Once Upon a Tee Time

On TV Saturday, Jingles gazed wistfully at a cloud-heavy sky that threatened to ruin everything. On the way to the course, Harvey reported a forty percent chance of rain by midday. Would Jane Friend even make the trip?

A handful of residents milled around the first tee. Only seven carts were parked to the left of the fairway. Harold Perkins, now fully clothed, had created a second scoreboard. The new one listed the names of all four golfers, per Jingles’ request.

Birdie Chaser’s arrival was greeted with a smattering of applause. Knickers and Mulligan walked over to greet their friends. Mulligan wore a bright orange shirt and trousers that almost matched. His partner had busted out his loudest pair of plaid knickers, a yellow shirt, and white stockings. Both sported fresh haircuts.

“I’m going to try playing today,” Harvey announced. “Jingles bribed me with homemade cookies.”

“Glad to hear it,” Mulligan said. “But I’ll warn you right now, the back nine is going to be a circus. Jane Friend has even more admirers than your playing partner.”

Jingles was dressed in black, a tribute to his all-time favorite pro, Gary Player. “And let me guess,” he said. “Everyone in Leisureville knows she’s coming.”

“Leisureville and beyond,” Mulligan answered. “It’s in everybody’s interest to put our fine community on the map. You know, property values and so forth. And hell, everyone wants to be on television.”

Knickers had been staring at Jingles. “So, Fred Astaire, now you’d rather dance than eat a charbroiled steak with your friends?”

Mulligan chuckled. “Jingles, you might be giving me putting lessons, but you’ll never dance like me. It’s in my genes.”

Jingles knew that was true. The women lined up to waltz and tango with Mulligan. The dance ran from 8:00 p.m. until midnight, and he only sat when the little orchestra took a break.

Harvey reached out and shook Knickers’ hand. “Your stock is headed for twenty-five million. The company’s forecasting good Christmas sales.”

“Well, I have a little announcement to make about that,” Knickers said. “I would have told you last night, but one of us was missing.” He shot Jingles a quick glance, another reprimand. “I filed paperwork yesterday to transfer a little over a million in stock to Hidden Valley Community College. That’s where my son was enrolled to play baseball and maybe go to some classes.”

Knickers and Bess had given birth to a single child, Mickey Jr. As the men knew and never talked about, the 18-year-old was a promising baseball player, a catcher like his dad. His life ended when the car in which he was a passenger left the highway and struck a power pole.

“I’ve been talkin’ to ‘em about upgradin’ their baseball facilities. They’re gonna add shaded bleachers, a new scoreboard, a clubhouse with lockers and showers, and new fencin’ around the whole place. Oh yeah, and one more thing: a big sign over the scoreboard that says Mickey Collins Jr. Memorial Field.” The other men lowered their heads.

“That’s wonderful,” Jingles said. “I’m so happy for you and Bess.” The idea of Knickers giving back to the game he loved seemed appropriate.

“It was the smart move financially too,” Harvey pointed out. “By donating the stock, you pay no taxes on the appreciated value, which is huge. The whole thing is a charitable donation.” Harvey calculated the gift to be roughly four percent of Knickers’ wealth.

Knickers nodded. “That’s what the school’s attorney said. Anyway, all the improvements will be finished in less than four months.”

Mulligan clapped. “Let’s plan to attend the first game!”

Knickers yanked the driver from his bag. “Hey, let’s just get the golf out of the way. We’re cuttin’ into Jingles’ dance time.”

By the conclusion of the front nine, the crowd had grown to double the size of the previous day. Residents had invited friends from the surrounding area and the parking lot overflowed. Cars lined the streets for several blocks around the course.

The pending television coverage had energized the spectators too. Many created homemade signs that were mounted on carts or held like mini-billboards. Most were a tribute to seniors, with Jingles as the poster boy.

“Which is your favorite sign?” Mulligan asked the others.

“Jingles All the Way,” Knickers said, pointing to a lady near the tee. “A few minutes ago, there was one like that. Now there are three or four.”

Harvey shared his choice. “Getting Old Is No Handicap, Just Ask Jingles. That has to be the best.”

Jingles appreciated Lucy Green’s creation: Jingles Is Like Fine Wine. As he looked, she turned it over. The reverse side read: Jingles Is Like Fine Whine. An inside joke.

