Bat Merrit, Private Eye

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Chapter 2 – Tuesday? More like Bluesday

Bat hurried out of the seedy brick building where his office was and headed out into the street. It was still very early in the morning for an old boozehound like Bat, but it was prime go-time for decent society. Shops were opening up, cars and taxis were zipping up and down the street, well-dressed men and women were walking briskly to coffee shops and on their way to work. The sight of it all nauseated Bat. Not because there was much in the way of jealousy of these folks in Bat’s heart, but because he had been drinking rotgut corn mash into the tender hours of the night and movement made him queasy. Bat decided that nothing this hangover could throw at him couldn’t be overcome by a boiling-hot cup of java and a fresh pack of smokes. Bat ambled his best down the street to the corner diner, Sam’s where he usually took either all or at least a few of his meals per week. The bell on the top of the door jingled aggressively when Bat entered. In one motion he pulled off his overcoat and hat and flung them onto the pegs which jutted out of the wall next to the cigarette machine that acted as a coatrack. He was an old hand at this. There wasn’t much Bat could claim expertise in, but ordering a coffee at Sam’s after a night of nearly fatal drinking was one of them. As Bat sat down, a young, fresh-faced waiter bolted over from behind the counter to serve the disheveled gumshoe.

  ”Good morning, sir! Would you like a menu, or do you know whatcha’d like? Start with some coffee, sir?”

Bat snarled and with an absolute look of disgust lifted his head and shouted toward the service window between the kitchen and the dining room. “Sam? What the hell is this and why is it talking to me?” He said this while gesturing to the young man by simply throwing his head in his direction briefly.

  ”Say, what is your problem, mister?” the young waiter asked with the air of youthful vigor that can only be described as admirable yet poorly timed and wholly unearned. The young man furrowed his brow and leaned ever so slightly forward in order to glare into this rude old drunk’s eyes. This was his counter and he meant to stake his claim to it by showing Bat that he had no intention of backing down or backing away. Bat returned the glare with his own furrowed brow. However, the wrinkled brow was more a product on Bat’s eyes only now coming into focus and his attempt to take a good look at the kid who dared to challenge him.

Sam emerged from the kitchen. Already smelling of grease and fried onions at this early hour, and made his way over Bat and the angry young man who were engaged in a painful staring contest. Sam got in between the two by gently moving the young man away from the counter and up against the service area where coffee cups on saucers and stacks of forks and knives with black plastic handles wrapped in disposable napkins were staged for the morning rush.

  ”Alright, easy you two” Sam said in his customarily easy, soft but business-like tone.

  ”Clearly, you two got off on the wrong foot. Now, Bat, you be nice. This here is Will and it’s only his third day. Can’t help that you haven’t met yet and I can’t help that I needed to hire someone. Will, this is Bat. He is a good friend and he works right across the street. If you want to keep this job, you treat this man well. Both of you understand?”

Both men mumbled something which was supposed to resemble an acquiescence to Sam’s request for peace. Good enough thought Sam. Sam had owned the diner going on twenty years and had known Bat for the last ten of those. The diner wasn’t much to look at and the food had a reputation similar to the tap water in India, but for the hard-working shlub looking for a slab of meatloaf and a bottle of suds, it was a slice of alright. The pleather booths were nearly always empty as the counter was the prime real-estate and the same folks came in day after day. The orders were nearly always the same and the conversation was usually kept quiet. The place smelled of onions and coffee constantly as patty melts and gallons of the magma-hot black liquid were doled out at a steady pace throughout the day. It wasn’t a dump, but you wouldn’t take a date here unless you wanted to set their expectations of a relationship with you at a subterranean level. Sam was a tall, slender African American man in his late fifties. Bald with a handsome face and determined peepers that could let a guy or gal know who was in charge with only a glance. He had honed that craft through years of owning restaurants, lounges and bars. Sometimes patrons need to understand that while the customer might always be right, it’s the boss that decides who gets to be the customer. He would manage a few places at a time when he was a younger man and he made quite a bit of money doing it. For some reason he sold off his businesses when he was in his early forties, right when he was in the prime of his career. He only kept one; the Castle Lounge, which was now the dirty spoon known as Sam’s. No one knew why he’d cashed in his chips when he had the world fully by the cojones, but there was something about running this place that he loved. Maybe one day Bat and the rest Sam’s faithful would know. Maybe. (If this series gets any traction, I will write another series… is what I am getting at. So, share this with your friends so I can monetize this shit and justify this to my wife.)

  ”Sorry, kid. It’s just that Sam usually takes my order and knows that mornings are a little rough for old Bat Merrit.”

  ”I’m sorry too, mister. I should have known better than to ask a customer what they wanted to eat or drink. I really am sorry.”

  ”It’s ok, kid. Just as long as you understand that now, then everything is gangbusters” Bat replied.

  ”He’ll have a black coffee and a Danish. Doesn’t matter what kind he just needs to get some sugar in him.” Sam’s words meant business, much like his glances so at once the kid got to work setting up Bat with the order. Sam headed back into the kitchen to oversee the cooks that were lazily frying eggs and whisking pancake batter. The kid placed a cup and saucer from the service counter behind him in front of Bat and poured the blackest, hottest coffee in town into it up to the brim. Sam’s place had a reputation for its coffee. It was as black as night, as thick as road tar and as strong as a toddler’s grip on a bag of cheese puffs. Bat took a deep swig and even though the liquid had just finished boiling, years of smoking, boozing and slurping down this lava had turned his mouth and throat into a sort of catcher’s mitt of a maw. The kid had just put the pot back when he realized that Bat needed a refill. He decided better of asking whether or not he wanted another coffee, as the first time he attempted to be hospitable had led to a stare down and a warning. He grabbed the carafe, brought it back to Bat and poured another.

  ”Ya know, kid, you might be alright.”

                     . . .

After Bat finished his breakfast of three cups of the rocket fuel Sam called coffee and a couple bites of a cheese Danish, he threw a sawbuck on the counter and grabbed his hat and coat and walked out. Said goodbye to no one on the way. Sam came out of the kitchen and began to busy himself with some work in the register. Bank-facing notes and adding change to the trays that were getting low from a bag of rolled coins that he pulled up from the shelf below the register. Will had finished taking an order and after pinning the ticket to the service window turned and leaned against the wall for a moment.

  ”Say, Mr. Holden, what’s with that guy? That Bat character. What’s his story?

Sam closed the register and slowly lowered himself onto the stool he kept next to the coffee station. He sighed lightly and lit a cigarette that he retrieved from a pack in his chest pocket. Sam began to talk.

  ”First off, just call me Sam. I’ve already asked you not to call me Mr. Holden. Second, that ‘character’ as you call him was one of the best cops this piece of shit city has ever seen. He did more for the people in these streets than any charity or city outreach. He knew what people needed and more importantly he knew the difference between someone just trying to make a buck to feed their families and a real gangster. If you were small time… just some chump, he’d rough you up a little. But you’d walk away. If you were from out of town coming around to make trouble… you’d limp away. But if you were out to do the real dirt? The real awful shit? Well, you’d just go away. If you catch what I mean.”

Sam took a drag and ashed into a paper cup that sat down by his feet. The kid adjusted his lean against the wall and looked quizzically at Sam.

  ”Sounds like a hero. Yeesh, what has to happen to a guy in order to go from hero to drunken mess?”

At that, a patron who’d had his head hovering only inches above his tapioca for the past ten minutes or so, lifted his head and exclaimed, “he watched his partner get blown away. Is that enough for ya, kid?” Sam looked over at the tapioca town-crier and then back at the kid.

  ”He did. But it ain’t anyone’s story to tell other than Bat” chirped Sam while at the same time casting one of his customary glances at the man sitting at the counter. The man didn’t flinch, however. Instead, he swiveled around to face the kid and straightened himself up.

  ”Aw hell, anyone can tell the damn story. It was in the paper when it happened. I ain’t saying nothin’ that people don’t already know and the kid oughtta hear it, so he knows to steer clear of that two-bit moron.”

Sam stared at the man now sitting sideways to him and slowly took a long drag.

  ”Well… go ahead then. But just know, when you finish that story, you’re finished in here.”

The man chuckled lightly.

  ”Never having to eat this shit again ain’t much of a threat so here goes, kid. A few years back, Bat watched his partner get blown away and he didn’t do a damn thing after. He froze. Like a frozen thing. See, he and his partner were fresh faces on the force. Bat had already made a name for himself, but it was only a few years into his time on the force and he was still a rookie considering everyone else there was as old as Sam an’ me. His partner, young guy named Dale had only been on the force for a few months, young wife, kid on the way, was thrilled to be partnered up with this city’s answer to Batman. They spent day after day doing the right thing. But Bat is a chance taking man. The closer he comes to the edge the happier he is. His partner wasn’t that way, but he wasn’t gonna let the great Bat Merrit down! So, he went along taking risks he normally wouldn’t just to please that big doughy faced dope. Well, one day they’re chasing these two bad guys…. really bad guys…. up into a building over on Fairfield Avenue. Shooting back and forth the whole way. Bat and Dale pushing people to the ground, yelling for everyone to get down. They chase these two up the stairs of some building and trade shots in the stairwell. Dale, the kid, well he ends up taking the top of one of these guys heads right off. Lucky shot, aiming up the stairwell. BOOM! Scalped ’em. Guy falls forward and his brain comes toppling out and he falls ass over tea kettle over the railing and splats on the lobby floor below. Well, the kid, see he’s never seen anything like that let alone been the reason for it. He gets real queasy and freezes up, staring straight ahead, can’t move a muscle. That’s when old Bat jumps down a flight of stairs to him and says, “c’mon kid, you just gave your first haircut!” They keep chasing the other guy who is still shooting at them. They end up on the roof and it has a lot of ya know, roof stuff all over the place. Utility boxes and vents for the heating and ya know, roof stuff. Bat tells the kid to get over by the end of the roof to the rear where they know the guy ain’t. Kid’s shaking like a leaf and can’t shoot straight. I mean he just saw someone’s brain fall out! Anyway, Bat ends up cornering this guy and they trade a couple more shots. The guy runs out of ammo and old Bat jumps on him. The guy was scared shitless and gave up pretty easy. So, Bat cuffs the guy and they head back over to the door that leads to the stairwell. Meanwhile cops from all over are streaming in and all you can hear are sirens everywhere. Dale’s wife just happened to work near there answering phones for a plumbing company which ain’t there anymore. She hears the sirens and hears a lot of ’em and peaks her pretty little head out the window. Every cop in the city is there so she heads out to see what’s up. Ya know, she want’s to see if Dale’s there or not. So, she waddles her pregnant ass over to the building where the cops are already keeping a stadium’s worth of gawkers back from the area. She almost falls backwards into a freakin’ open manhole because the sewer guys are even out of the tunnels watchin’ this whole thing! Meanwhile up on the roof, Bat calls to Dale who stands up and comes out from behind a roof thingy. Ya know, one of those metal utility boxes. He’s standing by the edge and Bat and the cuffed guy join him to lean over to give a little wave to the crowd ya know? Cops are showmen, I guess. Well, wouldn’t ya know it, as soon as Dale spots his whale of a pregnant wife down there he leans over too far and just then, like it was some sorta bad joke, a gust of wind whips around the buildings, up and up and over the roof and blows him away! He starts flyin’ like a damn goose! People below are screaming their heads off as this poor guy is flailing and hollerin’ like crazy! SPLAT!” The man then slammed his hand on the counter rattling the spoons in the saucers against the cups and making a racket.

