Leftovers

Sometimes a moment sums up a lifetime.

My father is retired but works part-time at a local golf course so that he can play there for free. Even better, when he works, I can play free too.

He worked Sunday. I met him up there and he set me up with a golf cart and a bucket of range balls. After that, I'd go over to the club's par-3 course and play. I don't like to play the main course alone because it's too hard for me to track where my ball goes. It's the downside to the keeping the head down people are always telling you to do.

Sometimes after work Dad will join me and we'll go play the main course together. I asked if he wanted to do that Sunday. "No," he said. "I'm playing tomorrow and I don't like to play back-to-back days because I never play well on the second day." He was to play with a prominent local business owner and a couple of other people he knew from his working days. They play about once a month.

Not even thinking about it I said, "And you have to save yourself for the important people." There was nothing snarky about it. I didn't say it sarcastically or as a challenge. It was the simple truth.

It stung Dad some. "No, it's not that," he stammered. "I just don't like to play bad..." His voice trailed off. He'd had to stop himself from saying, "...in front of important people." I could tell.

The significance of the moment didn't strike me until after I had hit my practice balls and pointed the cart toward the par-3 course. In a hundred thousand years it would never be more important for him to play a round of golf with me than it would be to play well with his friends.

Here's the thing: In a hundred thousand years, I would not expect him to. I cannot fathom my father showing up sore to play with his friends because he had played the day before with me. I cannot imagine him hitting a poor shot and saying to his playing partners, "I might stink it up today. I played with Jack yesterday. He got the good round out of me. You guys get what's left."

I don't know when I realized it but I've known it for a long time. My father was never going to save his best for me. I -- and my mother and brothers -- were the ones who were going to get what was left, which was not inconsiderable. In many ways my father has made it possible for me to lead a fairly comfortable life. I'm grateful.

But knowing you're not number one in the minds of your parents has its effects. I never felt particularly neglected. Just second-rate. It's possible to get scars from wounds you never knew you had. I'm sure that's why I don't have as much self esteem as I should: I was never good enough. Why should I think I was any good at all?

So I played on the par-3 course while my father rested himself for the important people. I played pretty well. And I promised myself that in the highly unlikely event that I ever have a son of my own, I'll play with him every chance I get. He (and the woman I presume I will marry to produce this child) will get my best.

Everyone else will have to settle for what's left.

Drive Naked!

I spent part of Memorial Day on a Gulf coast beach. It was just me, some water, sunblock, a beach chair, a book about World War II and some crossword puzzles. Among my supplies was not a pen so the crossword puzzles didn't do me much good.

Other than that it was great! I'm sure that's only partly because of the group of "kids" who looked like they stepped straight out of an episode of "The O.C." Fine scenery there. The book -- The Conquerors by Michael Beschloss -- is a good read, there was a breeze blowing in off the Gulf and the water was clear and warm. Floating on the Gulf of Mexico ranks among my favorite things.

The only thing the place didn't have was a place to change my clothes. (Or toilets. I peed in the Gulf. Don't tell.) I already had my bathing suit on and I also had a nylon sleeveless workout shirt that I could wear even while swimming to help protect me from sunburn. The first time I came out of the water, my shirt and shorts dried pretty quickly. Cool! I thought. Who needs a place to change? When I go swimming again, my clothes will dry before I want to leave anyway.

Here's the thing: Next time I come out of the water, my clothes won't dry. I get up and walk around trying to air them out. I sit under the same sun that dried them so well the first time. No go. It's time to leave so I'm going to have to ride home in wet shorts. Not fun. I take the shirt off and hang it on the hanger hook inside the car.

It's about an hour ride home and before I reach the Interstate, I can't stand sitting in the wet shorts any more. So I reach down and peel them off. Now, except for my sunglasses, I'm completely nude, driving home on the Interstate.

You Say You Want a Resolution

May 19 is kind of late to make New Year's resolutions. And like the promises we make to ourselves to start the year, I don't know how long this one is going to last.

I have resisted writing Sarah. We traded e-mails late last week. I avoided any mention of getting together. It's been hard to stay out of contact because a lot of things have happened that normally I would write to tell her about.

I landed a new freelance job. I also got some more work on a project to which I contribute. My townhome is almost finished and I could close on it by the end of the month. I ordered the granite countertops I'm going to have installed in the kitchen.

There was even something funny I spotted online about a woman saved from a gunshot wound, in part, by her bra strap! I kid you not! But it would have given me plenty of material to kid about to Sarah.