New creations popped up constantly. Who’s Your Grandaddy? Age 72, Score 60. He’s Plumlee, Not Prunely. Old Time Rock and Roll. Welcome to Jinglesville.

Although Knickers and Mulligan played comfortably in the spotlight, Harvey had picked up after six holes. His partner was a damn pro, and he didn’t want to miss a thing. If Jingles put an approach within thirty feet of the cup, it was an automatic birdie. He had done that four times on the front nine, and lipped out a couple longer putts too. Over the last two rounds, Jingles made more long putts than in his previous hundred rounds combined. The shorter putts were nothing but tap-ins.

One thing Harvey didn’t envy was his partner’s struggle with hard contact lenses. In and out, in and out. Always squirting drops on his right eye. What a bother and what a mess. He was glad to have ordered the soft disposable kind for himself.

Jingles tightened up his iron play on the back nine, sticking four straight approaches within his automatic range. Harvey wondered if even the record of 60 would stand up. Unfortunately, Jingles’ five-iron shot to the fourteenth green took a wicked bounce and kicked to the right fringe, leaving him all of forty-five feet for a birdie.

Harvey pointed toward the green as he drove. “There they are! The WAZA news crew!”

Jingles saw a cameraman set up a tripod behind his ball. Another climbed atop a golf cart with his camera. As Birdie Chaser drew closer, he recognized the famous face of Jane Friend. She wore her hair in old-fashioned pigtails, maybe a nod to the old crowd.

He leaned to his driver. “I hope Jane likes my score so far.”

Harvey stomped on the brake. “Will you listen to yourself? What’s going on here? You’re a four-damn-handicapper who shot 60 yesterday! You know what Knickers, Mulligan and I talked about last night? What we would give to play one round like that. Mulligan said he’d give his left nut. Knickers offered up both of his. Pretty soon we were talking about how many years of our lives we’d give up!” He stepped on the throttle and continued toward the green.

Ashamed, the poster boy hung his head. His partners hadn’t shown any signs of jealousy, not outwardly. They seemed to take his transformation for what it was, sort of, the result of better vision. He favored that assessment himself. Still, without the bubble in his lens, he was basically them. He didn’t know what to say.

Harvey continued. “One week ago, Jingles didn’t even exist. I mean the man did, but not the name or the legend. After the news show tonight, millions of people will be saying that name. Smell the roses, friend. You’ll probably make this impossible putt and nobody will even be surprised, especially not you!”

Jingles popped in the putting lens and stepped into the loudest applause of the day. He pulled Pinger from the bag with a flourish, like a black knight sliding his sword from its scabbard.

Passing Harvey, he whispered, “I’d give myself no better than a fifty-fifty chance.” He lifted his sunglasses, seemed to wink, and strutted off.

Harvey shook his head. The best golfers in the world made forty-five-footers two percent of the time. Jingles figured he had an even chance. If this Ray Plumlee said his car got a hundred miles to the gallon, no one would dare to question it.

Jingles approached his Titleist, ignoring everything else. He stepped off the distance to the pin and came up with forty-four feet. Returning to his ball, he saw a line that amounted to a three-foot break from right to left. He looked from the ball to a single blade of grass at the center of the cup and back, took two practice strokes, and focused on a long follow-through. For the most part, Pinger aligned itself.

His ball was only halfway to the target when he knew. He raised his putter triumphantly and started walking after it. The ProV1 found the hole during his fourth step, just another drop in the bucket.

The massive gathering roared approval, shook signs in the air, and pumped liver-spotted fists. Dozens of women blew kisses toward the hero.

The cameraman behind Jingles looked anxiously to the other, hoping he got a better view of the putt. The old golfer had stepped right in front of his lens. He got a thumbs-up from his co-worker.

Standing next to Knickers, Mulligan slapped himself on the side of face. “It’s official. I have now seen everything.”

Knickers stroked his chin. “He’s grown a set of balls like watermelons.”

The next two holes offered proof of golf’s challenge, even to Jingles. He missed a straight twenty-seven-footer that curled around the cup and refused to drop. Then he found sand and settled for another par.

On the Tom Klein hole, the seventeenth, he a lofted four iron to within three feet of the flag. One of his all-time best drives couldn’t have come at a better time.