Sam put the cigarette in the cup and stood up. “Alright you crusty son of a bitch, you told the damn story now get out!”

  ”I ain’t finished, Sam! I’m gonna tell the whole damn thing whether you like it or not” yelled the man. He began again. Sam slowly sat down.

  ”So, Dale has taken a half gainer to the street and the perp looks at Bat, who is frozen solid. He turns to light on out of there and makes it all the way down the damn stairs with his hands cuffed behind his back! He makes it to the bottom floor, bolts out the front door as everyone is crowding around the smooshed rookie right? Except for one person. This red-head with a pretty face but a tank of a pregnant body. She can’t believe what she seen, right? Her husband just literally got blown off a building. I mean what kinda guy gets blown off a building? What kinda shitty bone structure do you have to have to not be able to withstand a small gust of wind? Anyway, the perp can’t believe his luck that no one see’s him getting away so he ain’t looking forward while he’s running. So, he goes plowing into preggo and sends her back down INTO the manhole! She busts her nut, she’s dead, kid’s dead, husband’s dead, bad guy get’s away and there’s old Bat stuck up on that damn roof watching the whole thing. Never moved a muscle. Well, after that the force tried to cover it all up for him, but he wasn’t as sharp anymore. He had no edge. He couldn’t climb a ladder without soiling his pants. It was only a matter of time. They had to let him go. Ever since then, well, it’s been the bottle for Bat. Makes just enough to stay loaded and keep the lights on. Works off of name recognition to get piddling little private eye cases here and there. That, kid, is Bat’s story.”

At that, the man stood up and looked at Sam. “I know, I know, I’m goin’.” “You’d better figure out why you protect that rotten bastard as much as you do, Sam. You’re gonna end up like Dale one day if you keep letting that skunk hang around.” The man ambled toward the font door and noticed that the morning hadn’t brightened at all. Rain was now coming down steadily and people were rushing here and there under umbrellas and with unfolded newspapers over their heads. “Ah great.” The man retrieved his worn-down hat from the peg it had been hanging from and opened the door. He stood under the awning for a minute and jogged down the five concrete steps in front of him and took a left down the rain-soaked street. There, unseen by the man, in the corner with his head down, water pouring off of the brim of his cap onto his coat and a ring of cigarette smoking curling up around his head and dancing in the rain drops, stood Bat.

“She was a blonde, you knucklehead. She was a pretty young blonde.”



Stay Tuned for the next Chapter! Chapter 3 – The 4B Boys and the Roman Funk

Bat Merrit, Private Eye

Bat Merrit, Private Eye

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Chapter 1: Tuesday Morning

Bat’s small, cluttered office, which also acted as his apartment most of the time, was just starting to turn from a pitch-black dungeon of cigarette and whiskey smelling effluvia into a navy-blue den of absolute misery. Bat, still sawing wood on the badly cracked leather sofa turned over only to fall out of the makeshift bed and land on the floor with a dull thud. Bat began to come-to. He cracked his puffy eyelids and began to woozily survey the landscape around him. Still laying on the floor which was littered with Camel butts and plastic nip bottles, Bat managed to lift his head an inch or two and began to make sense of what he saw. He knew he was in his office; he knew he was badly hungover; he knew he had to pee. Basically, he knew that status quo for the day had already been achieved by six in the morning. It’s always nice to start off the day with an accomplishment, Bat thought to himself. He then spied the stuffed pheasant that he picked up in a pawn shop a few years back on his desk. He’d tell potential clients that he had hunted and killed the bird himself. He thought it made him seem more dangerous. Bat decided to bid a good morning to the bird, his only real friend. He worked together the phrase “good morning there, Feathers you stupid old bird” in his head and his mouth fired off, “goog morbling you fuggin dumb seagill hehehe”. Bat pushed himself off of the floor and managed to get back onto the couch. He sat up, deciding sleep was finished for the day considering that he was fairly certain that if he fell back asleep, he would probably Rip Van Winkle-it into the next day… meaning he wouldn’t be able to water his liver again that evening. Couldn’t have that. With a badly shaking hand he reached over to pull the small chain which hung from the shadeless lamp that sat on a small table next to the couch. In an instant the room flooded with light and Bat let out a scream that sounded like a blend of a fox calling in the woods and a car screeching to a stop. Natural or artificial light isn’t the friend of the blindly hungover private eye. Making it to a standing position, Bat dropped trough right there in his own office and began to urinate into a potted plant. The tangled stems and vines had been dead for years and at this point were more piss than plant. The amount of urine was astonishing. It began to flow over the side and large clumps of wet dirt began to rain down onto the floor. “Ah shoot” Bat exclaimed, as he ran over to the window, pee still flying wildly, ready to unload the rest of last night’s bourbon onto the pavement below. It took him a moment to open the window, all the while pee streaming up against the glass and splashing back all over Bat. “Ah c’mon already!” Bat finally got the window open and began to spray his acrid urine out onto an unsuspecting world. Unfortunately for Bat, he had run to the wrong side of his corner office and instead of unloading onto the pavement below, he had unknowingly begun to go all over the resident hobo, Shaggy Jim, who slept on the same pile of papers and cardboard every night.

  ”Hey, hey, Bat! Bat, what in the name of Sam Hill are you doin’?” Jim began to squawk.

At this point, Bat became concerned that his flow of urine had not only not finished but hadn’t abated at all.

  ”Mornin’, Jim, take a shower you old filthy beggar. HA!”

Bat was having a ball as he pee’d all over the down-on-his-luck gentleman of the street below.

 ”Bat! I’m serious now… you shut that hose off!” Jim staggered to his feet, looking up to yell at Bat as the urine splashed all over his face and then down over his body.

  ”Why don’t you come up here and make me, Jim?! Go put your shoes on and come on up… Oh that’s right, you don’t have any! HA!”

Jim looked down to find the bits of newspaper and string he had put together to make the most pathetic pair of flip flops ever seen.

  ”That’s it, Merrit! You asked for it, you can have it!”

Jim sat down to strap the awful shoes to his badly marred and filthy feet. All the while a steady stream of pee falling onto his head. The urine made it nearly impossible to tie the “laces” of his shoes as it kept streaming over his head and into his eyes.

  ”Doggonit, Merrit! You shut that hose off right now! You wanna fight? Then you have to let me get these one to get on up that fire escape to give you whatfer!”

  ”Lemonade for breakfast, street rat! HA!” Bat replied as he let out a large sigh and an even stronger, steadier stream of pee rained down on the poor man, now completely drenched in urine.
Jim realized that this fight was never going to happen as his shoes had been nearly completely destroyed by the unbelievable volume of urine that had been raining down on him for over a full two minutes by this point. He resigned himself to his fate, laid back down and went back to sleep. The urine shower lasted another few minutes. Bat felt bad about what he had done. After zipping up his wrinkled pants, Bat leaned out the window and called down to the soaked old man lying two stories below.

  ”Hey, Jim! Wake up now you soggy old so and so.”

Jim rolled over and looked up at Bat as he leaned rather precariously out the window.

  ”What in the hell do you want now? Need to shit too?!”

Bat thought about it for a minute but hastily shook the notion out of his head.

  ”Ah heck, Jim. I feel pretty bad about what I did. Why don’t you come on up the fire escape and I’ll hose you down with a bottle of soda I have here.”

Jim didn’t feel like walking up the metal staircase with no shoes on, but he also didn’t feel like lying in urine any longer.

  ”Alright, I guess. Listen, can you at least lend a fella and old shirt or a jacket or somethin’?”
Bat realized it was the least he could do.

  ”Sure, Jim… now move it! I don’t have all day to wait for your slow ass.”

Jim rose to his feet and began to climb the fire escape ladders up towards Bat’s window.
Meanwhile, Bat had turned back into his office and instantly forgot about inviting Jim up to the landing outside his window. Booze will do that to a man. So, he closed the window and drew the shutters. He headed over to his desk to get some work done. If he was up this early, he might as well make the morning worthwhile.
Jim made it to the window only to see that it had been shut and the shade had been drawn.

  ”The tears it, Bat! You have made one powerful enemy today. You hear me, Bat?!” Jim began banging on the window. He had a mind to break the damn thing and climb in to teach that two-bit gumshoe a lesson he’d never forget. Bat heard the banging at the window and got up to inspect what was going on. He nearly fell over on his way across his office due to the number of little bottles all over the floor.

  ”Hold, your horses, buster!” Bat exclaimed as he made it over to the window. There, he raised the shade and saw the furious face of Shaggy Jim.
  ”Oh, it’s you. Whaddyou want, boulevard-bozo?!”

Jim realized that Bat had completely forgotten about the last five or so minutes of his own life. Even though he was soaked in a horrid draught, Jim actually began to feel sorry for Bat.

  ”Just open the damn window, Bat! You pissed all over me! Dontcha remember?!”

Bat began to recollect that he had indeed committed the heinous crime of turning an unfortunate man into a urinal cake. He opened the window.

  ”Jim, I’d invite you in, but you would probably steal my booz. So, here’s the deal. You can come in, but I get to cuff you to the radiator. Deal?”

Jim thought about it for a second and replied.

  ”Fine, but I want new clothes to put on. Hell, if you’re going to chain me up you might as well have a new jacket for me at least.”
Bat nodded his head with his eyes nearly shut and turned back into the office. Jim followed him in.

Jim sat on the floor among all the empty little bottles and patiently waited to be chained to the radiator. Bat headed over to his closet and pulled out a lady’s jacket and one of those old-timey nightshirts that men and women wore back in the middle of the 19th century. He flung the clothes at Jim.

  ”Aw hell, Bat. What are these? I’m going to look like a lunatic clown in this getup!

Bat didn’t lift his head at all.

“Well… it’s either that, or you walk around smelling like pee all day.”
Bat had a point. Jim reluctantly got up and put the clothes on. He took his seat on the floor again and Bat cuffed him to the radiator.

Bat moved the potted plant, now filled with less pee than before due to the seepage holes drilled into the bottom of the pot, next to Jim who was seated between the sink and a large file cabinet.

