Mostly Anecdotal

It starts innocently enough, you like her and she likes you. A bit of boy meets a girl and sparks fly. She asks you to go to church with her on Sunday, and you say yes, for already you’ll follow her anywhere. The relationship deepens, you meet her parents and they like you, and you like them. They invite you for dinner after church.

You kiss her, and she kisses you. You’d like to get to second base, but you go to church instead. You embrace. You’d like to get to third base, but you go to church instead. You’re thinking below the waist and she above the clouds.

The relationship is good, but you believe it can be better. You join her church and the kissing seems deeper, more passionate. She tells you how much it would mean to her if you would go on a mission for your church. It was her church, but now it’s yours too. Everything seems possible, second base, third base—a mission?

She promises to wait for you while you serve the Lord. You suppress any doubts, but they are there, hidden behind the kisses and the hugs, hidden behind your desires. You are looking for a way out and just don’t know it yet. You say a mission sounds great, her touch makes it feel right. You spend your days wondering where you’ll serve your mission, and thinking about her.

You ask your Dad what he thinks, he once said religion, this religion was a mistake but he lets you make your own mistakes. You want to know more. You ask questions. The answers weaken your resolve, the doubts hidden behind your desires reappear; you question your belief. The answers lead you to the truth, but the kisses linger on your lips.

You tell the Church you have changed your mind. Your Mom asks why and you tell her—I’m not stupid. The Church asks you to pray about it. She asks you to pray about it. Her parents ask you to pray about it, but the prayers don’t provide any answers. They all think that when the mission call arrives, the spirit will tell you it’s true. You don’t think so.

The call arrives; they want you to serve in Florida. You kiss her, and she kisses you. She’s holding the letter, her God’s call for you to serve, she turns and gazes into your eyes. Do you feel the spirit she says, only when you touch it you respond. You see the hurt in her eyes, you reach out and take her hands; the letter falls to the floor.

I’m sorry you say, it’s you I love not your Church. You still care for her and she for you, but you’re not willing to trade reason for faith or even a trip around the bases. It may yet work out. You still kiss her and she you, but the relationship if it is to last will be built upon love and respect, not God.

It began listening to NPR’s “Talk of the Nation”, the day’s guest was Francine Prose author of “Reading Like a Writer: A Guide for People Who Love Books and for Those Who Want to Write Them.” I headed for the bookstore but by the time I arrived I’d forgotten the title. The author’s name too, had slipped away.

“I don’t know the author’s name,” I said, “but the book is a new one on writing, something like if you can read you can write. I’ve already looked in the section on writing; I didn’t find it.”

“Right,” he said.

“I remember. I’m pretty sure the title is if ‘You Can Read You Can Write’, “I said.

He spoke the title as he typed it into his computer, nothing.

“Hmm, I’m certain that I typed it correctly,” he said.

I was leaning across the desk watching the screen as he typed. He spoke the words again, more slowly this time and typed, “If You Can Read You Can Write,” the same list of books appeared on his screen. He was disappointed. He tried a few other search terms with no luck.

“I heard about it on NPR,” I said.

He lighted up. He punched a few keys, and a list of NPR programs appeared.

“What program was it,” he said, foreseeing a quick resolution to my question.

“Talk of the Nation,” I said.

“All Things Considered,” “Diane Rehms,” he scanned the list; his smile vanished. “No ‘Talk of the Nation’,” he said.

I tried to help, “well maybe they discussed it on Diane Rehms,” I said. He checked, his smile did not return.

He sighed, his fingers still hovering over the keys. He wouldn’t would he? He typed, If you can read, but you could see his heart wasn’t in it.

“Just a guess,” I said, “but if you type that again you’ll get the same result,” undeterred, he finished and the computer dutifully spit out the same list as before. He started to type again. If you can write you can, but stopped and turned to me.

“Do you know the author?” he said.

“No,” I said.

“I suppose I’ll have to look it up on the Internet when I get home,” I said.

“Good idea,” he said, “then you can call me and I can order it for you. We can have it here in four days.”

“Right,” I said.

They waited in the dark. If the light came on it was because another was joining them, they waited, not knowing what the future would bring.

She waited until he was gone, then opened the door, and chose two. Only two of hundreds, perhaps with only two he wouldn’t notice when he returned. One in each hand, she led them to the dumpster where they were to hide. She told them to be quiet, very quiet.

“Someone will come for you,” she said. She reminded them that if discovered they would be returned to the room that had been their prison all these years. They said nothing, unable to speak. Others had tried to escape. The pickup delayed, they had been found, and returned to their place in the dark.

He never mistreated them, he sometimes talked to them, recounting what it was that brought them to this place and how someday soon he’d find a way, a reason, to let them return to their previous life.

He probably could have ransomed them and recovered some of the expense of keeping them, but he didn’t. He was comforted just knowing they were there. Now they were gone, spirited out on a Monday after he left, and picked up Tuesday morning before he returned. They were free. It wasn’t until later when he unbolted the door to the room, and turned on the light, that he discovered them missing.

“Where the hell is my lawnmower,” he said, “and my shovel.”

“They were worn out, you never used them,” she said. “The handle on the shovel was broken. Remember, you bought a new one, you just didn’t throw out the old one, and the last time you used that lawnmower it was spewing black smoke and making a clanking sound.”

“They were fixable,” he said. “They had some good years left,” he said.

“I know,” she said, and laid her hand on his shoulder, “but it was time to let them go.”

