“Swing through it, not across!”

I pulled back and swung forward with what I thought was one fluid motion and whacked the ball somewhere along its upper third, sending it in line-drive fashion towards one of the giant elms that lined the fairway.

“Again!”

Bringing up the head of the club behind the ball and lining the two up, visually noting where the club had to sit with regard to the ground and the tee to hit the ball in this fashion, I slowly brought the club back, and then down once, then twice, making sure I kept the needed trajectory. With one final back swing, I brought the club down quickly as fast as I could, striking the ball and sending it careening from its tee.

Straight into a tree 30 yards into the fairway and off to the left.

“Dammit!” I yelled.

“It’s okay, just calm down and get a handle on things. Let’s take a five minute time-out, okay?”

Paul Sorvino had woken me early this morning to drill more golf schooling into me, determined to turn me into a capable golfer, at least capable enough to hold up one end of the four-man squad he previously organized with my father. I needed to get an “A” game, and quick.

“Want some ice tea?” he asked as he reclined in his chaise lounge chair. His patio opened onto the 13 fairway and at this time of the morning the golfers were still on the front nine. We’d have another half hour before old men in loud clothing started showing up.

“Thanks, no,” I replied, easing back into the other chaise lounge. I removed a cigar cutter from my pant pocket and then pulled the Davidoff petite carona from the pocket of my shirt. As long as I was awake this early I may as well enjoy the moment. I gently cut away the cap from the cigar and rolled the cut top around delicately in my hand, firmly pressing the sides to ensure the Connecticut shade wrapper didn’t unravel. When I was finished I slipped the cutter back inside my pant pocket and pulled out the Prometheus lighter my father had given me when I graduated from UC Santa Barbara. It was such a small token, a keepsake produced once in a while but ever so briefly to ignite a cigar. A few times it had been a conversation piece while in a restaurant or club, but to me it was a keepsake signifying a bygone era of style and class.

I puffed at the cut end of the cigar as I lit the tip. Wisps of smoke encircled me as I puffed and then backed my mouth off the cigar, allowing the stick to take life.

“You want one of these?” I offered. “I brought another if you’d like. They’re Davidoffs.”

Paul waved me off. “You know I can’t have those. It does smell good, though. Very cedary.” He cursed under his breath. “Damn asthma.”

I puffed on the cigar for a few more minutes while Paul Sorvino sipped his ice tea in silence. When he was nearly done he turned to me. “You know, my kids can’t play golf very well either. They never showed any interest in taking it up.”

“You mean Mira?”

He cleared his throat. “You know, I have two other children besides Mira. None of them play too well. Amanda, Michael, Mira – all of them. Me? I like this game, I can play it the live long day. You’re in privileged company.”

I stood up and rolled the cigar between my fingertips. “My father was the same way, except half the time he would be schmoozing people and making business deals. Very little golf was being played.”

He laughed. “That’s where the best networking gets done, kid, not the boardroom. I can’t tell you how many roles I’ve landed on the links.” He stood up and went over to his golf bag, resting on the tripod-shaped stand. Removing a club from the bag, he added, “Learn this game, Reed. Learn it partially for the game itself, but mostly for the networking and contacts you’ll glean from it.”

So much for it being a selfless, relaxing, reflective game.

“Let’s get back to it, okay?” Paul suggested.

“Got an ashtray? I need to tap my ash.”

He shook his head. “Got rid of them right after I quit smoking. I don’t need the reminders.”

“Oh crap, well if this is a problem just say so and I’ll…”

“No, no problem. I would have already said something if it was.” He looked around the patio for something, anything that could double as an ashtray. Finally he said, “just use the planter over there, the one with the evergreen shrub. It will be fine.”

I walked over to a plaster planter with a faux-weathered paint job and pointed. He nodded. I carefully lowered the cigar and gently tapped the edge against the side of the planter. When I finished I took up the club once again and followed Paul out to the tee on the 13th fairway.

