this point, I'm simply managing another caddie program until the 31st and the members at the course don't even TAKE caddies, so my position has become that of a glorified starter. Not a bad gig if you want to get a lot of reading done. But as far as excitement goes, I always feel like I'm at a loss for something to post.

So I thought today I'd deviate just a bit. This is not caddie related. But Shanks posted a comment recently that really hit the nail on the head. Females. No, I’m not up to anything criminal these days, but I am trying to spice things up at night by finally going out on the town with some of my caddie friends and I feel like some of these stories should start coming out. I may not be caddying right now, but I’m still participating in caddy-like extracurriculars. Why the hell NOT post something.

Last Thursday I was dead tired and I was in bed by 8:30 pm. At 10:30, I turned over just in time to see my phone light up and start vibrating. Crap. That's right. I had promised to hit the town with another caddie this weekend. Guess tonight's the night.

So I throw on some clothes and head out, expecting nothing special to happen. I'd drink some beers, drink some water, wait till I was sober, drive home, and wake up at the ass-crack to go back to doing nothing all day at this other course.

But this particular night would prove to be anything but ordinary.

On our way to the bars, my friend got a phone call from his sister. She had just gotten into a car accident. She wasn't driving, but apparently both her and the girl driving had had a lot to drink. They blew through a red light, smashed into a Saturn and flipped their Wrangler upside-down. The crash site was only a block away from the bar where we were all supposed to meet.

After seeing that Wrangler upside-down in the middle of the street and seeing the driver being steadied and fitted for a neck brace, I was in no mood to have a good time. I was just concerned. But the driver was surprisingly normal and calm, telling all of us to "Go and drink your faces off. Don't worry about me. Don't even visit me at the hospital. I'll be fine."

She even gave us the thumbs-up.

My friends’ sister wasn't wearing her seatbelt, ended up in the backseat and had some of the drivers' blood on her dress. She also held an ice-pack over her knee. Yet despite her condition and the incredible array of lights and sounds surrounding the scene, she seemed euphoric.

"I'm alive I'm alive I'm alive. I never thought it would feel so good to say that. I feel so good right now."

For some reason my friend felt sorry for ME in having to wait through this before we hit the bar. "Don't worry man. We'll head in in a second. And my sister will be fine. She just needs a few shots and she'll be golden."

Is anybody else other than me feeling incredibly concerned right now?

Just then, a girl walked over from across the street. Her hair was so blonde it was almost white and her tan was a little obscene. There's no way somebody needs to be that tan. It's like she had just been to a tanning salon that day where some inexperienced rookie cranked up the juice a little too high and zapped her for 20 minutes on the “Middle of the Fucking Sun” setting.

"I saw the whole accident. I was on the phone across the street talking to a friend. Is everyone okay? You may not feel anything now, but the doctors will tell you that most of the pain will come 2-3 days later. I just had a car accident recently. I know how you guys feel."

She was quite calm for someone who had just witnessed the apocalypse on wheels. I would find out later that she loves drugs.

So I think I asked this blonde girl what the hell happened. Maybe twice. And then left with my caddie friend and his sister to see what was going on inside this bar.

A few hours go by. I dance, I drink—all of one beer—and I happen to run into this extremely tan blonde on the dance floor. She’s in the middle of dancing with some guy, and when she notices me she shakes her head and shouts out, “White-boys really can’t dance.”

Well of course I took offense. I had to try and prove her wrong. So I make my best attempt at dancing alongside her for a moment. I feel like an idiot.

She smiles.

“Well…maybe you can dance a little. But only slightly.”

The song ends, she breaks away from the guy and pulls me aside to a quiet corner.

“Will you give me a call when you get home tonight? I mean…Will you just let me know if those girls are alright? I really want to make sure they’re alright. And when you call, make sure you leave your number.”

All logical processes in my brain stopped after that last statement. It was doing fine for a second there. Sure, call her and let her know things are fine. I guess she’s still just concerned. And sure, I’ll just…leave…my…number. What?

She gave me her number and I left the bar.

In thinking about it now, I can’t believe I called her. I’m leaving for Florida in a week. I don’t want a girlfriend. I consider myself to be a fairly romantic guy (much to the surprise of a few readers in here) and I don’t think I could ever bring myself to take part in a one-night stand. I mean don’t get me wrong, I WANT to, but something has always held me back. My conscience maybe? It sucks. Still, I guess in the back of my mind I was intrigued at the prospect of a “booty call,” something that I had only heard about and never expected to get.