He concluded the round with a birdie from twenty-two feet on Eighteen. For the third straight round, he carded seven-under on the back nine. His final score was 61.

Bess fired up her boom box again, this time with updated music. 1977. “We Are the Champions.” Boisterous residents danced and put on a show for the cameras and each other. Folks who had been neighbors for years and never met, hugged like relatives. Countless dogs howled protest to all the movement and noise.

A man approached The Foursome with a Leisureville scorecard on which he recorded Jingles’ 61. He asked all four to sign it. Recognizing a good idea, others ran to the clubhouse for their own cards. Some filled in the numbers for the day’s 61. Others copied down yesterday’s record 60 from the board still resting against the side of the pro shop.

One at a time, Jane Friend led members of The Foursome away from the commotion for quick interviews. Less than half an hour after the round ended, she waved good-bye and told everyone to tune into the night’s show. She left carrying all kinds of gifts from her fans and wearing a Leisureville jacket.

Pat invited Jingles’ gang and their wives for dinner and Newswatch before the dance. Mary brought her famous sausage lasagna. Bess baked fresh bread. Lucy tossed a salad. Wine and desserts were Pat’s contributions. Her kitchen overflowed with an ever-growing number of each.

“Holy smokes,” Mulligan exclaimed, checking out the all alcohol on the kitchen table. “You’re set for years!”

“That’s from today,” Jingles explained. “There was more yesterday. I was answering the door and phone calls from the moment I got home. The phone’s off so we can enjoy dinner and the news. It’s been a madhouse.”

Knickers picked up a bottle of his favorite scotch. “Can we open this one?”

“I’ve got one open in the liquor cabinet. You can take that one home with you. You’re all welcome to whatever you want.”

Harvey grabbed a bottle of Old Grand-dad and pulled a pen from his shirt pocket. “This is what bit you on Wednesday. Could you autograph the label for me?”

The host scribbled, “with love from Jingles.” He was getting used to signing that name; must have written it five hundred times today.

At six o’clock, everyone assembled in the den in front of the giant flat screen television, a group gift from the children for their last anniversary. Jingles sensed that everyone shared his excitement.

Coverage began quickly. Newswatch opened with a side view of Jingles stroking the long birdie putt from off the fourteenth green. He was shown celebrating while the ball was still twenty feet from the cup. The scene switched to the crowd and the signs, settling on Plumlee, Not Prunely.

“Where did your limp go?” Knickers wondered. “You didn’t limp when you chased after that putt.”

“It’s a medical miracle,” Jingles laughed.

Jane’s voice said there would be a special sports story that viewers must see to believe. A close-up of the huge scorecard appeared. “His name is Jingles Plumlee. His age is seventy-two. And his story is coming up at the end of the show! Welcome everyone, to the Saturday edition of Newswatch!”

Jingles listened jubilantly as everyone else talked at once.

“I think I saw Lucy with her sign,” Bess said excitedly.

“Me too,” Lucy said. “I think I saw me too!”

“That was me holding the pin,” Mulligan said.

Knickers chuckled. “Yeah, you made the pin look ten feet tall!”

“I recognized so many of the people,” Mary added. “This is so exciting!”

“Just think of it,” Harvey observed. “It was a monumental event. When have you ever seen so many senior citizens look so happy.”

“I’m surprised Harold Perkins kept his pants on today,” Mulligan snickered.

“I can’t wait to get to the dance,” Pat chirped. “Everyone is going to be in high spirits tonight.”

They all waited patiently as Jane waded through the local news and the weatherman did his thing. The new forecast was fair skies.

Finally, before Newswatch broke for a final commercial ahead of the big story, Jane said, “When we get back, you’ll hear the story of Jingles Plumlee, the senior golf sensation of Leisureville. He’ll share the secret of his record-breaking success.”

Once again, Jingles filled the screen, knocking down that long putt. He disappeared in favor of a Phoenix City Bank commercial.

Jane returned with laughter in her voice. “Tonight’s special story is dedicated to all the golfers out there, and those who believe in miracles. Ray ‘Jingles’ Plumlee played a darn good game of golf prior to last week. He had a four handicap that most of us would envy. However, when he teed off Wednesday with his regular foursome, he shot a course record sixty-two. On Friday, he topped that with an incredible sixty! In case you’re wondering, this is on a full-length regulation course.” That scorecard appeared. “And then this morning, in front of Newswatch cameras, he followed that up with a sixty-one!