“The trick to teeing off perfectly is keeping the body straight and in line with the tee. Think of the club as an extension of your arms and keep them parallel to the body.” He demonstrated a proper stance and waved a hand over his body so I would note the display.

“Back straight, shoulders slightly relaxed but not rounded,” he explained, “and when you swing, don’t twist at the waist. This isn’t the batting cage. To power through with a really good swing, think of it as a follow-through of your backswing.” He lifted his club back. “Get your club to a good height, you’ll know what’s good because you’ll feel gravity and inertia begin to slow the club. When you feel that, then come forward swiftly and in one fluid movement, striking the ball.”

He brought his club down and struck the ball. “Whack!” It went screaming from the tee, splitting the center of the fairway like an arrow. He smiled as he watched it sail out of our end.

“There. Just like that,” he remarked. “Now you try.”

“Just like that,” I mimicked, approaching him. He held out a tee pin for me and I snatched it from his hand.

“How is this game relaxing?” I demanded. “You just whack a ball and get pissed off about where it ends up going. Then you chase after it and whack it again, get more pissed off when it ends up in the sand or water, and by the time you make it onto the green the people behind you are complaining that you take too long. That’s relaxing?”

Paul smiled. “You’ll see. In time the game will open up to you.”

I put the ball atop the tee and took a swing. “Whack!” Way off course again.

“Here, maybe this will help you.” He approached me and placed a tee in the ground and then a ball atop it. “Watch what I do.” He stood behind the ball and lined up his shot. “If you silently count while you go through the motions it will keep your concentration and movement focused.” He brought the club slowly back and uttered “zero.” When his club was at the top of his backswing he swiftly brought it forward, saying “one,” and hit the ball with a loud thump.

After we watched the ball sail away Paul again stood in position next to the tee, brought back his club, and swung through an imaginary ball over and over, reciting “zero and one, zero and one” each time.

“Why zero and one?” I asked. “Why not ‘one, two’ or just ‘fore’?”

“There is a cadence to ‘zero, one.’ It’s soothing and rhythmic. Start incorporating it into your game and you’ll see the results. I’m going to turn you into a golfer and you are going to help out our team if it’s the last thing I do. Just go along with what I say and do what I do. Zeroes and ones will take us there.”
___________________________________________________________________

One golf lesson, a shower and a cup of coffee later, I sat in the living room of my parents’ house, watching the sun through the French doors slowly begin its ascent behind the foothills which separate Brentwood from Santa Monica and Malibu. I didn’t know what Paul Sorvino saw in me, if he perceived any true ability to play golf on my part. Maybe I was a quick fix, a finger to stick in the leaking dike, but he was determined to turn me into a wunderkind. I would play Happy Gilmore to his Chubbs Peterson.

My mother found me relaxing on the sofa and joined me. “Care for some company?” she asked.

“Sure, it’s your house. You make the rules.” I looked around the room. “Where’s Sophia?” I asked.

An alarmed look came over my mother’s face. “Oh lord, I forgot to let her out of the crate!” she exclaimed. “Poor thing. She probably has to relieve herself.” She quickly got up and disappeared down the hallway. Within moments I heard the familiar jingle-jangle of Sophia’s collar as she came tearing down the hallway and into the living room.

“Ugly Dog!” I announced as she came into view. Sophia zeroed in on my location and went into full gallop, launching herself onto the sofa and onto me. She shoved her walrus-like muzzle into my face and began licking.

“Okay, okay,” I said between laughs, “I’m glad to see you too. Now get off the couch!” I commanded, adding a point towards the door so that she would get the message. She adjusted her jowls and hopped off.

“Sophia, outside,” my mother motioned with a wave of her arm, drawing the dog towards the French doors. Sophia eagerly ran outside and sniffed around the landscaping, looking for any uninvited rodent that may have taken up residence during the night.

My mother returned to the sofa and sat beside me, holding her coffee mug. “You’re in cheerful spirits this morning,” she commented. “Have a good time golfing with Mr. Sorvino?”