The next day, she called me four times. Twice during work, and twice after 2 am. Part of me was excited at the prospect of ANY girl calling me, and part of me was really really pissed off. Now I’m not really sure how these “booty calls” are supposed to work, but I always imagined they would emerge as casual endeavors where both parties end up meeting seamlessly with no headache being imparted on either participant. I guess I was wrong.

I predictably go out the following night and buy enough food to make the apartment look habitable and finish off the shopping trip with a box of condoms. Hey, you never know. I might actually be able to smother my conscience for a few hours. Around 8:15 pm she arrives with a bottle of wine and the words “man I’m so glad I could blaze before I got here.”

Yeah, I am too.

At first, I was pleasantly surprised. Apparently she had graduated from high school a year early and instead of going straight to college she took the next year to read all of the books she had always wanted to, including writing a personal autobiography that one of her teachers paid her to write. She loves poetry, music, and taking physics and chemistry classes even though she’s studying to be a personal trainer. Basically, it sounded like she had a lot of things going on under the surface. I was intrigued.

Then she ended up drinking 8 beers and three massive glasses of wine.

She talked constantly, occasionally getting in a couple words as she inhaled. And honestly, it was nice. Normally the male needs to take the initiative and start tossing out topics to get the conversation going, but with this girl I needed only to sit back and listen. Sure I was a little annoyed when I actually thought of something interesting to contribute and she would simply interrupt me and keep going on her merry way, saying a few minutes later, “Oh I’m sorry. Were you going to say something?”

Guess not.

I think I learned more about cocaine, heroin, ecstasy, marijuana, meth, crack and the effects cigarettes have on people’s lungs than all of my health classes in high school and college put together. Apparently she’s even done lines of coke with a few celebrities.

Now, being more or less a straight-shooter myself, I was half amazed and half disturbed by these stories. Apparently she had even been pregnant for a while before she miscarried on account of “stress.”

Obviously I was rethinking the whole “one night stand” with this one. We don’t need little cracked-out Jam Boy’s running around. Lord no.

In an effort to behave like a 5th grader and cut through some of the sexual tension / innuendoes I decided to tease her at one point. I can’t really remember what I did. I may have tickled her or poked her or something. Either way, this immediately transformed this incredibly innocent lass into a world-class boxer (a south paw I believe). She actually started throwing punches. I blocked most of them, but I wasn’t really trying that hard because I thought she was just playing around.

Then she connected.

A hard right-cross to the face. For a second I thought my nose was bleeding. ALLLLLLRIGHTY THEN. Fun’s over princess. I spun her around and put her in a bear hug until she stopped squirming and said that she was okay. I held on a little longer, more for my own sake to count to ten and think about puppies or cotton candy or something even remotely resembling a happy thought.

I’m not gonna lie. The rest of the night was a little awkward, and she ended up passing out on the couch while I slept in my bed upstairs.

The following morning I wake up early and head to work before she wakes up. It’s pouring rain, windy, and the high for the day was 45. The head pro decides to close the course. So I’m happy. The previous night was very tiring and very awkward. A day of rest sounded phenomenal.

*By the way, as I’m writing this she is calling my cell phone for the second time in a span of 5 minutes and I am choosing, yet again, not to answer.*

So I’m heading back to the apartment and guess who calls. And I, being the dumbass, tell her that I’m on my way back. I think I was just expecting she had somewhere else to be and had already left my apartment. Nope. She was just waking up.

“So what do you want to do today? Go on some adventures?”

“Umm, sure.”

Now remember it’s freakin’ freezing outside. And raining. Don’t forget the rain.

Much to my surprise, aside from losing 3,000 calories and a gonad from shivering, I had a good time. We went to a state park where she used to work and visited a man-made lake nearby with mom-and-pop shops and hiking trails. I mean, the conversation never deviated from designer drugs, but I suppose it was just nice to go to these typical “date areas” again with a girl. And despite the topics discussed, she was pretty funny.

We came back, ordered Chinese and relaxed until she had to leave to go pick somebody up. Supposedly her license is suspended thanks to a DUI, but I guess that’s more of a guideline than a rule.

Before she leaves she forgets a few choice things in my living room, signifying that oh yes, she will be back later tonight. This of course means that the cycle will begin again. Get beer, she drinks a lot, makes sexual innuendoes and I end up not really feeling like using any of those condoms. Not sure what’s wrong with me. Maybe there are just some areas in this world men were not meant to penetrate.