So far she knows none of it. She might soon. I'll probably hold out until next week but I won't press her to see me. We'll stay pen pals until she wants to correspond face-to-face.

Mess Hour

I don't know what that black stuff all over the road was. It wasn't pavement. The car fishtailing in the right-hand lane as it skidded through it told me that. My lane of the Interstate southbound was mostly clear so a gentle tug on the wheel steered me around most of it. I'd see where it came from in a moment.

First I had to keep an eye on that car careening out of control in front of me. The had driver panicked and oversteered. The car veered right then made a sharp left, cut across the lanes and into the median. Once on the grass, the driver appeared to have given up trying to re-gain control. It might not have mattered anyway. The car smashed into the guardrail. I heard the impact as I passed but I was too occupied keeping my own car going straight to see it. It didn't sound like car wrecks on TV. This one made a dull, lifeless crunch.

I thought to pull over to help but a car in front of me got the idea first and I let him be the hero. Good. With my luck, I'd stop and become the target for the next car to slide off the road at highway speed.

Better I just stay out of the way, I thought. It wasn't far before I saw the source of the spill. A semi with a black open-topped trailer sat parked on the right-hand shoulder. What it once carried I still didn't know. Topsoil was my best guess. Whatever it was, it made a mess that would have caused a lot more damage had it happened a few miles north where traffic was much heavier.

Aloe

Aloe vera gel doubles as hair gel. Unfortunately, I am reminded of this beause I'm rubbing aloe into my scalp to soothe the parts of it where the hair is not thick enough to protect it from sunburn.

Sarah Update

A commenter below mentioned Sarah and it occurs to me that maybe I should mention her too. We now have a business relationship. No! Not that kind!

Sarah teaches part-time at a local college. It so happens that I have produced an educational video concerning the subject that she's teaching this summer and she has decided to use it as one of her course materials.

Her level of personal affection is apparently inversely proportionate to her esteem of my professional skills.

Although my ardor for her has not cooled, my pursuit of her has. I'm not giving up but my sense is that she is feeling pressed. In our e-mails regarding my video, she didn't mention anything remotely personal other than to state that our friendship had no bearing on her decision to use it. When I have brought personal things up lately, her answers have gotten shorter and shorter.

So I'm easing up. It's been a week since I last wrote to her. I'm trying to impress not oppress! (And when things ultimately don't work out, I'll be trying to repress.) Absense only makes the heart grow fonder if there's fondness there in the first place. Otherwise absense only makes the heart grow absent-minded. But I need to balance the line between being persistent and being a pest, if for no other reason than not to jeopardize our business deal. (How do you spell love? M-O-N-E-Y!)

Here's the thing: Just when I have almost surrendered, she'll say (or write) something that gives me hope. She'll mention "the next time we meet..." or something like that. It could be that she values my friendship but that's all. She does have a lot of male friends and she's trying to keep me at a distance so that I don't sense a closeness that she doesn't.

She might still be dealing with issues from her last relationship. She's also coming to a career crossroads soon and that could be occupying her thoughts. Or she could simply not be into me, irresistable as I am.

Psycho?

Why is it that as I get older things I crave are never as good as I imagined them when I craved them?

I bought doughnuts this morning. There's a Winn-Dixie right next to my office building. I had skipped breakfast and decided that once I got to the office, I'd run to the WD and pick up some low-fat yogurt to eat with the bagel I still had in the office refrigerator.

I turn on the computer at my desk and check my e-mail. Nothing urgently pressing to work on. I check my personal e-mail. Nothing from "Write2Dawn." I wonder if she liked the picture. I wonder if I've heard the last of her. Oh, well. Time to grab some breakfast. Priorities.

When I walk into the store, I realize I'm closer to the bakery side of the store than the dairy aisle. I usually walk that way because the deli and bakery are in the same area and I often pick up lunch there. That's when it hits me. Doughnuts! I need to get some doughnuts. I love doughnuts. Or at least I used to. Now I seem to like the idea of doughnuts -- the sweetness, the softness, the decadence -- much more than I enjoy actually eating them. Maybe they would taste just as good as I remember if I weren't so concerned about the consequences. So much fat and sugar in one shot after so little exercise in my abbreviated workout this morning. Maybe that's guilt not a greasy gut-bomb sitting in the pit of my stomach after I eat them now.

Even simple pleasures aren't so simple any more.

I sent that to Dawn this morning. Not long after, I check my e-mail again to find two messages. One includes the long awaited picture. She took it holding the camera in front of her with her left hand. No one photographs well from that close up. But the breasts inside the bikini top were enough to distract me from the distorted view of her face.