“No, I was my rotten self as usual,” I replied, shaking my head. “If he expects me to improve by leaps and bounds he is in for a shock. I’m terrible. You could beat me.”

“Well he must see something in your game. So if that’s not the reason for your mood, then what is? Perhaps that woman who came by a few nights ago when you went out?”

Mothers don’t change. It doesn’t matter how young or old you are, their tricks are still obvious.

“Stop fishing for information, that was Courtney. You have met Courtney before.”

“Well you ushered her out of here so quickly that I didn’t get a chance to see who it was. All that was left was the scent of her perfume in the air.”

“I bet it was a cheap one at that,” I responded. “I’d like to take a frying pan to the back of her head. That’s the extent of my desire.”

My mother shook her head disapprovingly. “Oh my. Then why do you spend time with her?”

“I find myself asking the same question. It’s always in the context of the group. There is no way I could even handle spending an evening with her one-on-one. Any Courtney talk brings me down so let's change the subject. What have you got on the schedule for today?”

She sighed. “I really need to go through your father’s things like his clothes and pack them up to give away.”

“Would you like any help? All I have on the schedule is lunch with Devin.”

“No, this is something I should do myself,” she replied. Translation: She didn’t want anybody around in case she became emotional.

“Besides,” she added, “now that you’ve broken your hermit’s vow you should be going out and having a good time, spending time with your friends and so forth.”

I grinned. “That’s what college was for.”

She pushed at my arm. “You know what I mean. Within reason. Everything at its proper pace. Besides, if you do go out how will you ever meet that special someone?”

“Ah yes, the one who restore order to me and right the wrongs, cure the ills and so forth.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she responded.

“I know. It seems we have each finally returned to our pre-June states. I am reverting to senseless playboy, and you to incessant matchmaker. We may be all right just yet.”
___________________________________________________________________

The cart had a wobbly wheel and loudly announced my presence every time I turned a corner. For all of their investments in hip, popular products and organic vegetables, Gelsons market had no desire to bring their shopping cart fleet out of the 1970s. Gelsons was a Southern California past time, a highbrow market that attracted the affluent set of West Los Angeles. I pushed the rickety cart down the aisle with one hand while balancing my cell phone against my ear with my shoulder and engaging in another Southern California past time: Talking on the phone while shopping.

“Dude, what are you doing grocery shopping in the middle of the day?”

“It’s the best time to go, I have the place to myself,” I responded.

“Well hurry up, I’m over here waiting on a table for us.”

“Relax Devin, it’s Johnny fucking Rockets we’re talking about, not Lawrys.”

“Alright, but if they seat me and become impatient about waiting for you, I’m going to order.”

I murmured something under my breath. He was being a drama queen and an ass. Ever since he started getting noticed in public for the Nivea commercial he had done, he whined about his time being too important for foolish idleness. I hated that in his backhanded way he was also saying my time wasn’t important.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be there.” I clicked off and shoved the phone back into my pants. I looked around the store; despite offering the least busy time to shop, lunchtime at Gelsons brought with it the appearance of West Los Angeles’ lowest common denominators. These were the people who managed to stay in the area because they’d been willed a home in Carthay Park or maintained generations of rent control below 3rd Street in Santa Monica. They really had no business infiltrating this part of town and most knew them for what they were: A sham. These were people whose connection to high life were finger holds on some property that was sucking them dry. Their appearance, their sense of fashion, even the contents of their shopping carts gave them away. Any money they made was directly deposited into their living quarters. They were house poor, and all because they felt it so important to maintain the appearance of living in a high rent part of town. A sizeable portion of Bel Air was filled with these people, and you knew them all too well by the cheap spaghetti sauce and ramen noodles occupying their cart.

My way of dealing with – or rather, not dealing with – the midday riff-raff at Gelsons came in electronic form: The iPod. Apple’s technological wonder had its true value not in storage size, instant music recall, or playlists, but in its ability to isolate the listener from the rest of the world. Tune in, tune out. Apple should employ that marketing strategy and forget the artsy pastels and silhouettes of their current look. Instead, show a person sitting on a bench waiting for the bus or something, with all of life’s unbearable noises and pressures bearing down on him, but instead of showing worry, the guy is wearing a big shit-eating grin. Why? He has on his iPod and he is in the zone. Apple iPod. Tune in, tune out.