“Were there witnesses? Were there ever. Here are scenes from Leisureville, where folks are high on their senior sensation.” Ten seconds of footage showed the crowd lining the fairways and surrounding the greens, the barbecue on Fifteen, the plethora of dogs, and close-ups of the handwritten signs.

Suddenly Jingles stood right next to Jane. “Wow,” he said. “You can still see where I had the stitches!”

Seven voices told him to shut up. Then Pat whispered, “No more whining.”

Jane said, “Jingles, how do you shave fifteen shots off your score in the blink of an eye?”

“The only difference is my contact lenses.” Jingles removed his sunglasses, as if that would allow everyone to see the contacts, and pointed to his right eye. “For so many years, I thought I could see, but I really couldn’t.”

Jingles disappeared and Jane sat with Stanley Sturrock at another location. She said, “Doctor Sturrock, as Jingles’ optometrist, you examined him two weeks ago. What can you tell us?”

“He made an appointment only because his glasses were broken in an accident. His vision had deteriorated over the years, and he needed a new prescription.”

Jane nodded. “Is it unusual for new eyewear to have such a dramatic effect?”

“Well, I’m not a golfer, but I do know that excellent vision is an asset to people in everything they do. Everyone will find out they can see better if they get a professional evaluation.”

Jane then stood with Tim Scott in the pro shop. “You’re the pro here at Leisureville, Mr. Scott. What’s your take on Jinglesmania?”

“The guy has serious skill, Jane, especially for his age. I spent a few hours with him recently. We talked about the mechanics of putting.”

“Do you think you helped him?”

Tim shrugged. “I’d like to think so.”

Jane introduced Harvey Green as Jingles’ close friend and golf partner. His TV face was serious, thoughtful. “It has to be the new contact lenses. Pro golfers average twenty-nine putts per round. Jingles averaged only twenty-one over his last three rounds. Most golfers never do that once in a lifetime. He’s does it over and over. It’s supernatural. Last week he couldn’t make a putt and now he can’t miss.”

Knickers came on screen, smoking one of Mulligan’s cigars. He grinned at Jane as she acknowledged him as a former St. Louis Cardinal. “You’ve played with Jingles for seven years. What’s changed in your view?”

“Well, maybe it’s my vision that’s improved. I’m seein’ stuff on a golf course I’ve never seen before. Seriously, Jingles is in the zone. If you gave him ten horse shoes right now, he’d toss you nine or ten ringers.”

Mulligan was the first to look directly at the camera, just as he had in car commercials over the years. Jane said, “And this is Mulligan Wettman. You heard right, Mulligan! He’s also been golfing with Jingles for a long time.”

Mulligan nodded and smiled. “Jingles took a shot to the head recently, I think it was a middle iron. My guess is that it rearranged his brain somehow. I can’t offer scientific proof, but it’s the greatest sports story ever and it’s happening here in Leisureville.”

Dr. Norman Swartzmann, the general practitioner who gave Jingles his stitches, weighed in next. “The human brain is very complex, but Mr. Plumlee suffered only a very minor concussion. That shouldn’t have any effect on his golf.”

Even Gladys Beckerman made it to the big screen. As Jane explained how she accidentally injured Jingles, the little woman reached out and flicked one of the news lady’s pigtails. Gladys said, “I think he was hurt more than people think. Before I hit him with my club, his name was Ray. Now he calls himself Jingles. He forgot his own name!

“The reason he’s playing well is because he’s so nice. I almost killed him and he sent me flowers. How many people would do that? I’ve been praying for him.”

Then Knickers was back for an encore. “If it’s Jingles’ contacts makin’ him play this way, I want the same prescription. If it’s a knock on the head, I’ll take two. If it’s eatin’ lima beans, I’ll eat those too. And, man, I hate lima beans.”

Laughing, Jane wrapped it up. “Well, whether you like lima beans or not, you have to love Jingles Plumlee. We here at WAZA salute you, Jingles, and all the friendly people in Leisureville. This has been Jane Friend. See you Monday night.”

Mulligan stood to address the others. “That was a great show. Great for the community. But I’m getting rid of Tim Scott. He tried to take credit for Jingles’ putting.”

Knickers slapped an armrest. “You’re right. Scott had nothin’ to do with anythin’.”