So she ended up spending the night again, this time I notice she’s getting really annoyed that I’m not trying to take advantage of her. I offer her my bed this time, saying I’ll take the couch. But she protests, saying that there was plenty of room for both of us in the bed. Not wanting to make her feel unattractive, I obliged her and squeezed into the smallest bed on earth. It’s a single that’s too short for me as it is, and now we’re throwing two awkward bodies along with some good ol’ sexual tension in the mix.

She made it perfectly clear earlier in the night—amidst talk of what I would name my children (yeah, I know…WOW)—that she will not stand for men blatantly burping and farting around her.

Yeah, we probably shouldn’t see each other anymore.

So, while trying to squeeze in next to her I’m forced to contort my body in these very unnatural “Exorcism of Emily Rose” positions WHILE holding in farts. Yeah, remember the Chinese? That ended up being a bad idea.

The result was terrible. I wake up a few times during the night to leave the room and try to blow SOMETHING out, but find that the twisting and bending of my abdominals while trying to fit into the smallest bed in the world have fused the gas and lactic acid around my stomach, making it extremely painful to lean backwards or forwards. But, as long as I stood perfectly erect and pressed down on my stomach like a Medic trying to apply pressure to a torn artery, I would be perfectly comfortable. Thank God for that.

So after a good night’s rest, I left for work and proceeded to fall asleep on the floor of the Starter’s shack. And YES the pro was happy. But now I’m home. There’s a note on my bed from her thanking me and saying I need to “make myself available” for her tonight. Umm, no. I’m leaving for Florida next Monday and I think you’ve monopolized enough of my time.

Plus, I haven’t even told you guys about the “other girl.” That same night with the car accident, I drove my caddie friend back to his apartment and met his roommate. She’s clean, intelligent, funny and a Hooters girl. Not sure how I pulled that one off. I definitely wasn’t smooth about getting her number, but she wants to hang out with me tomorrow night. And I would certainly like to “make myself available” for that. So, it’s been fun, but I think it’s time to say goodbye to this first little tweaker.

To be continued…

Sunday, October 02, 2005

The Return Of The Chairman

So it happened again today. I was caddying for the man. The myth. The legend. He’s important Goddamnit and he doesn’t care who he has to fire or piss off in order to make that fact perfectly clear. The Chairman. I believe I’ve only caddied for him one other time, and I think I was still quite new to the trade because I can remember him lecturing me on how I was supposed to caddie for lefties. He is most definitely one of the worst players at this course to loop for, because he’s cheap and nothing you do ever makes him happy. He will always find something to complain about. Because he’s a board member. And I suppose board members are supposed to be very critical people, simply because they’re important. And everyone else should obey them. So I knew as soon as I heard who I was caddying for how difficult and annoying today was going to be. I should’ve just stayed in bed.

To be honest, there was nothing really that special about the first 6 holes. I was working a little harder, making sure I catered to his needs as much as possible and we seemed to be getting along splendidly. He was playing with two younger kids. At first I thought they were related to him, but after I realized they weren’t, they were really of no importance to me. Well, no. That’s not entirely true. The young man playing with The Chairman hit some of the longest drives I have ever seen. Two or three of them were over 400 yards. The rest of his game was a little dicey, but I tell ya. He sure could rip a ball.

Anyway, the 7th hole is where it all began. And I guess before I explain what happened, I should try to explain one of the ways I approach a forecaddying loop. You see, I always seem to be running somewhere when I’m forecaddying, and when I realized how much time I actually had between the last players’ tee shot and when the carts actually arrived at their respective drives, I came up with a little system. After the last player tees off, I run out to the furthest drive, get the yardage left to the front of the green and the flagstick, and work my way back to the shortest tee shot. That way, by the time I get to the shortest drive, I’m getting the yardage right as the cart pulls up. Now life is grand. I’ve already written down everyone’s yardage, so nobody has to wait. They can just grab a club and hit when they get to their ball, because they already know how far they have to hit it. Many of the other caddies work the opposite way, and many times I see players waiting by their ball for a yardage. Now, there’s nothing wrong with this method, but I figure with my method, nobody really has to wait and the player’s are watching me hustle on every hole. They can’t HELP but tip me well after the round is over.

Now, I understand there are a few holes in my method. It doesn’t always work. Obviously you aren’t going to have 4 players hitting their drives in the fairway on EVERY HOLE. Some of them skank it from time to time, and they may even “lose” a ball in a “hazard.” This of course screws up my routine a bit, but most of the time if I hustle I can still make it back in time to help out the guy in trouble.