  ”Tell ya what, Jim, get this plant into the sink and get some actual water into the dirt. You’ll have to fill it a few times and let it drain out a few times. I’m gonna try to bring the old gal back to life here. Do that and I’ll throw ya a sawbuck. Deal?”

Jim lifted himself to his feet but needed to hunch over due to his wrist being cuffed to the radiator.

  ”I’d do it, Bat but you have me chained here like a damned animal!”

  ”Well, I guess he can’t do too much stealing if he is working on this plant” Bat thought. He uncuffed Jim and told him to get to work.
Bat did things like that for Jim every now and then. He’d give him a brainless, menial task and throw him a few dollars after he had performed it. Bat got back behind his desk and sat down in his creaky leather chair.
Jim cast a glance at him and noticed that somehow, he looked older this morning. Bat stood about about five foot eleven and had a rather slim build. Jet black hair had given way to an unstoppable wave of grey which gave his normally classically styled, slicked back, devil-may-care look a perceptible glimpse of what was to come. Everyone ages, but the hard drinking, hard living private eye ages at a much more rapid pace. At thirty eight years of age, Bat already had the wrinkles of a cowboy who’d spent untold years on the range. Pale complexion and a long slender face were studded by two grey-blue eyes that were probably quite handsome at one point in Bat’s younger days. A long, nearly fishing-line thin scar from the bridge of his nose travelled over his left cheek and stopped just past the corner of his eye. From this blemish would come his nickname which was known all over the tri-state area. Yep, to be sure, most people around the area new old Wierdline, for better or for worse.

While Jim busied himself with the nearly impossible task of soaking the urine out of the potted plant’s dirt, he couldn’t help noticing that there was a telegram on a little table on the far side of the room that had not been opened. It wasn’t his place to say anything, nor did he feel inclined to help the guy who just pissed all over him and then gave him some old flame’s clothes to wear as replacements, but he blurted out, “hey, Dick Tracy, there’s a message for you there on the table by the door.” Bat looked up, still seeing the world in double as the hooch hadn’t fully flushed out of his system yet and saw the yellow envelope on the table. Bat barely remembered receiving the message, but he immediately became uneasy with the idea that he had let the booze take over to the point where he missed a message. What if it was something important? What if someone’s life was on the line? What if his negligence had allowed something awful to transpire? Anyone who’s ever had a drink knows full well that that kind of panic can sober you up right quick. Maybe not all the way sober, but it’ll get your feet moving. In a flash, Bat made it over to the table and picked up the envelope. Western Union. This meant business. Jim shut the water off in order to add a more silent suspenseful tone to the room.
Bat looked at Jim and then looked back at the envelope. He swallowed hard, shut his eyes and opened it. For a few moments there was a tense atmosphere in the room. Eventually, the tension was broken when an audible snore escaped Bat’s nose. Jim couldn’t believe it. This drunken buffoon had fallen asleep while standing up. Now was his chance to steal all of Bat’s booze and a decent sent of clothes. He could probably grab an item or two to pawn as well. But as Jim stared at the anomaly of a man sleeping while standing up, he decided to do one better than robbing the guy. He walked over to Bat and began to undo the chicken-wire belt he used to keep his ancient blue jeans up. At that moment, Bat came alive. He flew into a fury and performed a perfect flying kick into Jim’s gut which sent him flying into the wall. Jim crumpled to the floor and began to moan and groan.


  ”Never sneak up on a private eye, Shaggy. You might end up on your keister.”

Jim responded by coughing up a little blood and letting out an approving chuckle. Bat looked on in horror.
  ”Say, Jim… you might want to get that looked at” Bat said while gesturing towards the little bit of blood on Jim’s oversized night shirt. Jim got up to his feet and looked at his chest.

  ”What, this?” Jim exclaimed as he pulled the front of his shirt out to exaggerate the question. “This… well this is probably nothin’ or it could be somethin’. Either way, I ain’t got insurance or money… so I suppose I am goin’ to have to…”

Bat had already left the room in the middle of Jim’s response. Jim shook himself loose and looked into the mirror. Jim sure had seen better days. He was in his late 50’s and had a head fully of curly, rather shaggy gray hair. Thus his nickname. He sported a full beard and moustache which covered almost all of his face. His large, gin-blossom exploded out over the gray and above that, two brown pupils set in yellowed-white rolled aimlessly on either side. He was a short man. Maybe no more than five foot three or four and had the physique of a garden gnome. He was the kind of guy who could pass for a mall Santa from the wrong side of the tracks. He acted the part as well. Always reltively jolly and always looking to bounce someone on his lap. I do not mean that he went after kids. He wasn’t a monster. But a horndog most certainly. However, his game was usually larger ladies of advanced age. No one knew why. No one wanted to ask.

In the bathroom, Bat looked down at the telegram still in his hand and read it with a palpable air of dread.

“Merrit. Bad news. The Roman Funk is heading our way. This is a matter of life and death. Seriously, do not hesitate to get on this right away. If you don’t act fast, we are all dead. Don’t let us down. Get here quick. DO NOT DRINK.

The Goobers”

At that, he put the envelope back into his pocket and headed back into the office.

Jim was busy filling the potted plant with water. He looked at Bat and asked what the matter was.

  ”Jim, I am going to need you to stay here for a while. If this damn phone rings I am going to need you to answer it. You are going to have to be blunt. Just say, “Hello, Goobers?” and if the person doesn’t respond “Roompah Say” you hang up. Now, and this is really important, Jim… if when you say, “Goobers” they respond with, “Roman Funk on its way”, you start screaming like a little girl then hang up the phone, got it?”

Jim shook his head “no”.
  
  ”Good” replied Bat and he went to grab his hat, his coat, his flask and his .45.
“Now, can I leave you here without having to cuff you to the radiator again, Jim?”

  ”Well, Bat you know…”

Before Jim could answer Bat was in the air, coat tails flying as he attempted and landed another flying kick. This time a roundhouse to Jim’s big pie-plate face. Blood exploded out of the old man’s nose as he hit the floor. Bat reached over and checked his pulse.

  ”Still alive. Good.”

Bat headed out the office door and closed it behind him. It was only about six thirty in the morning by now but he’d already had a day and a half he thought. He made it about twenty steps when he thought of old Jim back in the office laying in a heap on the floor in ladies clothes, reeking of urine. He slowed his walking, stopped and turned back. He made it back to the office door and opened it slowly. There was Jim on the floor where he’d left him a moment ago. He walked over to him and crouched down.

  ”Ah hell, Jim. I don’t know why I do what I do sometimes. I just end up flying off the handle and I don’t think. I know you can’t hear me.” Looking up at the potted plant on the sink, Bat said, “I believe I owe you something.” Then, reaching into his back pocket he opened up his wallet and put a fresh set of cuffs on Jim and on the radiator.

  ”Sleep well, gutterball.”

Bat headed out the door. There was no time to waste.



TUNE IN NEXT WEEK FOR CHAPTER 2: Tuesday? More like Bluesday

Bat Merrit, Private Eye

The Christmas Tree Mission

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Over the weekend my family and I got our Christmas tree. It’s a beaut. Nice and full, smells fantastic, strung up with lights it illuminates the study. We love this year’s tree. On top of everything, it was exceedingly easy to get. There is a small farm down the street from us that sells trees only one or two weekends a year. This is because the farm is, as I said a second ago, small. Once they sell out, they sell out. So, we got lucky this year as there were plenty left. Last year, we were not so lucky. We waited too long and when we went down to pick out our tree, the cupboard was empty. Woe was us. My wife did what modern millennial wives do. She went on Facebook, searched around her community and mom pages and found a place in the town next to ours that had plenty of trees left. You picked your own, cut it down yourself and tied it to the car yourself. For these reasons, the price was more than reasonable. So, we piled into the car and headed out to get our tree. We were not prepared.

The place was about 25 minutes from our house, way out in the hinterlands of our neck of the woods of Connecticut. When we arrived, we noticed that we were the only car and the farm seemed to be hidden behind a rather enormous hill. It was a cold day, but we were bundled up and the kids were thrilled with the prospect of getting our tree. Nice and sunny, blustery and crisp. We headed up towards the farmhouse and around the back where there was one of those machines that definitely has a name that I just don’t know. Ya know the ones I am talking about; the machine that wraps your tree in plastic twine. Anyway, there was one of those machines, a rack of hand saws and a guy sort of hanging around. He was the owner of the farm and explained the situation to me.

Farmer: “Hey, guys. Listen, there’s not many trees left. In fact, we weren’t sure we were going to be open today and we’ll probably shut down in a couple hours. But whatever you find out there is yours.”
Me: “….Ok…. Is it worth it or is there nothing left?”
Farmer: “No there are trees out there. Just not many and not very full. You are welcome to take a look.”
Me: “So, it’s worth it then? I just don’t want to take the kids up over this big hill in the cold if there’s nothing left, you know?”
Farmer: “Yeah, I get it.”
Me: ……
Farmer: ……
Me: “Alright, dude. Just give me the saw.”

And from there we headed up the hill. It was a substantial little climb for my wife and myself so you can imagine what it was like for a 2- and 3-year-old. They were troopers though. I have to hand it to them. Out of the entire time we were out in the field, which was probably about 40 minutes, they gave us a good 3-3.5 minutes of decent behavior before they lost it. After we crested the hill, we were finally face to face with the fact that this may have been a bad idea. I am guessing there were about 15 acres of rolling, hilly fields in front of us. Trees? In theory, yes. We almost headed back to the car at that point, but we were already there, and we’d be damned if we’d let our better judgement win the day. We pressed forward.

To say that there was a definite shortage of trees would be an understatement. Frankly, I wasn’t even sure these people had even planted any trees by the spotty nature of where they were growing. All of them looked pretty ratty. None of them were full and healthy. They looked like they had rough lives. Divorced, unemployed and fighting addiction. These trees hadn’t spoken to their kids in ages. If you listened closely, you could hear them gently sobbing. I think I heard one of them cough. Anyway, we went on looking for the family Christmas tree. For some reason, it seemed to get colder and then as if like clockwork, the whining started. They were cold. They wanted juice. They were hungry. They were tired. They were bored. I was with them in spirit, but I couldn’t show it. Since my wife had picked the place out, I could see that she was starting to feel guilty. It wasn’t her fault, but she was starting to get annoyed. She also doesn’t do well in the cold. The woman sleeps under a fleece blanket and comforter in the Summertime. I kicked it into high gear and left the family in the dust as they were slowing me down. I needed to find a tree, any tree.