“Wait,” Pat said. “He’s very nice. He even offered Jingles a job giving lessons.”

Jingles raised his arms. “Easy, guys. Tim didn’t say he helped me. He said he’d like to think so.”

“I don’t know,” Harvey said. “If someone asked me if I discovered a cure for cancer, I don’t think it’d be fair for me to say, ‘I’d like to think so.’”

Knickers nodded. “Jingles is bein’ a little too nice, but at least he’s givin’ us lessons for free.”

“What about the lima beans?” Bess asked her husband.

“Good question,” Mulligan said. “Where in the world did that come from?”

Everyone looked to Knickers for an explanation.

“Aw, I knew you’d ask me that,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “It was what they call an impromptu speech. I was just sayin’ I’d do anythin’ to play like Jingles. Eatin’ them squishy beans was the worst thing I could think of at that particular second.”

“Jane seemed to like what you said,” Lucy reflected. “She used it for her closing and I thought it was fun.”

Dr. Stanley Sturrock leaned back in his recliner, sipped brandy, and continued to savor his moment of fame. For a single man pushing fifty, a personal visit from the Jane Friend had been exhilarating. His poker buddies would be incredibly jealous. As all of Arizona knew, the Newswatch megastar was single too. She had been so gracious, so quick to laugh at his jokes. He may even have sensed a spark between them. Sure, he was decades older, but that didn’t always matter when it came to matters of the heart. The likelihood of a brewing romance increased more with each swallow of Courvoisier.

Minutes after Newswatch ended, his phone rang. “Hello, this is Stanley.”

“Yes. I’m the optometrist who was just on television.”

“You can call my office on Monday and make an appointment.”

“No, I never work on Sunday.”

“How much? You mean how much do I want for a Sunday appointment?”

“You want to pay me five hundred dollars to see you tomorrow?”

“You realize, of course, that you still can’t get contacts for at least another week.”

“You don’t care?”

“Twenty-seven Bloomington Road, right across from Goody’s Restaurant. Three o’clock. Just knock, I’ll let you in.”

Dr. Sturrock shook his head. Crazy ass golfers. What did they see in such a silly game?”

His phone rang again. And again. After five similar calls, he let the recorder do its job. The message provided his office number. The phone continued to ring nonstop until he dozed off hours later.

Leisureville’s festive mood lasted into the night. Though only 162 tickets sold in advance, over 500 dressed-up seniors packed the ballroom by 8:30. Many brought signs they had carried at the course and taped them to the wall. Others made quick trips home to scratch out new ones to add to the décor.

Newswatch was the topic of most conversation. Jingles and his playing partners were viewed as dignitaries. Clusters of people encircled each of them as soon as they walked through the door.

Given the size of crowd, Pat was proud to have added so many sweet delicacies to the long table of appetizers and desserts. Not a crumb would go to waste. Food was more popular than alcohol at Leisureville parties.

Jingles led his wife to the dance floor for a waltz before being swept away by an array of other passionate dancers. Some were widows or divorcees. Others let husbands find amusement in the dessert line or at the bar. Jingles knew he couldn’t dance as well as he could putt, but the floor was crowded enough to provide cover. He did his best Mulligan impersonation.

Pat sat with Lucy, wondering if she would get a chance to try other dance steps. Her eyes settled on Knickers, who was holding court across the room.

“You were right, Lucy,” Pat said over the blare of the little orchestra. “Knickers really stole the show with that lima beans business. That’s all I’m hearing.”

“Don’t be petty,” Lucy laughed, wondering where Harvey might be. “Look at the signs on the walls. Your husband is the star of the show.”

“I don’t know about that,” Pat mumbled. “There’s something sneaky about Knickers. Look what he did to our car.”

“Pat, that was only a prank. An elaborate one, yes, but still just a joke. Men have fun like that.”

“Knickers isn’t a man! He’s a foolish little boy. Lima beans! One of these days, I’m going to tell him off.”

“Well, I can’t tell you how to think, but all the men think Knickers is the cat’s pajamas. Harvey looks up to him like royalty. By the way, have you seen my husband?”

Every head in the ballroom swiveled toward the front door. A gorgeous woman had entered, mostly legs in a short white dress. Her long hair bounced in the breeze from a ceiling fan.