Then 13 minutes later, according the time stamp on the e-mail she follows up with this:

hey jack,

write back,

OK?

Donuts will not change the fact that you like me and I like you.

That gave me a chill. And not the good kind. But I do write back after I get home from work:

That last line scares me more than a little. It smacks of the kind of obsession detailed in that movie starring Glenn Close, Michael Douglas and a dead rabbit. I have no idea whether I like you. You've told me very little about yourself. Read over the e-mails you've sent me. What are you giving me to go on here? I do appreciate the picture you sent but as far as having any real sense of who either one of us is, all we can safely agree on based on the available evidence is that we both have pretty good racks.

Your assessment that I like you also happens to touch one of my pet peeves. Other pets make my cat jealous so I try not to keep too many of them but this is one: People who think they know what I'm thinking. Trust me, you have no idea. And you'll have to know me very well for a very long time before you can even begin to figure it out.

Remember the rock group Heart? I was driving home from work today when a song of theirs called "Barracuda" came on the radio. Heart is a fantastic group and this is one of the signature songs of their early days. If a panther made noise as it sprinted after it prey, the guitar riff of this song is what it would sound like. As I listened I remembered back to junior high school. Heart wasn't cool at the time and once when a friend who DID like the band asked if I liked it too, I denied it, even to him! I still remember his incredulous look as we stood on the school's front patio where we gathered before the first bell rang. "You don't like Heart? He asked.

"No," I said.

I was a dumbass. Worse than lying to my friend, I was lying to myself. Every time I hear a Heart song now, I remember that incident and my promise to myself that I will never pretend to like things I don't or deny liking things that I do. I'm still a dumbass but I'm a more honest one now. For one thing, it requires a lot less effort to keep my stories straight.

In that spirit, here are some things you need to know about me: The woman I seek is not clingy and desperate; she is strong and independent. She's going to have a full and fulfilling life before I enter the picture. She's going to look forward to seeing my face, hearing my voice and reading my letters but if I don't write, call or see her immediately she's going to be too busy doing other things to worry about it. She's going to be smart and funny and thoughtful and it's going to come through in our conversations and letters. And she's going to like writing because we're going to trade a lot of e-mail before we ever meet. I've never met a date through an Internet want ad and I'm going to make quite sure of what I'm getting into before I do. I look forward to making time for the right person but I have no time to waste on whack jobs, idiots or jerks. (Or some true things of beauty who are combinations of the three.)

While I needed to see your picture, I need to see more of what's inside you. Show me. You're a writer? Show me something you've written. You're funny? Send me something that will make me laugh. Something original. Something YOU. Show me.

Let's see how she handles that. She does have nice breasts, though.

Match-dot-Not

It's become part of my nightly routine. I click on craigslist's "Women Seeking Men" section and find the usual assortment of fatties, fakers and future prostitutes. (How far is it from wanting someone to "help me pay my bills" and an outright cash transaction?) When I find one that looks different:

I'll hate myself in the morning ater posting this. I am a very sexy attractive petite blonde sinngle mother. I am also a writer. Writers are notoriously wierd, and I am no exception. I need a man who will be decisive, manly, organized, financially set, and funny. If you can't make me laugh with your sarcastic sense of humor, delete this add and move on. You might be a single dad which would work best, since i have kids and you know what that's like. I'd love to meet a New Yorker. I am intelligent, very independent, spontaneous, and intense. I am funny, impatient, and thoughtful, good hearted and am not sure what will come of this, but who does?
Write to me.

OK, so someone who calls herself a writer who has such trouble spelling ordinary words stirs a bit of worry but considering the slim pickings I am inspired to reply.

If you're going to hate yourself in the morning for posting this, imagine how I'm gonna feel after replying to it.

"Delete this add," you wrote. Would that be a typo or the proverbial "addition by subtraction"? Tell you what: If we don't hit it off as a couple, you can hire me to proofread your next ad!

That, my dear scribe, was a test of your sarcasm detector and sense of humor. But I suspect you knew that or you would have deleted this response by now. I was greatly relieved to read that you seek a man who is manly because I'm as in touch with my feminine side as the next guy. Which is not very much.

By financially set, did you mean rich? Because if you did, I'm not going to add up. (Add? Oh, crap. I've stumbled onto a theme.) I have some money saved and will have some left even after I pay, in full, for the home I'm having built. I don't have kids and I'm not from New York. But if you'll settle for a childless Pennsylvanian with a cat who won't mind that your kids come first, we'll get along fine.