There were now other groups of people out there with us. Each with the same look of bewilderment and frustration on their faces. Had we been duped? Were there ever trees there? Were the farmers essentially “harvesting” us with a false advertisement for cheap fir trees? All possibilities were on the table at this point. I should also mention that the terrain was a real pain in the keister. These were not well-kept fields made for folks to go traipsing through. These were quintessential New England fields in the late Fall, early Winter. Overgrown, dead, brambly and thorny. They were difficult for my wife and I to trudge through as adults so you can imagine what it was like for the kids. That is when we realized that they were falling every four or five feet. You’d hear a yowl and look back and there’d be a man down. I raced up a little hill where I saw a cluster of trees that seemed half-way decent. I raced as I knew it was a matter of time before the other groups of suckers spotted them and then it’d be game on. Game on with a group of angry, cold yankees each armed with a hand saw. I got to the top of the little hill and looked back down into the fields. What I saw was absolutely astounding. Sporadic groups of people slowly making their way through the fields, stumbling, swearing and yelling. That’s when I spotted my family.

Have you ever seen Gettysburg? Or The Patriot? If you haven’t, I suggest you do as they are both highly entertaining flicks. During the battle scenes, scores of uniformed men walk in tight lines determinately towards each other. Here and there, men will scream and drop as they get hit by either musket or cannon fire. Very historically accurate to 18th and 19th century infantry warfare tactics. That is what my little family looked like. There they were. The three of them, close together moving in the same direction. Every once in a while, either my son or my daughter would let out a loud “AHHH!” and they’d go down. My wife, in the middle, would stop and lift them up. Much like a soldier picking up a flag after the standard bearer had been brough down by enemy fire. They would move on together another few feet and then there’d be a scream or an “OHHH!” and another would go down. My wife, the non-com of this squad all the while urging them forward. “C’mon! Let’s go!” “Get up! Keep moving!” This was going on in the middle of a field with other small groups of people doing similar. To this day, it was the most hilarious thing I had ever seen. Horrible, but hilarious.

I cut down the least diseased-looking tree I could find and began to head back down the hill. I went down the opposite side of where I had come up after seeing that my family was making their way to the right around the hill heading back towards the main path that led back to the farmhouse. As soon as they came into view, I saw my daughter walking while crying loudly and my wife hurriedly moving to catch up with her with my son under her right arm like a baby pig. He was crying too. My wife was probably crying on the inside. I noticed that he was only wearing one shoe. I yelled down to her about the shoe situation and she responded with, “I DON’T CARE! WE’LL BUY HIM NEW SHOES ON THE WAY HOME!” Now, this woman scowls at me if I buy a bagel for breakfast during the week. She is not a cheapskate by any means, but she is conscientious of the family finances and doesn’t go in for wasteful spending. So, when she suggested that we buy him new shoes rather than spend another minute on that farm, I knew she had gotten to the end of her rope. I got down the hill quickly and traced their steps back and found his shoe. We reunited and headed back towards the farmhouse together.

Farmer: “There they are! Hey, you guys got a good one!”
Me: “Yeah it sure is something else.”
Farmer to my daughter who was sniffling and crying a little: “What’s wrong there?”
My wife: “Her hand is bleeding from falling down so much.”
Farmer: “Oh.”

By this point, we were freezing cold and tired. The kids had stopped crying because I promised them happy meals. Our mission was over. It was accomplished. The tree itself, was nothing to look at. It wasn’t all that full and definitely had some sorry branches there and there. It was lopsided as well. We got it home, strung it with lights and decorated it. It ended up being the healthiest Christmas tree we’d had in years. Lost no needles, stayed nice and green and we ended up loving it. Once I had tied it onto the roof of the car, we began our journey back home. It took a while to warm up enough to get to the point where we could actually speak about the ordeal without our teeth chattering. After a few minutes of commiserating over the conditions and situation. We were relieved to have gotten it out of our systems. Smiles were creeping back. The kids were giggling, and all was right with the world. That is when I took a hard right turn to get back on the main drag that would bring us home, only to have the tree fall off the car.

The Christmas Tree Mission

Can We Stop Worshipping Anthony Bourdain, Please?

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Ask yourself; would you normally take your philosophical cues from someone whose claim to fame was having a travel show? How about someone who took enough heroin to make William S. Burroughs blush? How deeply would you ponder life lessons about personal choice and living in the moment from someone who killed themselves after paying off a 17-year-old kid to keep quiet about being sexually assaulted by their girlfriend? Since you already know who I am talking about, I am sure some of you are still saying, “I would!” internally. But you are fooling yourself. Or, maybe, you just like taking advice from sub-par people. That is fine too, as there are nuggets of wisdom in everyone and everywhere. But let’s not pretend like this isn’t some sort of dopey, cultish hero worship born out of a group of dorks desperate for a cool friend.

I have the same feeling about people who hold Kerouac so closely to their hearts. Most of the time, it is either boring folk who have never left their front porch or ex-miscreants who like to wax nostalgic through the pen of a fellow traveler. Either way, I am not impressed, and neither should you be. We look for heroes all over the place now considering that society has decided to reduce the number of traditional role models for ersatz offenses and revisionist analyses. Naturally, our heroes now must fall within a new and ethereally structured set of criteria. The discursive nature of what is acceptable from day to day in the modern world makes it nearly impossible for a newly minted hero to maintain their status for very long. Probably a good thing. But one man who has, thus far, stood the test of time is Anthony Bourdain.

I was and am a fan. I loved No Reservations and I remember enjoying every single page of Kitchen Confidential. He was a talented chef, writer and TV presenter. I would have loved to have had a few drinks with the guy. I wish he was still alive. That being said, there is nothing profound about the man. He grew up wealthy, went to expensive schools and then became a drug-addled fry cook. Eventually, a drug-addled chef of some renown. Like most rich kids I know, he swayed towards left wing politics and a disdain for the richies of the world. This is usually either consciously or sub-consciously done as a big F U to their parents. It’s easy to bite the hands that fed you while safe and warm in a country that allows and, in some places, embraces and encourages that sort of laughably idiotic hubris. Mommy and daddy were rich, and you lived comfortably, therefore you must assume the mantle of the downtrodden and be the tip of the spear in the fight against the system that nurtured you. Get it? Got it. Awesome. A prolific writer, documentarian and chef, Bourdain was most certainly a talented man. However, it is not like he was the first guy to put a piece of meat in a pan. He wasn’t the first guy to decide to write about where he worked in a candid way, nor was the first person to do a travel show. However, if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he invented cooking, writing and travel by how idolized he is by a lot of people.

Is it the fact that he committed suicide that makes him so interesting and morbidly attractive? Hard to say, but we do have a tendency to marvel at folks who off themselves. I think it is because death is the only thing we all have in common in terms of a universal fear. So, when someone voluntarily jumps into what makes a lot of people the most afraid, it is intriguing to the human mind. Tragically sad, yet still intriguing. I say this as someone who recently lost a very close friend to suicide. I mention that in order to point out that I do not take this topic lightly, nor do I sneer at the dead. I wager that you can make the case that had ne not killed himself, the meme-o-sphere would not be nearly as replete with Bourdain’s image and quotes as it currently is.

In the end, I don’t begrudge anyone their Bourdain fancy. If you want to love the guy and live your life according to his “teachings” then go for it. But let’s at least stop pretending that he is a substitute for actual meaning in our lives. I wonder if anyone will ever ask his daughter whether or not she thinks it was awesome that her dad voluntarily left her life when she was 11 years old. Will someone ask her if she thinks her father’s philosophy on life is healthy? After all, wouldn’t she be in a better position to answer that question than the foodie with a bend towards wanderlust? Of course, the people that knew him and enjoyed him feel a connection to him and miss him. Personally, I just don’t see enough there in order to justify the pedestal of virtue some have put him on. I didn’t know the guy, obviously but I am willing to bet he’d agree.

Can We Stop Worshipping Anthony Bourdain, Please?

The Pilgrims Revisited (A Quick One)

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Two years ago, I wrote a piece called, “The Pilgrims Were Jerks.” I want to amend that statement after some more research and basic soul searching.

One of the most annoying traits of the new generation of the perpetually whiny and misinformed, is their aptness to belittle the people of the past based on the societal sensibilities of the present. I have been guilty of this, and I am guessing you have as well. Now, this does not mean that all previous sins are excusable, nor should they be forgotten. But within the context of modern analytics of historical people and events, one must wonder why all of the good that a person or group did is immediately discounted when their characters are found lacking by a modern audience. I think it’s actually rather blatant what is happening. In a nutshell, it is the destruction of one historical commentary to make way for another in the mechanics of the post-modernist idea that the west is horrifying, and at the core of all the world’s problems. I don’t want to get into why that is a blatant fallacy and an example of being intellectually lazy right now. Just pointing out the obviousness of the motives.

I previously wrote about how ornery, disagreeable, pig-headed and generally lousy the pilgrims were. To reiterate, they were all of those things and more. But, thinking about it now, how could they not have been? In order to undertake what they did, they would have had to be.

When they initially absconded from England to Lydon in Holland, they set up shop working as hard as they could. Even then, in the relatively welcoming and tolerant Holland, they wanted something of their own. Even then, in the relatively welcoming and tolerant Holland, William Bradford still printed and smuggled seditious pamphlets criticizing King James in an attempt to rally the Church of England into forcing further reforms. These people were not just satisfied to find a place to blend in and become part of the background, they wanted action. They gathered as much money as they could, purchased a ship, The Speedwell and hired another, The Mayflower and lit out for what was at that time, a largely mythologized, and misunderstood land. They eventually had to head back to England to unload Speedwell’s cargo and passengers onto Mayflower and headed back out to sea. Today, we complain about the amount of leg room we get on planes and trains. These folks were crammed into the 5-foot-tall hold of a Dutch cargo fluyt, along with livestock and all of their possessions and were told to hang out until they got to a country that was the equivalent of what everyday folks today know about Mars.

This is why I must apologize to the memory of these people for my previous post on the pilgrims. They sailed 9 weeks to get to what is now Cape Cod. They got here in November when it is either bar b q weather or a complete tundra. They died by the score. They scrounged around. They explored. They absolutely did steal seed corn from the native tribes. They absolutely did disturb Native American graves. They absolutely, without a doubt, did some awful things. But here is the kicker; who the hell am I to call them jerks? What have I done that is even a fraction as daring and consequential as what they did? What have you or I done that places us so much farther up the ledger than these folks that it would afford us the right to look down, spit and wipe them away from history? I think a little humility when it comes to analyzing ourselves wouldn’t hurt any of us. Does this mean that we cannot judge the actions of the people of the past? Of course not. But what it does mean, is that we cannot simply render judgement on history without taking into consideration motive, method, modern by-product, and the human element in its socio-historical context. If we do, we are no more than movie critics that write for the school paper.

In the end, the lasting legacy of the pilgrims is tricky for a lot of folks. They most certainly were “jerky”, but I won’t call them jerks anymore. This year, I plan on raising a glass to their memory and say a quick prayer for their courage, perseverance, industriousness, faith and adaptability. Even if they themselves would have probably hanged me for being Catholic.