Jingles had been trying to stomp out a Bossa Nova to the band’s rendition of “Girl from Ipanema.” He suddenly heard nothing but “Daydream Believer.”

Harvey sat outside alone, resting in a lounge chair beside the swimming pool. In all the excitement, he had consumed too much cabernet. Nonetheless, he held yet another glass. Looking at the water, bright from lights beneath the surface, he felt a deepening melancholy. Life had seemed perfect since he joined The Foursome. Now things would never be the same. His best friend was no longer good old Ray Plumlee. He was the Jingles Plumlee. What was going to happen to The Foursome now? The competitive balance was gone. Would Jingles even play with them much longer?

A raindrop landed on his forehead. He glanced at the pool, but saw no evidence of other drops on the water. Overhead, he saw the glimmer of stars above a few wispy clouds. Was the single splash a message to stop his negative thinking? He forced himself to rise and return to the party.

Upon entering the ballroom, Harvey stopped in his tracks. The dance area was full of couples, but only one of them moved to the music. At the center of the oak parquet, Jingles was entangled with Speed Bump herself, the incomparable Ingrid Samuels. In a white mini-dress, in all her runway splendor, she resembled the hostess on “So You Think You Can Dance.” She and Jingles were laughing and talking, oblivious to everyone else.

The other couples remained frozen. Still clinging to each other, their feet were glued to the floor. All the men gawked at Ingrid. The women stared at Pat, who was sitting next to Lucy. Jingles’ wife wore a smile, but Harvey sensed that if someone touched her face, it might crumble like plaster.

He collapsed into the closest chair. What more proof did he need? Things were going to be very different. He was suddenly thirsty for another whole bottle of wine.

Pat watched her husband for the longest four minutes of her life. His acceptance of the young widow’s request for a dance hadn’t bothered her. What was he supposed to do? The problem was that he seemed to be enjoying himself too much. The look on his face!

“All the women are staring at me,” Pat whispered to Lucy. “Are they expecting me to run out there and beat up Cinderella or my husband?”

Lucy grinned. “Let’s rough up Cinderella!” She formed a claw with her right hand and posed with a snarl on her face, making them both laugh.

By the time the number ended, a line of men had formed behind Ingrid, all anxious to take her in their arms. Mulligan was at the front of it. Speed Bump smiled, waved, and headed straight for the exit.

Jingles sought out his wife and escorted her to the parquet for the next dance. “Well, all the mystery about Ingrid Samuels is now solved,” he announced. “I know her whole life story.”

“You heard her life story during one dance?”

“I’m a very good listener.”

“When you want to be,” Pat said.

Jingles ignored the sarcasm. “She’s an artist … a painter actually. That’s why no one sees her around much. She has a studio in the house and paints portraits of flowers. Her canvases sell really well in galleries.”

“I love flowers,” Pat murmured, suddenly captivated by the image of the woman, living by herself, standing hour after hour in front of an easel.

“And you know how everybody wonders why she married a much older man? Well, she was an art student and he was a professor of art history. She says she practically stalked him. He refused to even have lunch with her until after she graduated.”

Ingrid hardly seemed like the stalker type, but Pat was drawn into the story. “Go on. Why does she continue to live in a senior community?”

“She’s comfortable here and doesn’t want to move. It’s something about an aura, whatever that is.”

“And why did she come here tonight? I’ve never seen her at any of the parties.”

Jingles leaned close and whispered, “She saw me on the news and wanted to offer congratulations, that’s all.” Why was Pat so curious? It all seemed logical to him.

“Well,” Pat said, pulling her husband closer as they box-stepped, “everything’s fine unless she starts stalking you.”

When the orchestra took a break before the final set, Knickers summoned The Foursome to a conference by the pool. After they huddled around a table, he lit a cigar from his breast pocket and offered more to the others.

“They’re excellent,” Knickers said. “I get them from a friend in the Dominican Republic.”

Mulligan took one while the others declined. Jingles was sure Pat would smell it on his breath and file for divorce. Harvey could barely hold up his head.

“Here’s what I wanted to talk about: Friday’s my fiftieth anniversary with Bess.”

Jingles smiled, confident that Pat had an appropriate gift ready to go in the War Room. He wondered what she picked out.

Knickers continued. “I’ve decided to dust off the check book and do something special. I’d like to take you on vacation for a couple weeks, your wives too. Would you be able to leave on Wednesday?”