I took the iPod out and turned it on, quickly running my finger clockwise along its scroll pad. Rapid clicks tried to keep up with the circular motion of my finger until I found what I was looking for: Rahzel. I queued “Make the Music” to play, put on my headphones, and let Rahzel’s rhymes wash over me.

It was two aisles over where I first spotted her. She looked to be in her mid-20s and clearly confused by the layout of the store. She probably didn’t live around here. Maybe she worked nearby and stopped in on her lunch break. She had light mocha skin, very fair, and curly jet black hair with a nice natural looking wave to it. Still, I couldn’t tell if it was natural or good work with a curling iron. She wore one of those velour J-Lo style track suits that should have been out of style six months ago were it not for magazines like Lucky and Good Housekeeping. Any new clothing style goes through its phases - first chic, then glamorous, then innocuous. That last stage is when housewives and those with the – ahem – wrong build dive in and make the purchase. Still, she wore it well, and were it six months ago I’d be impressed.

As she drew closer I got a better look at the contents of her cart: Weight Watchers Smart Ones frozen dinners, South Beach diet sandwich wraps, lots of canned soup, and fresh vegetables. No snacks, no power bars, no fruit juice or beer. She was single. And a reasonably healthy eater. Maybe she was trying to keep her weight in check. Perhaps that was the reason for the track suit, as an inconspicuous way of hiding the flab. I watched as she scanned the aisle and then turned to look behind her at something. She was lost. As our carts passed I flashed a half-smile. Sometimes a smile is all it takes.

She slowed her cart and waved her hand as I passed to get my attention. I lowered the volume on the iPod and pulled off my headphones.

“Sorry, I’ve never been in this Gelsons before and I’m totally turned around. Do you know where they hide the coffee around here?” She smiled nervously, a little embarrassed to let out her secret.

I gave her the once-over as I answered. “Back two aisles and in the middle. They have one of those stations where you can grind your own blend.”

She laughed nervously. “Yeah, I have to get my coffee fix. Thanks.”

I started to go for my headphones when she again stopped me. “If you don’t mind my asking, what are you listening to?”

I offered the headphones. “Here, listen for yourself.”

She reached for the headphones, adjusting them first for the right size, and then tucking away her hair behind her ears before finally putting them on. I raised the volume slightly and when she realized what she was listening to, she frowned.

“Rap music? Are you serious?” she asked as she pulled the headphones off and handed them back to me.

“Why not? It's honest music,” I responded.

She twisted her mouth into a disappointed expression. “Rap is repulsive and demeaning. How do mean it is honest music?”

“Rap is the one style of music that honestly portrays the male agenda,” I said with a sly grin. Most women misinterpret that phrase and confuse it with male chauvinism.

“The male agenda. What kind of sexist idealism is that?” she asked. She seemed to read it incorrectly too.

“It’s nothing like that,” I responded, shaking my head. “Let’s compare. How often do you hear R&B or rock songs that try to woo women with 'You'll be my everything,' 'You're my shining star,' 'I'll sing to you on a mountaintop,' 'I'm forever yours faithfully,' and so on? How do women respond? They eat it up. They swoon. They get that goofy look in their eyes. But as soon as the band is off the stage, however, they are knee deep in groupies they're going to screw and toss aside ten minutes later. It's a sham - a ploy for sex rolled up in a love song. And they are sending a message to you through their actions that you, as woman, are a number and disposable.”

The woman renewed the twisted, disappointed look on her face. Taking her eyes off me, she reached into her cart and stood a frozen entrée upright to make space. Her foot began tapping impatiently.

“And rap music is not like that?” She asked. She wanted to say something more damning, but restrained herself.