The Pilgrims Revisited (A Quick One)

Cats vs. Dogs – The Showdown

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Anyone who knows me, knows that I am a cat person. I have always had cats and hopefully always will. I don’t hate dogs, I don’t even dislike dogs. Dogs and I have an understanding. I acknowledge their existence and in turn they leave me alone. We like it that way. Eventually, this is going to come back to bite me, literally, as my daughter dreams of the day we can get a dog. I told her that we cannot have a dog at the moment while we have a cat and she gets it, but she is less than thrilled. So, eventually I am betting that we will have some mutt wandering around my house stinking it up. Am I looking forward to it? No. Is there anything I can do about it? No. It is what it is.

There has always been an argument between dog and cat folk. Which animal is the better pet, which is the better animal, which is easier, etc. etc. I am biased, obviously. However, I will try to do my best to lay out the pros and cons of both animal in order to finally, once and for all end the debate. I take this monumental burden upon myself for your benefit. It is a labor of love and before you even say it; you’re welcome. I really am too good to you.

Dogs PROS

  1. Loyal. Almost to a fault. Dogs are so loyal that you could beat your dog with a length of garden hose, and it will still snuggle up to you afterwards. Why? Loyalty, dammit! That and an almost pathetic dependence on human beings for everything from food to water to a place to make boom booms. Take a look at a wolf. Now, take a look at the dog you have traipsing around your house. The only question that should pop into your head is this; “what have we done?” As a species we have taken a majestic, resourceful, ruthless survivor and turned it into FDR. “Please change my blankie and get me a treat.” Even though dogs are essentially the melonheads of the animal world due to overbreeding, that sense of loyalty is wonderful. They are great guards. They are great babysitters (when they are not attempting to eat the children). They are great friends. They really are awesome in this respect, so it is absolutely a plus.
  2. They’re Social. A dog without a family to play with is a coyote. Dogs love to fetch I am told, and they also like to go for walks. I like to go for walks, so we have that in common. Dogs like to hang out with their families and lie around by crackling fireplaces. They also frolic in leaf piles and have been known to even go swimming. I remember a great swimming dog from pop culture. Its name was Pippit and he was a gorgeous black lab that was fond of playing fetch on the strand of Amity Island beach back in the Summer of ’75. He was a good boy. Dogs are way more social than cats. Not even close, dogs win this round.

Dogs CONS

  1. They Smell Bad. Yeah, they do. Can’t blame them as they need to be washed and if their owners are busy, good luck. For this reason, they can really reek up a house quickly. My daughter used to babysit for a family that had stank-ass dogs. When I would pick her up from a gig, she would stink up my car with the smell of sweaty, dirty canine. She loathed that gig for that reason and when we got home she would immediately shower and throw her clothes in the laundry. You don’t have that problem with cats. Big con here and the first reason I run to when I have the dog conversation with my wife. A conversation that I will continue to have until the big day of purchase or adoption arrives.
  2. “Dog People”. Let’s be clear here. Not every dog owner is a “dog person.” Dog-people are folks who say things like, “Ew I hate cats!” Which, by the way, is something you rarely ever hear a cat person say about dogs. Hating a domesticated animal seems wildly unhinged to me. Anyway, Dog-people are the ones who laboriously post on social media about the need to adopt over purchasing a dog. Which I have never understood. If a dog is pure-bred, does that mean it deserves to be neglected and forgotten in favor of a Mutt? Why? To teach breeders a lesson at the expense of an innocent animal? What these folks don’t understand, is that the paradigm shift they are hoping for can only come about on the graves of an untold number of pure-bred, unwanted dogs. Way to go I guess?
  3. Sometimes They Try to Eat Kids. I can hear it now, “it’s the owwwwnnnners fault.” Why is this defense so prevalent when a dog, literally bred to be hyper aggressive and fight until it dies, mauls or kills someone yet it is always the gun’s fault when some psychotic POS murders a bunch of people? Something to think about there. I can also hear; “oh but you should see my ______, he / she is such a sweetiepie!” Yeah, I am sure they are up until they attempt murder a kid. Every single owner of a highly aggressive breed of dog involved in a mauling or killing always says the same tired crap after the fact; “they’ve never acted that way before.” No kidding! We all figured that you had to keep your dog at bay with a long sharp stick at all times in your house. I just assumed that bedtime at your house was a living hell, consisting of you trying to get down the hallway while your dog either blocked the bedroom with gnashing teeth and lifeless eyes or you running for your life to your room with Kujo in hot pursuit. Look, people, If I throw a rubber duck into a swamp, a lab will instinctively retrieve the duck and hold it in its jaws in a manner that would not do serious damage to the duck. Everyone would respond; “yes, that is what they are bred to do.” If I throw a cabbage patch doll into the back of a pit-bull’s head, it will proceed to rip it to pieces and eat it. Unfortunately, some will actually have the gall to respond; “hm, well would you look at that. No idea where that came from!” Why do you think they match pitbulls with parolees? It’s so if the dog eats the felon society won’t be too upset. Eating people is a hug con.

Cats – PROS

  1. They Require Very Little Work. Litter boxes are gnarly, I have to admit. However, if you get a scoop and some clumping litter, it isn’t as awful as it can be. You put out some dry food for your cat, a water dish and some wet food once or twice a day and you, my lazy friend, are done. There have been full days where I don’t see my cat at all. I have actually had to go searching to see if he had gotten out somehow or that he was dead. Sometimes, the search would bear no feline fruit and I would just go to bed hoping for the best. Inevitably, he’s on the bed in the morning, or cleaning a paw downstairs by his food dish. Where he was, what he was doing for the past 24 hours; a complete mystery. I respect that. Definitely a pro for the pet lover who is also either busy or lazy. I am both.
  2. They Choose Their People. Cats are not all that affectionate. In fact, they can be major curmudgeons. That being said, they choose their people and if you are lucky enough to be one of them, it feels pretty damn good. Imagine the prettiest girl/boy in your school kissed you. Wouldn’t that have felt awesome? You’d wear that like a badge of honor. Now imagine that same boy or girl kissing everyone. Where is that special moment now? Where a dog will love everyone, a cat will size you up and make up its own mind as to whether or not you make the grade. I can see how this is a turn off for some people. Why expose yourself to possible rejection from an animal that used to be used for the purpose of killing mice? I get that. But it is a risk I am willing to take in pet ownership. If I wanted an animal that entertained me on command and only existed at my pleasure, I would get one of those mounted talking fish. Cats have a huge pro here.
  3. They’re Awesome. They really are remarkable little balls of fur. They are quiet, lazy and uninterested. Until you introduce a string or a laser pointer. Then they become absolute maniacs willing to risk life or limb to destroy that damn string or that little dot of light. They move at lightning speed and are deadly accurate with their attack paws which become little clusters of Ginsu knives that retract and spring out like switchblades. Pretty cool. They also kill mice. Yesterday morning I woke up to the sound of my cat having far too much fun chasing and batting at something in the bedroom. I knew immediately what it was. I woke up, looked over and there was my little psychopath. Eyes beaming, body of a very dead mouse at his feet. “Look, Dad… look what I did. Cool huh? You like it, Dad? It’s dead. I liked it. I’d do it again. I want to do it again. Dad, can I kill for you?” …. Sure, little murderer… go forth and do your unholy business.

Cats – CONS

  1. They tend to barf a lot. Yeah, they do. They also eat balloon strings and then proceed to walk around with a string hanging out of their ass for days afterwards. Sometimes you have to take them to the vet and it costs you a lot of money. If it’s not coming out that end, it’s coming out the other. This is just a gross part of cat ownership and frankly, I don’t blame people for shying away from it for this reason.
  2. That’s it. They’re just awesome.

So, there you have it, folks. I have ended the debate and I think it is pretty clear who wins. In case you are still having trouble gleaning which animal I believe to be superior; I will spell it out for you now: whichever one you like. Whatever floats your boat is the better choice. It is pet owners who spend their time crapping on another species of animal because they prefer a different one who are the real losers here. So, throw that tennis ball or that ball of paper. Enjoy the little furry dopes because they aren’t here nearly long enough.

Cats vs. Dogs – The Showdown

What a Boring Bunch of Dopes

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Is there anything worse than someone who turns every topic of discussion into something political? I submit that there are many, many things worse. Attacks by swarms of fire ants, having to endure a laborious lecture on why Taylor Swift is important in today’s world, buttercream frosting… these are just a few that come to mind. That being said, it is absolutely exhausting trying to navigate the nuances of everyday chit-chat these days. What ought to be innocuous piffle about the weather inevitably becomes an analysis of climate change as a byproduct of white supremacy and how the patriarchy is responsible for everything from volcanic eruptions to bad breath. So, why are we the way we are? More importantly perhaps, what can you do in order to stave off insanity for another day or two? Let’s see if I can help at all.

First off, the question of “how we got here” is sort of laughable. To think that we are worse off now than every other time in human existence is incredibly arrogant. Human beings have this innate desire to look at their own struggles, trials and tribulations as the worst in all of human history. Somehow, religious people demonstrating outside of abortion clinics has become worse than the ancestors of those folks hanging people for witchcraft. The irony is that if any of these perennially upset goobers ever actually read a book about history that wasn’t written by someone with more concern about commentary than context, they’d realize their ersatz sense of horror was well, ersatz. Do we argue a lot? Yes. Do we argue more? Probably. The rise of social media has created a landscape where we can argue about absolutely anything with strangers whenever we’d like. Now, you’d think that simply arguing with a stranger would be something most folks would like to avoid. But to the contrary, it has become so de rigueur for the socially conscious true believer, that it ought to have a spot in the Olympics. The reason for this, in my mind, is that our lives have become so soft, that the natural human desire for conflict, struggle and finding meaning in both are squirting out of our fingers and onto our screens in the form of half-researched gobbledy gook and snark. It is not rocket science. People, especially young people, are bored. They are bored because they are the first generation of young adults who had every single moment of their lives planned for them in advance. They were never allowed to scrape their knees because they were forced to wear knee and elbow pads to bed. People thrive on conflict. Many moons ago, the daily business of keeping yourself alive was all the conflict you needed. Now, we have refrigerators, HVAC, indoor plumbing, dollar menus and Tylenol. The life of a working-class person in the United States is ten times better than the life of a wealthy person in the United States 100 years ago. Humans have come a long way, but we are still essentially the same animal as we always have been, at least instinctively. Conflict now comes in the form of appropriated righteous indignation and an almost admirable sense of self-importance made manifest in poorly worded arguments, memes and pseudo-activism.