If we get to the point where we exchange real names (I know you now as pers-15723157," which, lovely as it is, takes too long to pronounce.), you'll be able to judge some of my video work and writing for yourself on my web site. There are even links to some of my original songs if you wish to punish your ears. (Sarcasm AND self-deprecation!)

The attached picture doesn't show off the results of my regular workouts. If you need proof, I'll send you the topless one (work safe, I promise) if you write back.

Take care!

~ Jack

Irresistable, right? Right! She writes back in a matter of hours. Our grammatically challenged author says, "Ok. You rival me.. I laughed OUT LOUD. I adored your photo. I would like to talk to you." She volunteers a first name and that the protagonist in her novel is named Jack. She does not, however, offer a picture of what she described as her sexy self. Says she doesn't have one to send yet she requests the topless photo of me promised in my initial reply. Sound fishy to you? Me too and I call her on it.

Hi Dawn:

Glad you liked my reply. Dawn is much easier to say than the name by which I knew you previously. It also clears up the meaning of your screen name. "Write2Dawn" could be a plea for correspondence or a description of your work habits.

You mean to tell me that in 2006 you do not have even one digital picture of yourself? You? A "very sexy attractive petite blonde" wouldn't have a single solitary photo to show off? Hmmmm. Lucky for you I'm a trusting soul. HA! But I do have a good imagination. And it's going to be tough for you to live up to this picture, lemme tell ya.

What kind of novel am I starring in? Why did you pick a male protagonist? Have you written any books before? Is this your paying job or something you're still working toward? How many children do you have? Is their father in the picture?

Lotta questions, I know. But you still have some work to do to earn the topless photos. Tell me a tale.

~ Jack

Now it starts to get a little weird. She writes:

Hey Jacko

You lied. You said I would have earned the topless had I responded to your letter.

Shame ono you.

I am going to use the digital camera today, take a photo and try to get it on the computer. One thing you must know about me; Idespise technology and all its components.

I think the iternet has caused an expedited breakdown in societal mores. We had enough to deal with before this generation chat bombarded our somewhat primitive lifestyle.

You can't have much good come out of internet. Unless of course youdo. So, what were your questions? The book, yes, well atually there is a female protagonist, with a male sidekick named Jack. Ijust thought that was so ironic.

I work at a few newspapers, magazines, the novel. I am a starving artist so to speak. I haven't hit the big time yet, but am well on my way. I know many famous and infamous people, but that doesn't mean much. Poeple are people. You have to weed the good ones from the nuts. You're not nuts Jack, right? What exactly is your job?
You have no kids right?

Jacko? Iternet? Is she drunk? Most of the questions she asks I had already answered. And most of the questions I ask, she ignores. I turn off the computer and go to bed. When I get to work the next morning, I get this in my in-box:

Hi Jack,

If you are intersted in talking, please let me know. I liked your letters, and I liked your photo. Is it because I have no photo? Working on that right now.

Is it because I have five boys? Can't send em back.

If you want to get to know me, let me know.

So Miss Sexy and Independent has turned psycho and clingy literally overnight? Holy crap! Can a guy get a nap in edgewise? Is what because she has no photo? And after twice ignoring queries about her kids she thinks I'm blowing her off because of them? This is starting to smell like coo coo for cocoa puffs, isn't it?

Easy now. Some of us have to work a day job. Since I promised and because you had probably earned the topless pic by saying I make you laugh out loud, see below.

Am I nuts? You mean besides the fact that I've just sent a half-naked picture of myself to a complete stranger? No more than anyone else I know. I'm a starving artist too. But during the day I work a regular job in marketing. With your love of the Internet, you'll appreciate this: my job is to work on my company's web sites.

I have no kids. That's what I meant by "childless Pennsylvanian" in my original reply ;-) I do have a cat, though. Or should I say, she has me. How else do you describe it when I pay all her expenses and do all her cleaning all so she can give me that "Don't touch me! I'm busy!" look when I try to pet her while she's looking out the window?

You answered the kids question. Five? Wow, that's a handful. (I make puns too.) Is their father active in their lives or are you going it alone? And, in your apparently rare ventures outdoors, what do you do for fun?

~ Jack

I sent it this morning. Haven't heard anything back. Not sure I want to. Five kids? I can date a women with children. I'm not sure I want one who has spawned her own basketball team. And if they're by more than one man, I don't care if she's Rebecca Romijn's twin sister, I'm not going anywhere near her.

But she gave me a good creative writing exercise if nothing else so the effort is not entirely wasted.