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Will Work “See you around the golf course,” Mickey says and walks off toward the store. “Sure thing, partner … we’ll do lunch,” Browne calls after him, grateful there’s no one around to hear. It’s a few minutes after nine and Browne has just picked up Wayne. They’ve got a 10:15 tee time and he wants to be at the course a half hour early to hit a few drives. Wayne’s a good five years younger then Browne and about three inches shorter. He’s got a buzz cut and that fleshy, bloated look that young men with too much wealth and too little ambition acquire over time. Between his lime-green legs is a giant size Dunkin Doughnut’s coffee cup. Wayne is saying: “You shudda been there, Brownie …I swear, the bastard couldn’t of made a putt like that again if his life depended on it. Thirty feet, if it was an inch.” Browne is barely listening. He hits the usual bottleneck of traffic and slows. He’s thinking about a sand-wedge he saw in the pro shop at Emerald Dunes two weeks ago. The clerk told him they were asking one twenty five but Browne thinks they’ll take a even hundred. He purposely stopped at the bank after work and got ten brand new ten-dollar bills. He plans on stopping by the shop on their way home today and closing the deal. Let’s see that smart-aleck salesman turn down a hundred -- cash. He tries to picture the club, the over-sized face and new synthetic grip. His instructor said he should work on his short game, didn’t he? Told him he’s only a few strokes away from braking 80. Browne pictures Augusta. The back nine. He’s one stroke off the leader, looking at a --. “…the fuck outta here!” He snaps out of his daydream. Wayne’s back is arched; he’s holding his cup out over the dashboard. “Dumb fuck surprised the piss outta me, coming from nowhere like that. Look at this mess …” Browne looks past Wayne and sees Mickey standing there, right outside the passenger side window. He’s wearing the same filthy jacket and has his can pressed against the window. Browne wants to call out to him but stops himself. What’s he going to say? Ask about the wife and kids? How’s work? Making budget? Playing any golf? Stuff he asks everyone. Mickey’s head is down, peering into the can just like he was when Browne left him. His eyelids are swollen and sag like wet tea-bags below his brows. He looks even more lost and desolate then he did a few weeks ago. Browne pulls the billfold from his pocket -- the ten crisp tens. He starts to peal one off but stops and refolds them. He’ll borrow a couple of bucks from Wayne later on, he decides. “Here,” he pushes the wad into Wayne’s free hand. “Give’im this.” Wayne looks at the bills. “You’ve got to be kidding, man. These aren’t ones, you know.” “No shit. Really?” “Let me get this straight, you wanna -- ” “Just give him the money, Wayne.” “Loog-id him! The man’s a goddamn derelict!” “Give him the fuckin’ money,” Browne barks. Wayne powers down the window and shoves the bills into the can. Browne grips the wheel, watching. Wayne resumes blotting coffee from his pants and muttering curses. Mickey picks the bills out of the can and examines them. His eyes blink and when he glances up to meet Browne’s stare, his ashen lids flutter like moth wings. A conspiratorial smile spreads across Mickey’s face. Browne sees that the cracked tooth is missing and the gum has turned a fiery violet. Moments later he’s turning and walking away. Behind him Browne hears a horn blast. “Okay, okay, asshole.” Wayne exhales dramatically and chides: “Can’t believe you gave that bum - what? A hundred bucks? Ya know what he’s gonna do with it, don’t you?” “Shut the hell up, will you Wayne?” Browne accelerates with the traffic. In his rearview mirror he thinks he sees Mickey’s green jacket; a fuzzy dot against the morning’s cloud cover. It shrinks from sight and melts into the eggshell sky like a well -hit drive. When he sees that Wayne has set the coffee cup back in his crotch, he accelerates and pulls up next to a teal-blue BMW. A young woman with a pennant of gold hair snapping over the headrest steals a glance. A turn signal blinks. “Ya know something?” he says to Wayne, flashing a smile at the blonde. “Ya really oughtta watch what you say about people. Guy back there ….” He eases off the gas, sees a wash of exhaust streaming from the chrome muffler as he lets the BMW slip in front of him. “ … I happen ta know the man’s a fuckin’ war hero.” |
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