Well, on the 7th hole, the kid hits the ball 368. The Chairman did not. His ball took a NASCAR turn right into the woods and buried itself in the rough. Now, I DID see exactly where his ball stopped. There was no reason to panic. And, for a split second, I almost didn’t run out to this kid’s ball to measure because I had a feeling I wouldn’t get back to The Chairman in time. But I just decided to measure this gargantuan drive instead.

So I’m running my ass off to get back to The Chairman’s ball, and I’m about 50 yards away when his cart pulls up. He gets out, stares me down, grabs an iron and whacks the ball out about 150 yards in the fairway. Now, I hadn’t seen his lie close up, but I knew that was a pretty amazing shot to pull off from where he was. So I went over to congratulate him.

“Great shot. You managed to keep it under those—“

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Why do you insist on going to a player in the fairway first when there’s a guy in trouble way back here?”

Insist? Has this happened often between us? I think this is the inaugural occurrence.

“I’m sorry, I—“

“That’s a terrible thing to do. You’d better stop it.”

“I’m sorry. I work my way back from the furthest tee shot so by the time I get back to the player with honors, I have everyone’s yardage ready. I saw where your ball was, and I’m sorry I wasn’t back there in time. It won’t happen again. I’m just blown away by how far this kid hits the ball. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

And that was it for awhile. I went on my merry way and worked my ass off. Then, on 15, I saw where the two kids hit their drives, but I missed The Chairman’s tee shot. Sometimes that late-afternoon sunlight can be a little tricky to negotiate. So, I turned my palms to the sky and shrugged my shoulders towards the tee box, signifying that “I have no freakin’ clue where you’re ball ended up,” and I ran down the fairway and into the right rough to get the other two yardages.

Again, I’m on my way back towards his cart, where The Chairman has already found his ball and is in the middle of taking practice swings. So I move to the other side of the fairway to get out of the way, he hits his shot, gets in his cart and starts to drive over towards me.


“There you go again. What did I tell you before? Help the guy in trouble first. Finding a player’s ball in the fairway is easy. You can save that for later.”

“I’m sorry. I tried to signal to the tee that—“

“Just don’t let it happen again.”

Alrighty then. I WOULD’VE come to you first, but I had no clue where you’re ball was. How am I supposed to help you if I didn’t even see your tee shot? I need to wait for you to give me some idea of where it is. Then I can help you find it. Why wait for you to come to me when I have 5 minutes to run and get everyone’s yardage while you’re trying to fit you’re massive gluteus in the seat?

Then came 16. This is a par 3, which means that I usually get the yardage, tell the players and then run next to the green so that when they’re done hitting their shots, I can fix any and all ball-marks on the greens, clean the balls, read the putts or whatever else until the players arrive at the green. And wouldn’t you know it, it happened again. I didn’t see where the Chairman’s ball went. I didn’t even hear it hit the ground so I had a basic IDEA of where the ball was. So I fixed the other two ball-marks on the green, cleaned the balls, and started to patch up a few more ball marks as I was waiting for them to come down to the green. Well I guess I got a little carried away repairing the green because The Chairman was already walking towards the right rough just short of the putting surface to look for his ball. I followed him down and helped him look, found his ball and turned to run back up towards the green when he stopped me. He looked pissed.

“Tom, come here.”


“Now listen to me. Really listen. Because I’m not goin’ to fuckin’ tell you again. You help the guy in trouble FIRST. You got that? Am I getting through to you?”

“Yes, it’s just—“

“No, I don’t care. If you’re going to do your job, do it right. Period.”

At this point, I’d had it. I hate being treated like an idiot. I know this job by now, and I work hard. Every player who has ever worked with me—other than this guy—has enjoyed the experience. I’m a human being, just like you. No more, no less. Stop making me feel like an earthworm. So I was firm right back at him.

“Listen to me for a second. I didn’t see your tee shot. How can I ‘help’ you when I don’t even know where to start looking? Well I can’t. So I’m sorry you think I forgot about you, but there’s nothing I can do.”

“Well wait a second. That’s all you had to say. If you didn’t see my shot, just tell me. And that’s cool. It wouldn’t have bothered me.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t say it right away. But it’s an embarrassment for a caddie to admit to losing a player’s ball.”

“Don’t worry about it. The truth only hurts for a second.”

And that was it. The last couple of holes were fine, and by the end he complimented me on a good job. Wow. I guess I’m more confused than anything else about the whole situation. But at least he tipped me. I’ve never come into the 18th hole wondering if the player or player’s I’m caddying for are going to stiff me.

I don’t know, what do you guys think? Is my method really stupid? Should he have said all those things to me? Or is he just an asshole. I wonder.

Anyway. Thanks for sticking with the post. I know it was a long one. Take care everyone.