Jingles reacted first. “Sounds fantastic! Now’s the perfect time for a getaway. Things have gotten hectic this week.” Naturally, there would be golf courses nearby. Knickers wouldn’t go anywhere without golf.

Harvey perked up. A week with just his friends sounded good. No crowds. No being on the news. And no Ingrid dancing with Jingles.

Mulligan said, “Count Mary and me in. Where we headed?”

“That’s the fun part,” Knickers grinned. “We’ll fly first class to the island of Hispaniola. We can take our sticks and get in a few rounds on courses along the ocean.”

“Haiti or Dominican Republic?” Harvey asked.

“Both. I have a great friend over in the DR. His name is Juan Felipe.” He held up his cigar. “That’s how I get these. Juan wants to give us a white stretch limo to use for the trip, with a driver and everything. His treat. He’s been successful in business over there.”

“How do you know this Felipe?” Mulligan asked.

“He was one of the first Dominicans to play ball over here. We were teammates in the minors and stayed friends through the years. I’ve never gone to visit him and feel like it’s time.

“I’ve grown curious about Haiti too. Did you know that five hundred Dominicans have played in our Major Leagues and basically none from Haiti?”

Harvey interrupted. “Don’t they play soccer in Haiti? More of a European influence?”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Knickers said. “But the people from both countries have the same ethnic background and I assume the same great baseball potential. Here you have two separate countries on the same island, each with about nine million people, and only one has a passion for baseball. In the baseball country, the economy’s better, more kids go to school, and people live longer and happier lives. In the soccer country, things are much tougher. Remember the news coverage after the earthquake a few years back?”

“How do you know all this?” Jingles asked. “I’m not even sure where Hispania is.”

“Hispaniola,” Knickers corrected. “Bess has been copyin’ stuff off the computer for me to read.”

Mulligan blew out a plume of smoke. “I never liked soccer. It’s all a bunch of running back and forth.”

Knickers waved him off. “Anyway, the plan is to lie on the beach, play some golf, and tour around both countries a little. I want to see everything firsthand and first class. We’re goin’ to the best hotels and restaurants. You still have your passports, right?”

They all nodded. The four couples had been to Acapulco for the wedding of Harvey’s granddaughter.

Harvey popped out of his chair, eager to tell his wife the news. “I’ve never flown first class before.”

“As far as the money goes,” Knickers added, “just tell your wives that Bess and I have been saving up for this for a long time.”

Jingles said, “That’s the absolute truth.” He stood to catch up with Harvey.

“Hold on,” Mulligan commanded. “Sit back down. You too, Harvey! I’ve got something else to disgust ... discuss.”

The men sat and gave Mulligan their attention. His voice conveyed urgency, and a hint of too much booze.

“You see all those signs in there?” he asked. “It’s like Jingles is running for orifice ... office ... or something.”

Jingles realized his friend was a little shit-faced. How had he managed to drink so much? He spent most of the night on the dance floor.

“What orifice would Jingles be running for?” Knickers teased. “Leisureville Homeowner Association President?” Knickers knew all the focus on Jingles had to rankle Mulligan, who had always been Lord of the Dances. Jingles’ spin with Ingrid really got his goat.

“We need to talk about what’s been going on,” Mulligan said, ignoring Knickers. “Three of us are just watching all this, wondering what’s happening.”

The others stared at Mulligan. Their chairs were suddenly uncomfortable.

“I’m a damn good golfer, especially for my age,” he continued. “I’ve always felt like I could play with anybody. Now I’m embarrassed to walk out there.”

He looked at Knickers, then Harvey. “Speak up, you guys! I know you feel the same. You’ve told me!”

“Mulligan, you shot seventy-three today,” Harvey said. “You stepped up to the challenge.”

“I stepped up? I lost by a dozen goddam shots! Nobody shoots 60 and 61! And who the hell danced with Speed Bump?”

Harvey didn’t defend Jingles on the last point. He figured all his mouth-to-mouth treats for Ingrid’s little collie should have rated him a dance too.

Jingles felt both anger and sympathy. Should he have to apologize for his good fortune? “Ingrid just wanted to congratulate me.”

Mulligan dropped his cigar and stomped on it. “Mary said you embarrassed your wife by dancing with Ingrid. I think so too.”