So, what do you do in order to maintain sanity? Ignore “them”. Ignore the always aggrieved of all political bends and stripes and if you can manage to avoid acknowledging their existence at all, even better. More than half of these folks are suffering from nearly fatal levels of Dunning Kruger delusions and the rest are usually super boring. I know that it is nearly impossible to ignore these types these days because they make it part of their “activism” (boy, do I use that term lightly) to make sure everyone knows how upset they are. But give it a shot anyway. If you can’t, simply agree and move on. Don’t engage with the intention of changing their minds. It is as pointless as telling someone they ought to listen to jazz instead of rock. These causes are fashion. They are performance art. Tell someone their favorite movie sucks and see how viscerally they react. It is the same principle. Causes now are much more about how they make the individual ally feel after the fact than about actually helping the people they purport to care about. Every generation needs its own fashion trend. This generation has chosen the downtrodden. Which would actually be wonderful if any of the incredible amount of energy expended on these causes did a damn thing to help anyone other than the protestor. Remember, marginalized folks, your disenfranchisement gives boring people a reason to get up in the morning and meaning in their lives. I guess they at least owe you for that. What to do about the ever-whiney? Feel sorry for them, say a prayer, flip a coin into a fountain, whatever floats your boat and then move on with your life. So, what if the lunatics end up running the asylum? Would you even really notice a difference?

What a Boring Bunch of Dopes

The Country Club Chronicles Part 8 – Turn Out the Lights, The Party’s Over

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I would end up working at the club until I was nearly 25 years old. I had started when I was 18 and by the time it came for me to wrap up my tenure, I was more than ready to leave. As I laid out in the last installment of the Chronicles, I was a bit of a mess, and a change of pace and scenery was desperately needed. My new boss, Spicoli, was an exceedingly nice guy. He was a good player and generally well-liked by the membership and by the golf staff. He and I would talk from time to time about the club and the year that he ended up leaving which wasn’t too long after he arrived, I genuinely felt lousy. It was another emotional gut punch from the club. We had some good new assistants, and we had some nice interns, but the transient nature of the business dictated that we essentially had a revolving door policy when it came to who was in charge. Irish was a good guy. He gave it to us straight and treated the bag staff like human beings. Red, or Greasy, was another decent guy. Although he owes me $50 from 2007, I still think he’s a good egg. I do not plan on seeing that money ever again. However, Greasy, if you’re reading this, drop me a message and I’ll be happy to send you my Venmo. The problem with having good new guys at the club was, and I knew from experience, that becoming friends with them meant that eventually that friendship would have to come to an end. Hayseed is the perfect example of this. When he eventually moved on to greener pastures, we hung out a few times after but what was once a two or three day a week hang out became an, “I’ll text you soon” sort of situation. Frankly, the job wasn’t as fun anymore. It wasn’t because of the change in assistants or the Bird or the interns. It was because I was getting older and with each passing day my stake in the game grew larger and larger. It was a hand I knew I was destined to lose if I didn’t get myself ship shape tout de suite.

Things at the club were getting somewhat edgy for me as well. I remember one season Hacksaw, a die-hard Red Sox fan, and I, a die-hard Yankee fan, had a bet to see which team would win the season series. The loser would owe the winner $100 bucks and would have to wear a pink hat and shirt combo bearing the opposite team’s logo. I won that year and poor Hacksaw had to don a pink Yankee hat and shirt. As a Boston fan, he died a little inside that day. However, he kept dodging me on the money. Not a big deal but I would bust his chops about it regularly. One day, while I was on the first tee well after demolition and construction had begun on the clubhouse, I got on one of the radios we used to talk to each other. Each department had its own frequency. I jumped on the grounds crew frequency and asked for my money. After a little back and forth with Hacksaw, the superintendent who we shall call Humorless Doofus, jumped on to remind me, not Hacksaw but only me, that this was a “business only” radio frequency. To which I instantly responded, “the guy owes me money, this is business.” Snarky, but not over the top. From there on out, HD treated me like I had egged his house after dropping his daughter off late each and every time he saw me. So, I let it be known that I thought he was a total chump. He made piles more money than I did, was a family man and was a higher up at a well-established country club. I had no business putting myself on his level let alone giving him a hard time on the radio. I was just some punk kid trying to get through the day. That being said, I respect a guy who does things face to face and with a firm handshake. Not a walky-talky big shot. For that reason, HD retains his “chump” status in my book. I was also running afoul of the Bird at this point. For whatever reason, he wasn’t a big fan of me. And frankly, I probably gave him plenty of reasons, but at the same time he was not without his flaws. He once had a party at his house for the pro-shop staff. Including the new shop girl. This sums up the second Bird’s way. Well-meaning but ultimately clueless. Maybe don’t invite a teenage shop girl to your home a couple years after the guy who previously had your job got canned for being too friendly with a teenage shop girl. It was touted as a “golf staff” party. My guys, namely the bagroom staff, and myself (afternoon starter) were left off of the invitation list. I told Irish that I thought that was a bush-league move. Were we not an integral part of the staff? He agreed but what was he supposed to do about it? We had a very gung-ho assistant pro that I will simply refer to as Fettucine Alfredo who basically told me that yes, we were indeed important, but not really the “golf staff.” Ok. I then went on to vociferously rail against the division between the two groups in the same department and that was the beginning of the Bird’s ire towards me. If we weren’t the golf staff, perhaps the Bird and his chickadees wouldn’t mind hauling bags, cleaning clubs and spraying carts from time to time. Some of them actually did in an attempt to help us out, but it was a rarity. The Bird once told Spicoli to fire me for the grave sin of wearing sunglasses to work. I worked outside, mind you. Spicoli basically told him to cool it and a tenuous peace existed between the two of us from there on out. It was clear to all that he didn’t like me, and I felt the same towards him. All of these little factors began to gnaw away at me more and more. Whereas before, I had wanted to leave because I felt it was time to leave, now I wanted to leave because other folks wanted me to leave.

Around this time, I began chatting with one of the members who was and is to this day, one of the most intelligent people I have ever known. He was in his late sixties I’m guessing, small in frame with a perfect, tightly trimmed moustache. He wore black glasses and a perpetual expression of seriousness. He also had a tremendously dry sense of humor and a thick Boston accent which made the funny things he said even funnier. He was also the psychology department chair at Fairfield University. When he would come up, he would head over to where I was to check in and we would shoot the breeze. I would make him laugh with inside anecdotes about the club and he would respond by telling me how full of shit he thought almost 90% of the membership was. He would also tell me how he would shoot down, as he called them, “arrogant bastards” in his classes. He was a scream and I truly hope he is still alive and well. For whatever reason, this gentleman took a shining to me and seeing him and his family, was always one of the highlights of my week. Fairfield University is a very well-respected institution of higher education. I don’t believe it falls under the umbrella title of “mini-ivy” but it is in a class of schools that is considered to be towards the upper end of the first tier. The idea of taking classes at Fairfield or even being accepted never crossed my mind. There was no way that Fairfield would even take a whiff of my application after I had done so poorly at its cross-town rival. One day, my father and I were talking about my future. The conversations about what may happen down the line kept getting more and more grim. It was clear to him and to all that knew me that a change was needed. I was starting to get the, “are you ever going to finish school?” questions from not only my family, but also my friends. All of them had graduated by this point and there I was, floating in educational limbo. During the course of the conversation with my father I mentioned how I had struck up a relationship with The Professor and mused that maybe I ought to ask him for his advice. I figured the advice would be community college, associate degree and then take it from there. To be clear, there is nothing wrong with community colleges or associate degrees. However, in order to facilitate the career that I had always wanted, I needed at least a bachelor’s degree. My Father thought about it for a moment and then suggested I ask The Professor if there was a way that I could perhaps take some classes at Fairfield. It seemed like a long shot but at that point I was really getting desperate. So, I mustered up the courage to ask The Professor about his school the next time I ran into him.

The Professor was somewhat aware of what had happened to me at my previous school. I never went so far as to give him the gory details, but I did mention how I had F’d up royally and how I deeply regretted it. He would usually sigh and tell me how it was a shame that I never finished school but that that was life. When he came up one weekend to play, I decided to make my move and ask for some advice. He was happy to give it. Mid-way through our conversation, I blurted out, “would you be willing to write me a letter of recommendation… to Fairfield?” Now, I knew this guy, but I didn’t know this guy, if that makes any sense. He could have easily said, “no, I am sorry I just don’t know you well enough and I don’t feel comfortable.” That would have been a perfectly reasonable response to my request. After a moment he looked at me and said, “be happy to.” I thanked him whole-heartedly and he went off to begin his round. I was thrilled at the prospect, but nothing was certain. When he finished his round, I thanked him again and he assured me that he would get the letter to me ASAP. I went home and told my parents how I had not only asked The Professor for his advice, but I had also asked for a recommendation letter and that he had said yes. They were happy for me, but frankly by then, they had been down the “this is going to be great!” road with me a number of times and all roads to that point seemed to lead back to square one. They were reserved with their excitement. I, for the first time in a while, felt actual confidence that something was finally going to go right for me. It also came with a sense of profound responsibility. If I was by some miracle going to go to school again, I could not do what I had done previously. I simply would not allow it. A few days later I was sitting on the first tee in my golf cart which acted as my desk while the demo and construction took place in the background. The Professor come up to play and stopped to check in as normal. He had an off-white envelope in his hand. We greeted each other and then he told me that he had my letter. He handed me the envelope. It was made of expensive stock and had Fairfield University emblazoned across the top left corner. As he handed it to me, he looked me square in the eye and said, in his thick Boston accent; “here it is. I just got you into school. Now don’t fuck it up or you’ll make me look like an asshole.” And he smiled.

I was enrolled in a single class that Fall. It was an autobiography class and without being too hyperbolic, I absolutely loved every single second of it. I believe I was enrolled in only one class at first as both Fairfield and my family, who was generous enough to pay for the class, looked at me with, “let’s just see how it goes first before we go full bore” sets of eyes. I crushed the class and finished with a 100 average. The following semester, I was fully enrolled. I was technically only a sophomore at the time, so I had a very long road ahead of me. I worked my keister off my entire time there. I was absolutely petrified of backsliding into my old habits and that fear kept me honest. I made Dean’s list. I made lasting relationships with my professors. I walked around with my head in the clouds on that campus. I bought school gear. I bought car stickers. Eventually, I bought a Fairfield University Alumni license plate holder when I graduated two years later.