“It is not. Rap music is honest and upfront about advancing the male agenda. They know what they want and they are not shy about selling it to that end. It's not tonight let's set the night to music. Listen to the lyrics. They are explicit and direct. It's 'back that ass up.' It's I'm into having sex not into making love so come give me a hug if you're into getting rubbed. It's got me wanting to put hickeys all over your chest. Those are actual lyrics and they send a clear, unclouded message.”

She shook her head. “But the result is all the same, they want to get into your pants just like the R&B singers you cite.”

“You’re right,” I nodded, “but they don’t roll it up in bullshit. And there’s my point: Honest music.”

She began laughing. “My god, you've really thought this through. You must have a lot of free time on your hands.”

“Guilty as charged. It’s that obvious, huh?”

She continued laughing. “Pretty much.”

“Well then thanks. Thanks for laughing it up over my deep level of lameness.”

“Oh, don’t be hurt, I don’t mean it like that.” She forced herself to stop laughing and covered her mouth. “I’m Tina.”

I extended a hand. “And I’m Reed. I’d continue on the lame track and ask if you come around here much, but I know you don’t.”

“Just stopped in. I don’t even get over here really. I live in midcity, around La Brea.”

I nodded. “Ah, so you gravitate towards the high life of The Grove, yes?”

“You know it, I take it.”

“I’ve been there a few times. The area around it has really changed from when I was younger.”

A smile crept across her face. “So you are a native. It’s becoming harder to find locals who are not a transplant from somewhere else.” She paused and looked at her watch. “I grew up in Culver City.”

“Is that right?” I was through with small talk and her obvious glance at her watch told me she was as well. “I should really let you get to that coffee station, I'm sure you'll have to fight for the good beans,” I began, “but since you are into French Roasts and the like, maybe we can get together sometime over coffee and I can share with you some more lame ideas of mine.”

“Lame huh?” She hesitated, thinking over the proposition. “Sure,” she started, reaching for her purse, “sounds like fun.” She fished a business card out of her purse and handed it over. As I looked it over and examined the embossing on the print she started to push her cart away. “Most of the time you can catch me at that work number, otherwise try the cell. I’ll talk to you later. Hopefully next time it won’t be about rap music.”
___________________________________________________________________

“I think I’ve come up with the great idea to end all great ideas.”

Devin sat on the other side of the booth from me, beaming. Normally when Devin lets loose with a claim like this it’s reason for concern. He’s not a linear thinker.

I reached for my glass of water and fished out the lemon wedge before taking a sip. I didn'’t understand the phenomena of putting a wedge of fruit in a glass of water. The water in California was already suspicious, and the citric acid in a slice of lemon wouldn't kill whatever called my glass its home. Lemon wedges don't fool anyone.

I unfolded a napkin and placed the wedge on it. “Fucking lemon. Adding a lemon to the water doesn’t make this place high brow. It’s Johnny Rockets for Christ sake.” I looked at Devin. I could tell he was waiting on pins and needles for a chance to explain his Next Big Idea, so I got back on topic.

“What’s the idea?” I asked, playing along.

“You know how my schedule is totally crazy and frantic? If I don’t have a gig then I’m going to cast calls and auditions for a gig, and if not I’m hustling my agent to find me something?”

“Yeah…”

“And I have to go to the gym often because all of this – my body and my face – is an asset to my career, and affects what kind of jobs I get so there’s a chunk of time invested in that...”

“Uh huh.”

“Well I got to thinking – with that kind of crazy schedule how am I expected to have any kind of social life? Or dating life? There’s no time to go out and meet people, really meet people and get to know them.”

I tapped my hand on the table. “What the fuck is the idea?”

“Okay, are you ready? Here’s my new dating philosophy: Date only single mothers.”

“Oh Jesus,” I replied, rubbing the bridge of my nose. I tried to change the subject. “Is this guy going to take our order or what?”

“He already came by and I told him to come back. Anyway, listen. It’s a good plan. I’m busy, they’re busy. Their time is valuable and they know what they want. There is no monkeying around and playing games. They’re on the clock so they have to go after what they want.”