Knickers burst out laughing. “Jingles embarrassed Pat? You wanted the next dance!”

Jingles nodded. “You must have danced with fifty women, Mulligan. Your wife didn’t seem to mind.”

Mulligan picked up his cigar butt and tossed it in a trash can. “Okay, I’m a little envious. I confess. That doesn’t change the facts. Jingles, we know your golf game. What you’ve done the last few days is all off. You shot the crazy score on Wednesday and we knew it had to be a fluke. Knickers turned up the heat on Friday. What did you do? Shot even lower! It’s like the cup is a magnet for your ball … only yours.

“On Saturday, I tossed more wood on the fire. I put you in a situation that was sure to bring you back to Earth, Jane Friend and everything. You marched out and made every putt again.

“I guess what I’m saying is … who the hell ... or what the hell ... are you?’”

Jingles glanced at the others and saw the same question on their faces. He wasn’t surprised or insulted. This reaction seemed more logical than all their cheering. Had he shot one round of 65, it may have been okay. His repeated lower scores were beyond reason, just like the view through his bubble lens. Would Sid Wexler’s explanation of the defective lens satisfy, confuse, or infuriate his partners? Would they curse his good fortune or accept it like the story of Knickers’ investment advice from the bleachers?

He decided it was the wrong time to find out. His friends had been drinking and were tired too. Jingles chose his words carefully. “My contact lenses have made all the difference. You have to understand that I was playing blind before, at least compared to how I see now.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Blah, blah,” Mulligan mumbled. “We’ve heard the bullshit and it doesn’t wash. You heard Harvey on the news. He was right. Nobody putts like you have. Nobody!”

Jingles pointed to his right eye. “I’ve told you that everything looks different now.”

Mulligan interrupted again. “Yeah, the hole looks like a big, old bucket, you say. Guess what? You’re shooting at the same damn hole, with the same damn ball, as the rest of us!” Ashes from a freshly lit cigar fell on his shirt and tie.

“You have to accept that I can see better than other people,” Jingles explained. “There you have it.”

Harvey’s head was clearing quickly. “I can accept that,” he said. “The optometrist said my eyes are close to normal, but I couldn’t see all those golf balls you were finding in the bushes. Your eyes must be better than normal.”

“I don’t accept shit,” Mulligan yelled, dropping more ashes on a tie that started smoking on its own. “The Golf God up and decided that Jingles should see better than the rest of us?”

Jingles tossed up his hands. “Maybe it was Gladys Beckerman’s five iron, like you said on TV. Or maybe I’m in the zone that Knickers talked about. It could be all those things. I don’t think I should have to apologize.”

The other three stared in wonder. Jingles was angry? That seemed more improbable than his golf scores.

Knickers said, “There’s no reason for anybody to get upset. We’re all friends here.”

Mulligan pushed himself out of his chair and took a second to gain his balance. “A week ago, we were a quartet, all playing the same music from the same page. Now we’re Gladys Knight and the Pits. We all know who the lead singer is.”

“I think you mean Pips,” Harvey corrected.

Jingles squeezed his eyes shut. “Gladys Knight? What are you even talking about?”

Harvey felt stone sober. The tone of the conversation had roused him like a dunk in the pool. “We need to stop this right now. We are a quartet.”

Looking to Jingles, Harvey added, “I apologize for all of us. You’ve never been anything but a perfect friend. We need to grow up, I guess. I think we might be worried about the future of The Foursome, now that you’re playing like this. I think that’s what Mulligan’s getting at.”

Mulligan nodded, stumbled over to Jingles, and held out his hand. “Sorry. Harvey’s right. You know that’s the alcohol talking. This has been crazy. Your getting so tall has made me feel smaller, I guess.”

Jingles nodded back. “Hey, if you and Mary didn’t contact Jane Friend, we wouldn’t have been on television tonight. This was your day!”

Mulligan forced a smile. “If you ever want more dance lessons, come see me.”

“If you need a new tie, come see me,” Jingles said, noting two smoldering holes in Mulligan’s red one.

Knickers snuffed out his cigar. “This vacation couldn’t come at a better time. I’m glad you can all make it. I’m not playin’ any more golf ’til I get to the island.”

“I second the motion,” Mulligan said. “This meeting is adjourned.”