For the rest of my time at the club, The Professor never paid for a single round of golf. It got to the point where he thanked me for the favor that I was doing him, but pointed out that his lack of paying for golf had put him on the club radar. As a full-member, he was expected to play a certain number of rounds per season in order to maintain his full privilege status. The club tracked rounds of golf by tracking green fees. So, I changed tacks and began to charge him for each round. Regardless of whether or not he brought family, guests, took carts or played 9 or 18 holes, I charged him for one pull-cart for 9 holes. $15 dollars. Seemed more than enough to me. The club has one more truly positive memory that sticks out in my mind. One of the young-mom aged members, let’s call her The Leopard, used to be very kind towards all of us. Her husband was a sweetheart, her kids were sweethearts, and she was a sweetheart. Just a very nice family. I hope they are all well. The first day of my first class at Fairfield I had a quick shift at the club. I was slated to leave early to go to school and I remember being on the fence about it. I know, I know, I know. I was a complete mess at the time, remember. I don’t know why I was allowing the old me to creep back in, but there he was in all his decrepit glory. The Leopard heard me talking to some of the guys about not wanting to go and she interjected with, “no, you have to go to school.” I spun around and saw her there, glaring at me. Her normally friendly face was stone-serious. She repeated, “you have to go to school, you can’t work here for the rest of your life.” She did not wait for me to respond, she simply turned and headed towards her waiting golf cart. She was right. I went to school.

The year I started at Fairfield; I ended my time at the club. In retrospect, considering the gift of charity which I received from The Professor, my club career was the most consequential and beneficial job of my young life. The club had nothing to do with my spiral into loserdom, but it quite literally had a lot to do with my pulling myself out of the hole. Had I not gotten that letter, it is hard to say what would have happened with my professional and personal life. Because of my time at Fairfield and my degree, I am doing the job that I have wanted to do since I was a teenager. Again, none of this could have come to pass without my attending Fairfield. Attending Fairfield would not have happened had I not known The Professor. I would have never met The Professor without my little job at the club. I said goodbye to what had been a big part of my life for years at that point. I said goodbye to some friends, and I bid adieu to the Bird who was probably more than happy to see me go. No goodbye party, no fare-thee-well from anyone. I simply let them know I wouldn’t be returning when they called me the next March to drum me back into service. That, as they say, was that.

I emailed The Professor to let him know that I would not be returning but that I would see him around campus. I also thanked him again. “No need for thanks, see you around the U” was the response I got. I never did see him again. I ran into the Bird once a few years later and it was a pleasant enough encounter. I wish him no ill-will and hope he and his family are fine. I lost contact with almost all the rest of the folks I worked with. Skinny ended up moving abroad and getting pinched for basically running a drug lab. He was nothing if not consistent. The Cardinal and I are still very close friends. Spicoli? No idea but if he is not doing well, then the world truly is a heartless place. Hayseed is fine. He and I talk very, very rarely and I wish that wasn’t the case but alas, it is. The Quiet Man ended up doing some very important work for the government and the last time I spoke to him was when he called asking if he could use me as a character reference. I said yes. When a security agency called me to run the check on him, I spoke in glowing terms. I left out the rampant drug use. We haven’t spoken in probably twelve years. C $ is doing well, I believe. He is a solid guy and I wish him nothing but the best. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Weasel was in prison in another country for something comically awful, but I have heard rumor that he is still in the northeast and still doing “his thing”. Which is actually sort of unsettling. The first Bird, well, no one has heard from him in a long time, and I think that’s probably a good thing. To the rest of the guys, and there are quite literally too many to name, I say; hope you’re well, boys.

A lot of other stories, memories and incidents have been popping into my mind since I started writing these Chronicles. Most of them, had I added them, would have done nothing to make the story more interesting or more fun to read. I guess I will just keep those for myself. I think one of the ultimate ironies, is that we are completely unaware of the magnitude of different moments and situations in our lives while we are living through them. The irony comes in when we realize that those were the times where we were the most emotionally, physically or spiritually desperate for meaning and incidental magnitude. I learned a lot of things at the club, and I forgot a lot as well. Now, looking back at it all, I am resolved to spend more time analyzing the importance of the moment. Frankly, the best life is a life filled with inconsequential moments. That simply isn’t the case for most of us. Hindsight always being 20-20, I remember more than anything, the misery and depression I felt in those days. Sure, I numbed them with alcohol but like any stinging wound, nothing ever completely takes away the pain. I think that is a good thing. Too numb equals complacency. I am glad that I was pissed off enough to not be happy at the time. Nothing would have changed without it. I hated the club then. I resented most of the people I worked with as they were all making moves when I was happy to be stuck in neutral. Now, 20 plus years later, I love every person I worked with. All of them. And I hope the club exists for a thousand years. Life is funny sometimes, ya know?

The Country Club Chronicles Part 8 – Turn Out the Lights, The Party’s Over

The Country Club Chronicles Part 7 – Beginning of the End

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I am going to wrap these chronicles up over the next two parts but first, I must apologize. After recently reading back over what I have already written, I realized how much I left out of the story. I experienced how discursive reading these chronicles is first-hand and frankly it left me sort of sour with what I had done. As I alluded to back in one of the previous parts, perhaps one day I will write a book about my time at the club, or at the very least a fuller, more accurate relating of the story. So, accept my humble apology for the slipshod nature of the chronicles thus far and without further ado, let’s get this thing finished.

In order for any of the next two parts of these chronicles, this one included, to make any sense, you are going to need a small breakdown of what was going on in my life at the time. First of all, I worked at the club for way too long. What was maybe a two- or three-year seasonal job custom designed for teenagers became something I worked well into my early 20’s. While all of the friends I had made working there had moved on in their lives, I remained behind. I wallowed in self-pity. I made an art of feeling sorry for myself. I became a master of blaming other people and other variables for my current situation. Which was in a nutshell, an early 20 something who had been thrown out of college for simply not showing up, who lived at home with no prospects and an absolute adoration for booze and generally being a sub-human lout. I surrounded myself with like-minded droogs and soothed my subconscious unhappiness with more and more beer. My good friends were graduating college, getting big-boy jobs, getting decent apartments and some of them were in committed relationships. I secretly envied every one of them. I became more and more convinced that my life was going to end up being something that fell between “punchline” and “tragedy”. I had grown up with actual ambition and goals and for some reason when I hit my late teens, I put them all on the back burner. I did do a couple things that I was and still am very proud of, but that is for a different series of recollections from my younger days. I always had a solid belief that eventually things would work themselves out, but I had no idea when they might. I completely let go of trying to be in control. It was almost as if I had decided that I needed to allow chaos to take over my life nearly completely in order to “get it out of my system”. At the time, I never would have admitted that. Today, it is plainly clear that regardless of how I justify my few-years long lapse in desiring to be a valued member of society, it was both a curse and a blessing. I cannot, for the life of me, explain why I decided to take a break from anything even remotely resembling forward momentum. Especially when I was at a time in my life when forward momentum is what I should have been solely focused on. So, as I am accustomed to do, I have compiled a list of things which aided my nose-dive into dereliction of purpose and spiral of embarrassing self-indulgence.

  1. I lived in a neighborhood with 12-15 bars and restaurants within walking distance. Most of the bars were dives. Even the “nicer” ones were replete with degenerates. Townies who were perpetually on the verge of making “big moves” yet are still working the same barstools in those gin mills today, and suburban ex-pats who wanted to dip their toes into the elusive yet ever-flowing river of dreck which is an essential part of the bar scene. One Halloween, my neighbor and I decided to head out to the bars in order to see what the neighborhood was up to. It was a Tuesday night and therefore we figured it would be busier than normal due to the holiday, but far from Mardi Gras. We ended up at a bar which is arguably the worst on the strip in terms of clientele and ordered some beers. There were two middle-aged people dancing to the juke box just off to our left. The man was dressed as a clown and had running make up from his sweat soaked wig running down his face and leaving streaks on his shiny red and blue shirt. The woman was dressed as a French maid and she wore some of his makeup as well as they were not only dancing, but basically mauling each other at the same time. We noticed that they would stop dancing briefly from time to time in order to tap the shoulder of a young lady sitting at the bar. They were checking on her and periodically buying her drinks. We assumed that she must have been their daughter and then instantly felt nothing for pity for this girl who was being made to endure this horrific embarrassment at the hands of her sweaty, drunk parents. The bar tender kept feeding her shots of Dewars and she was slurping them down hungrily. It made sense. Who would want to be sober for this nightmare unfolding before them? When we decided to leave as we had had enough local culture, we glanced back to look at the girl at the bar in order to get an idea of what was going through her mind. It was then that we saw that the girl had Down Syndrome. Now, I do not know if people with Down Syndrome are allowed to drink that much, or at all. I am simply ignorant when it comes to this stuff. But the idea of getting piss drunk with your slam-pig spouse while you “look after” your special needs daughter by getting her drunk is absolutely disgusting and frankly, sort of evil. That was my neighborhood scene.

    2. Fear. I was basically afraid of growing up and becoming an adult. I was always terrified of the prospect, and I became far too comfortable by always being far too comfortable. I lived at home at this time and my parents were incredibly supportive. They saw what was happening and required that I pay my own way essentially and they pushed me to cut the crap and move forward in my life, but in the end, you can’t move a horse that doesn’t want to move. And so, even with all of their counsel, love and advice, I managed to continue my dip-shittery. I have gone over this part of my lifetime after time and frankly, I think I was no different than any other young man aside from one defect. Namely; egotism. I had always been smart enough in order to get myself out of whatever situation I found myself in. Granted, I was young and hadn’t lived enough life yet to make that claim but that is what youth is. Self-aggrandizing delusion and the belief that things will be fine because bad things only happen to other people. I eventually learned that sometimes, lousy circumstances are inescapable and if you don’t have a support infrastructure in place in order to see you through moments and times of adversity and sadness, then good luck. As I fell deeper and deeper into my own decrepitude, that sense of “things will be fine” grew more and more shadowy until the point where it was nearly invisible. Woe was me.

    So, there I was. In my early 20’s and working three jobs. I worked at the club, I worked at a liquor store and I worked for a caterer. There were a few days when I would have to be at work by 6 am a the club, 12 pm at the store and 6-7 at a catering gig which would last until 11 or 12. They were long days. They were only made possible by the fact that I was young. If I had to do that now, I don’t think I would keep my sanity for more than a week or two. My first college had kicked me out for having terrible grades. I did not receive these grades because I was stupid or because my work was lackluster, I received these grades because I just stopped showing up. So, in a way, I actually was stupid. I pissed money away on loans and lied to my family about my “progress” and trajectory. Each lie I told or each time I fell flat I turned to the slugs in the bars which had become my good friends and ran deeper into a hole of nauseating self-pity. This hiatus from life and subsequent exile onto the island of misfit drunks was completely self-imposed. No one had done this to me other than me. I adopted the persona of the self-deprecating but otherwise pleasant drone who was just happy to have a warm place to sleep and a couple of drinks to get through the day. It wasn’t me at all. I was not that guy but the more and more I played the part the more and more I realized that no one ever sets out to be that guy. They become that guy by doing exactly what I was doing. Eventually enough time passes and before you know it the facade is the reality. I needed to get out before it was too late. While that may sound overly dramatic, I was friends with plenty of middle-aged folks in that neighborhood who were completely caught up in the web that is the dive-bar scene. Complete with functional alcoholism, occasional hard drug use, perpetual legal problems and estranged family. I needed desperately to get out.