“What they want?” I asked.

“Do I have to spell it out for you?” Devin spat back. “If you put out the vibe that you are equally busy, they respect that, so when it comes down to going out you both know what you are there for: Adult conversation and horizontal shuffling.”

I shook my head in disapproval. “That’s a con job, and you are conning yourself. There’s no pursuit involved. Where is the fun in that?”

Devin drummed his hands on the table a few times. “You and your fucking pursuit are overrated. I don’t know about you, but this cat wants to get laid. Oh! Here’s the best part. When the two of you are done, there’s no awkward post-coital bullshit, there’s no unplanned inconvenience of one of you staying the night, no figuring out if you have enough eggs in the fridge and Bisquick to make some breakfast the next morning. She’s gotta go; there’s the sitter to pay and drive home, diapers to change, a place to clean up. I’m telling you, dating a single mother cancels out all the unnecessary junk built into the system.”

“That’s not even dating, that’s more like a one-night stand.”

“No, you have to build it up over a date or two. Date one is to decide if she likes you enough to screw you. She won’t make you jump through any special hoops or hold out for some tender moment – she’ll take it where she can get it. And date two is bedtime for Bonzo. Boom. Done. Over. If she wants you to call her in a few days, great. You beocome a fuck on retainer. If not, then move on and start again.”

“And women wonder why they are constantly bombarded by zeroes,” I declare.

“Don’t knock the system, dude. It works. Give it a chance.”
___________________________________________________________________

By the time I returned to my parents’ house it was nearly four and I was glad all of my purchases at Gelsons were non-perishable. Inside I found my mother surrounded by piles upon piles of my father’s clothing. Her eyes were bloodshot and the dark patches under her eyelids heavily pronounced. She’d been crying.

“Are you okay?” I asked, sitting beside her on the one open spot remaining on the bed.

“Oh, you shouldn’t see this, dear,” she responded, wiping her eyes and trying to erase any lingering evidence of crying.

“Shouldn’t see this or shouldn’t see you like this?” I offered.

“A little of both I suppose.” She let out a deep sigh. “I thought I would be ready for this, I really did, but I look at his clothing and can remember places and moments and events when they were worn. So many memories and happy feelings.” She started getting misty-eyed again.

“Here,” I said, reaching for the tissue box on the night stand. She took a couple of tissues and smiled. “Why are you doing this? There’s no hurry.”

“I know, but it has been nearly four months. I can’t let these things hang in the closet
forever.” She daintily wiped the corners of her eyes and folded the Kleeex in her hand.
“I wish the whole process wouldn’t be so difficult. Some aspects of daily life you get past, and you become accustomed to it just being you. Others…well I guess the great mystery is you don’t really know what will be a mountain and what will be a molehill until you are in the thick of it. The only thing you know for sure is nobody gets out of here alive.”

She dabbed at the sides of her eyes again. “You were gone a while. Out having fun? That’s good. You should get back into that habit with the free time you have. As a matter of fact – go out tonight. I am going to be here sorting through more of your father’s things so I’m sure I won’t be in the most joyous of moods. But it shouldn’t stop you, so go out and have fun. Meet some new people, make some new friends. Sophia can keep me company. Won’t you dear?”

The dog poked her head up from behind the other side of the bed. She let out a huff and galloped around to the side we were on.

“Where did you come from?” I asked, rubbing Sophia’s head. She let her tongue slide out the side of her mouth where it dangled freely in the air.

“She’s been one tired dog today,” replied my mother.

“That’s nothing new. Sharpeis sleep 16 to 18 hours a day. Why is today different?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. But she’ll be awake to keep me company this evening. And as for you,” she said, her thin finger pointed squarely at me, “get on. Go have some fun.”

I looked at my watch. “It’s too early for dinner. I could go find a happy hour bar someplace,” I suggested, aloud.

“See, a plan is already coming together.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Have a good time. It’s very important you do that.” She grabbed onto my arm. “You need to have fun.”