We left him on the 14th hole, under some scrub oak, on the right side of the fairway, and not far from the 15th tee. He should be comfortable there. He is, after all, dead. Fred made our twosome a threesome and beat us to boot. Fred never felt the pressure of needing to hit the perfect shot. He never threw a club and he never cussed. Fred was a golfer’s golfer.

There is nothing better than standing on the first tee early in the morning. The course covered with a light dew waiting to track your first shot. It will burn off by the time you reach the fourth hole. Until then each shot will land creating a visible track from where it strikes the fairway to where it stops. Sometimes when the sun is shining just right, it’s like a thousand little rainbows flittering across the grass, the ball resting at the end of the rainbow. The first hole is a dogleg right. To the right is a mountain-side strewn with boulders, you don’t want to be right. On the left, a row of trees lining the creek that defines out of bounds until it passes in front of the green. The creek is the final obstacle to negotiate before reaching the putting surface.

Being the first group of the day is special. No one to slow the play, the first nine holes with nothing but fairways, tees, and greens ahead. The round takes not two hours, but closer to 90 minutes, three hours for the 18. There are many theories on why Fred plays so well. Some say he has no pressure on him. He cares, but he doesn’t. When it’s his turn to shoot he always seems relaxed, and if he misses a shot it never carries over to the next shot. Like I said, he’s never cussed, he seldom says anything at all, but Fred hadn’t arrived.

So after Steve and I teed off I hit Fred’s drive for him allowing that he would take over when he joined us. I drove it straight and true, 260 yards right down the middle of the fairway. I was tempted to claim Fred’s shot for my own and let him take mine but that wouldn’t have been right, and besides Steve and I had our usual wager and he would never allow it. Steve, with Fred still missing, hit Fred’s second shot.

The second and third holes are out of sight of the clubhouse, but we imagined Fred sitting on the clubhouse patio, a cup of coffee in hand, waiting for us to get to the fourth tee, just a wedge shot away from the clubhouse. He would be refreshed and ready to go. So Steve and I continued to alternate shots with Fred’s ball. Fred parred the first hole. Steve and I both bogeyed the hole. On the second hole a short par three over a pond we all made the green, and we all had birdie putts, but Steve and I managed only to par the hole. Steve had hit Fred’s tee shot and so it was up to me to putt. The knowledge gained by watching Steve putt and having struck my ball on a line similar to Fred’s was a help and Fred scored a birdie. We arrived at the fourth tee but no Fred.

We continued alternating shots on Fred’s ball, and he continued to score well. Certainly, he would be at the clubhouse when we made the turn. “You grab some sandwiches and I’ll ask around, maybe someone has seen him” I said, Steve just smiled. I wandered into the pro-shop and asked Jimmy the pro, “Have you seen Fred today?” He smiled, “he’s beating you again, eh. Tell ya what If I see him I’ll send him out to join you.” We waited as long as we could and then, as on the first tee, I struck a perfect drive in Fred’s name and the back nine was underway. I thought I caught sight of Fred a time or two, but I was wrong. The distraction of playing Fred’s ball didn’t help our game, though it had no effect on his.

At the fourteenth we were fed up, still no flesh and blood Fred. He was up three with four to go. If nothing changed we would lose to Fred again. Steve and I didn’t speak, but we had an understanding. I directed Fred’s drive toward the rough on the right side of the fairway. It was headed straight for a stand of oaks, but through a stroke of good luck for Fred or bad luck for Steve and me the ball struck a rock and bounded right into the middle of the fairway. I looked at Steve, he looked at me, and still we said nothing. But when he arrived at Fred’s ball Steve kicked it into the trees. We finished the final four holes with no mention of Fred.

We had a beer in the clubhouse while I added up the scores. Fred had the lowest score but since he hadn’t finished the round it didn’t count. When I got home Gail said, “How was the round.” Pretty good. I started to say that I’d birdied the second hole, but then I remembered it was Fred. “How about Steve,” she said, “solid as usual” I replied. And how about your imaginary friend Fred, did he play. “Fred’s dead,” I said. “Fred’s dead,” she said. “Yes Fred’s dead,” I repeated. I sometimes think about Fred and the role he played. I remember his consistent good play, and that he never complained. I sometimes think about Fred, but I don’t miss him.

We ID It’s The Law Utah Dept. A.B.C.* I read the sign out loud as I started toward the back of the store. “Only on Tuesdays,” she said. Her timing was perfect. I found a bottle of Johnny Walker Red and made my way back to the checkout. There are two registers. I’m the only customer in the store. He is at register one, she at register two. I chose two. “Damn cold day isn’t it?” I said. Talking about the weather is usually an ice breaker, but does that apply on a day when the temperature is barely twenty degrees fahrenheit? “Yes, pretty cold” she said. “Bad day for brass monkeys,” I said. She smiled. “Is that all,” she said.

“Yep that’ll do it,” I replied.

“She forgot to check my ID,” I said to the fellow at the other register. “I got her talking about other stuff, and she forgot.” “She certainly did,” he said. “It’s a technique I’ve been working on for years,” I said. “Really,” he said. She’s smiling now, a sweet smile, she’s in no hurry. Quitting time comes sooner when you’re not in a hurry. “Yep, and it’s working better the older I get.” I said. She puts my purchase in a sack, and shares the smile one last time. I head for the exit.

*Alcohol Beverage Control