    I was at the club for a few more years after my Winter as the Weasel’s gopher. As my friends moved on in their career paths they no longer returned to the club for seasonal work. They had actual jobs, internships and gigs that had more promise. They, for lack of a better phrasing, grew up. I was made the afternoon starter after our longtime starter decided to retire. He was an ornery old bastard for sure and I to this day can’t say anything bad about him, but I can’t say much nice about him either. He was dealing with serious prostate cancer at the time and looking back it makes sense that he was normally pretty cranky. I had crawled my way up to lower management. I still had something like four or five bosses at any given time and I sure wasn’t making manager or assistant manager money, but I did get a raise in money and in status. Now, members didn’t just throw me their filthy golf clubs expecting me to chisel mud and sand off of their irons. We would interact in a more sophisticated and transactional way. It was in their best interest to be on my good side as since I determined which groups went off when. I could slide someone in between two groups here and there and also, not charge them for playing if I felt really generous. As the afternoon starter, I was tasked with logging in either all of the rounds from the day or at least the rounds that I oversaw when I took over for the morning guy at 11 am. It was nearly $400 dollars a round for a member to play 18 holes with three guests and two electric carts. It was around $100-150 for a member to play with their family with two electric carts. If you decided to walk it was free and pull-carts were available for $15 a round. While I was forming new relationships with the membership, more and more of my friends fell by the wayside. Each year, new faces would show up on the bag staff. New faces would come up to learn to caddy and new faces would attain full-membership and begin to play golf regularly. The old guard was dying off, literally. Some of the members had passed on and a lot of others simply left the club. At the time (pre-2008) an influx of hedge-fund bro’s and their families inundated the club. They wanted a grander clubhouse. The older members didn’t think it was necessary. So, the board did what it needed in order to force a vote in their favor by pushing the old guard out with higher dues that could be easily paid by the younger wave of new members. The clubhouse was then slated to be torn down and a new incredibly ostentatious edifice erected in its place. It was a season of change at the club. The old cart barn, bagroom, pro-shop and lounge were all going to be torn down.

    As the starter, I had a pretty easy gig. I would log in when different groups would make “the turn” (finish the first 9 holes and begin the next) and tell people when to tee off. That was basically it aside from charging the rounds to individual member accounts. Now that these folks needed to be in my good graces, they went out of their way to be a bit more personable towards me. I had been there for years at this point and now they had to know my name. Not because they wanted to, and a hell of a lot of them didn’t know it even after years of cleaning their clubs while at the same time wearing my uniform shirt and name tag. It was because each member that came up to play was required to speak to me in order to check in and therefore, I got a much better feeling for who were the good ones and who were the lousy ones. I got to be friendly with a couple of them and was genuinely pleased to see them when they would come up to play. I started doing favors here and there in terms of charging a little less per round by logging in a guest as a family member and things like that. I did these on my own and eventually the members benefitting from the low-scale fraud would cast me a knowing glance and a smirk from time to time. I knew that nothing would come of these favors, and I wasn’t doing them for networking purposes. I just wanted to be a nice guy. By this time the Weasel was long gone. He had lit out a season or two before my final season at the club and was replaced by one of the nicest guys I had ever worked for. The new Bird was making a case that he should be the permanent Bird and the interns came and went. Days went by and I became more and more convinced that this existence as a low-level peon was to be my lot in life. Until one day, I struck up a conversation with a member who would quite literally go on to change the entire trajectory of my life. Allow me to introduce you to, The Professor.

The Country Club Chronicles Part 7 – Beginning of the End

The Country Club Chronicles Part 6 – Kids Being Kids

J.M., , Leave a comment

I decided to take the Summer off in terms of writing these Chronicles. I was not unaware of them or their need for a conclusion, however. So, I did some thinking. I am going to wrap these up in the next three parts including this one. This post is going to be a few incidents of ridiculousness that I recall followed by two more which explain how working at the club literally changed the entire trajectory of my life in a positive way. We will be straying off the course for now. I apologize for the discursive nature of this post ahead of time. Without further ado; Part 6, a couple instances of rampant criminality.

The Caddie Story
Caddies at country clubs range from 13-year-old neighborhood kids and the children of members to adults who have caddied for years and can make some nice coin on weekend mornings during the season. The kids are highly unreliable and mostly clueless. The younger caddies would forecaddie. What is a forecaddie you ask? A forecaddie heads out ahead of a group of golfers or a single golfer and stands on the side of a fairway. Their entire function is to track and locate each golfer or their particular golfer’s shots. The theory is, that if you have a good forecaddie, you won’t need to spend valuable time looking for your ball. This, in theory, speeds up the pace of play as on a busy weekend morning, a round which should take 3-3.5 hours can sometimes end up going over 4. As a starter, one of my jobs was to assign caddies to golfers for the first few tee times. If you came up to play early on a Saturday or Sunday, caddies were essentially required. A regular caddie has a much more detailed and important job than a forecaddie. Caddies carry either one or two (two makes them more money) golfer’s bags during a round. They will offer advice on shots, have distances for each hole either listed or memorized, know the speed of the greens from day to day, be able to read a putt, clean used clubs between shots, hand clubs to their golfer and keep score. If you are good, you are sought after, and you can make very good money for very little work. We had a couple caddies who were requested by name each time they were available and a slew of others that the members would begrudgingly hand their bags to. I remember seeing forecaddies and younger caddies coming off the course in actual tears because their golfer’s had been total jerks to them for the egregious sins of losing a golf ball or suggesting the wrong iron on a tricky hole. Caddie or no caddie, the golfer is either going to be shit or the shit based on their own play.

We had one caddie, let’s call him Shiny, who was there nearly every weekend. He was in his late 20’s, had a pretty cool, laid-back vibe to him and he was always friendly towards the bag staff. We liked him. When I became the morning starter after the Weasel plead my case to the new bird, I ended up talking to Shiny a lot more than I had previously. He was funny, self-deprecating and a total drug addict. Starting to see a pattern at this place yet? One Saturday he waxed on about how he planned on heading home, heading to the store, buying the ingredients needed for a good tomato sauce and just cooking and chilling all day. Sounded pretty nice! However, he left out the part where he mentioned that after doing literally none of that he planned on coming back to the club after dark to break into it and steal our tip jar. Which he did, the little scamp. He also tried to break into the register, and now that I look back on it, I believe he was successful, but because the overwhelming majority of members paid for things by having them charged to their club accounts, the plunder was paltry. He initially broke into the pro shop by breaking a window and crawling in. From there, he broke into the bag room and stole the tip jar which was full as it hadn’t been chopped up yet amongst the morning and afternoon shifts. This was a real kick in the stones to two crews who had worked their keisters off and now had absolutely nothing but their hourly pay, which was meager, and the nearly inedible staff lunch served by the kitchen to all employees rolling around in their guts to show for it. We used to call staff lunch “slop” and it wasn’t far off, but I digress. What made this particular burglary extra scandalous was that Shiny was the nephew of a member. A member who was well-liked by the golf staff and who played three times a week. He was humiliated by his nephew’s actions and didn’t come up as often for the rest of that season. I don’t know why. It wasn’t his fault. Unless he had initially prescribed the Oxy that Shiny was addicted to, he had no part in the burglary whatsoever. The club didn’t press charges against Shiny and we never got our tip money back. It pays to be the family member of a country club hot shot even if you are an absolute degenerate. Good to know!

The Lounge Burglary
Lot of burglaries, huh? This one is just ridiculous. Shiny’s burglary was sad as it was the desperate act of a drug addict trying to score. The lounge break-in, however, is just an example of fuckery and stupidity on a nearly astronomical level. The lounge where my friends and I had gorged ourselves on chocolate and Becks all Winter had a cigarette machine in the back. It also had a full bar in the Summer. Members could smoke, eat their sandwiches and drink their booze in air conditioned, classically decorated comfort all season. It wasn’t a particularly inviting room, but it wasn’t a dump either. It just sort of existed as a “boys club” lorded over by the old guard area in a club already dominated by exclusivity and controlled substance intake.
One night, a few of the neighborhood kids decided they wanted to take a closer look at it I suppose. So, they did, by breaking in and ransacking the bar. They also smashed open the cigarette machine and took out all the smokes they could carry. I have no idea why the alarm didn’t go off and now that I think back, I am not sure the lounge was alarmed. It probably was but the uber-doofus who ran the lounge probably didn’t set it before he left for the night to go home and recharge himself in his doofus chamber complete with doofus IV station and Friends box set. It was easy for the police to catch these little creeps. They made it incredibly easy. Did they leave something behind like a wallet? Did they drop a cell phone or like me, a bank statement? Nope. They proceeded to head up the 9th green, which was, and I am not exaggerating, 20 yards from the lounge and drink all the booze. This caused them to become ill and pass out. So, the police headed up to the green, found all of culprits snoozing away surrounded by open bottles and cigarette butts and proceeded to arrest them. I recall one of the members thumbing the whole thing off a few days later by saying, “it was just a case of kids being kids.” At that point, The Quiet Man turned to me and said, “one of ’em must’ve been his kid.” Probably.

These are only two instances of criminal crap that happened at my time at the club. As I have previously mentioned, every single day drug deals went down, drugs were taken, people were robbing each other, and a very small minority were just trying to make an honest buck. It is not an easy thing to do when everyone around you is basically a pirate. We would clock each other out regularly. Need to leave early? Go ahead and ask someone you work with to clock you out when they leave at the end of the night. Theft of time? Why not. People would take demo clubs that hadn’t been used in a while and sell them on Ebay. Booze was constantly going missing as were little trinkets here and there. I remember once Skinny and I were walking into the main clubhouse to clock out after a shift and he spotted a wallet on the walkway leading up to the entrance. He picked it up, took the cash out of it and threw it back onto the ground. We walked away like nothing had happened. I sure as hell wasn’t going to bring it in to the front desk as since it was now light, there would have been too many questions to deal with. Most of the time, when two people are involved in a caper like that, the main villain will grease the palm of the guy who just happened to be there in order to ensure that all remain quiet. That didn’t happen because Skinny was a heroin addict. Again, see a pattern? A ton of other things happened at the club, but I don’t want this to take years and years to complete, so let’s move on. Next, I will return us to the timeline of my tenure at the club. We will pick up where I left off in Part 5, with me becoming the starter and the friendship that would change my life forever. Thanks for hanging in there with me to this point and I apologize for the hiatus. Stay tuned.

The Country Club Chronicles Part 6 – Kids Being Kids