Standing On Top

Chapter 7b

They headed over to the first hole, a picturesque but tough looking 430 yard par four with a narrow fairway that had a creek running across it at about 210 yards from the tee blocks.

"This one is a bitch," Greg said as he pulled a tee from his pocket. "It's the number three handicap. You gotta be sure to hit a solid drive or you'll end up in the creek."

"Or you could lay up like I do," Celia suggested.

Jake and Greg both scoffed at this.

"Laying up is for pussies," Jake said.

"Here here," Greg agreed.

Celia simply rolled her eyes at them. "I smell testosterone starting to simmer here."

"Funny you should mention that, C," Greg said. "I was just going to ask Jake if he'd care to make the game a little more interesting."

He was talking about a bet, of course. "That depends on the terms you offer," Jake said.

"Well let's see," Greg said, thinking. "You told me you're a twelve handicap, right?"

"As of the last time I posted," Jake said. "And you're a scratch golfer, as I recall you mentioning on a few occasions."

"Lately I've been playing a two handicap," Greg said.

"He's been sandbagging," Celia said.

"Shhh," Greg said. "Don't give away my strategy."

Jake laughed politely, as one did on a golf course when someone told a joke that wasn't all that funny.

"So anyway," Greg said, "I propose a one thousand dollar Nassau, match play of course, automatic press per nine when three holes down and automatic press for the eighteen when five holes down. I'll give you a stroke on the number one through ten handicap holes."

"I haven't played in months," Jake said. "I need at least fourteen strokes for that kind of money."

"I can't go fourteen," Greg said. "How about twelve? That'll assume one up on your handicap and one down on mine."

"Deal," Jake said, adding up the potential losses in his head. They would be playing hole for hole instead of stroke play. A thousand dollars would be paid to whoever won the most holes on the front nine, the back nine, and the entire eighteen as a whole. The automatic presses would come into play if someone fell behind by three holes on the front or back or five holes on the entire eighteen. That meant if Jake played poorly and Greg did not, Jake could lose as much as six thousand dollars.

Jake decided not to worry about the money and simply enjoy the day. It was easy to do. He quickly found that he enjoyed playing at a country club as opposed to a public course. The grounds were beautifully groomed and maintained. Each fairway consisted of rich, uniformly cut grass that allowed a golf ball to sit nicely upon it no matter where it landed. The rough areas were marked by a distinct border and provided a significant challenge if one landed there. The greens were immaculately sculptured landscapes nearly as smooth as a billiard table and nearly as fast as concrete when one putted upon them. Iced water dispensers were located at the tee blocks of every hole and bathrooms with actual indoor plumbing were located every third hole. The course was also not as crowded as a public course since only members and their guests were allowed to play there. There was no waiting between holes, no waiting on the fairways or at the par threes for other golfers to clear the area. What he enjoyed most of all, however, was the privacy. Though he did get the occasional snooty glare when crossing paths with some of the members no one came up to ask for his autograph or to tell him he was a sinner or to tell him about this great band they were in and offer to give him a demo tape.

Jake also realized by the third hole that if he didn't get his shit together, and soon, he was going to end up owing Celia's fiancé a cool six grand. He double-bogeyed the first hole after muffing his drive while Greg neatly and effortlessly sank a two-foot putt for par. He bogeyed the second hole while Greg once again put his in for a par. And on the third hole, though he managed to tie Greg for a push, that was only because he got a stroke there. He had another bogey and Greg tapped in neatly for his third consecutive par.

"You warming up a little bit?" Greg asked him as they mounted the tee block for number four. "You seem like you're getting a handle on your ball."

"I think I am," Jake said, looking out over the 168-yard par three. The tee blocks sat before a large canyon and the green was a small island on the other side.

"This one's easy," Greg said, "as long as you don't choke."

"I always choke here," said Celia, who had so far shot nothing better than a bogey and had already lost two balls in the scrubland that surrounded each hole. "I'm just gonna go up to the edge and throw my ball in now and save myself the trouble of hitting it in there."

"It's all in your state of mind, darling," Greg told her. "Don't think about the canyon. Just think about putting it on the green."

"Be the ball," she said, making Jake chuckle — he understood the reference she was making — and Greg look at her in confusion.

"Anyway," Greg said. "I believe I still have the honors?"

"I believe you're right," Jake said.

Greg mounted the tee block and put his ball in the ground.

"So how goes the recording process?" Jake asked, as Greg picked up grass to check the wind and checked his yardage one last time.

"It's the usual grind," she said, speaking softly. "We're spending about sixty hours a week trying to get the new album put together. I may be a crappy golfer but it's nice to get away from that underground dungeon for awhile."

"Did they let you record any of your songs for this one?"

She smiled. "I used every ounce of rebellion I had in me and more than a few of those temper tantrums we Latin types are so famous for and, as a result, they agreed to let me record three of my original songs."

"That's better than the last album, isn't it?"

She withheld her answer for the moment as Greg was finally addressing his ball. They watched as he smoothly swung and launched it into the air in a clean ballistic arc heading directly for the green. It landed less then two feet from the pin but there was enough backspin on it to bring it back almost five feet."

"Nice," said Jake.

"It's on the dance floor," Greg agreed, his tone implying that he should have done better.

"Anyway," Celia said as Jake pulled his golf ball and a tee from his pocket, "it wasn't quite the victory I was hoping for. The producer didn't like the heavy acoustic guitar rhythm of the song and converted all the melodies into synthesizer and piano dominated pieces. They're not bad, but they're not what I envisioned either."

"I told her she should just tell them to take their album and cram it up their ass," Greg said. "It's disgraceful how those executives manipulate her music and package it into something they think will sell instead of what she wants."

"I'm the first to agree with you there," Jake said, mounting the tee and putting his ball in the ground. "Although it's not that easy just to walk away. Not the way they write those first time contracts."

"They pretty much own my soul," Celia said.

"You guys need a guild like we screen actors have," Greg said. "We're the ones with the power in our industry, not the producers and the movie studios. I got paid eight million dollars for my last film. I'm negotiating to get eleven million for my next one. And I'm just a character actor who's not even in the top ten. Meanwhile Celia, who is the primary talent behind the most popular contemporary band in the United States, a woman who has been nominated for more than six Grammy awards, is losing money with each new album she puts out. A recording artist's guild would put an end to all that exploitation."

"That's the same thing Mindy Snow used to say to me," Jake said. "I just don't see it happening in my lifetime."

"That's the truth," Celia said. "The only way to get ahead in this business is to stay popular enough through your first contract so that you can negotiate from strength for your second contract." She cast a knowing eye on Jake. "Kind of like someone I know, huh, Jake?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Jake said, leaning over his ball so she couldn't retort. She kept her silence and Jake focused on his shot. He kept his eye on the ball and his swing smooth. The six iron hit with a resounding smack. It felt good but when Jake looked up he saw that he'd pulled it a bit. It was drifting to the right. Instead of landing on the green it landed in a sand bunker just to the right of the green.

"Good contact," Greg said analytically. "Just a little bit of a pull."

"Yeah," Jake said sourly.

"Remember," Greg reminded Jake as Celia mounted the tee (she refused to play from the ladies tees), "if you lose this hole you're three down and the press goes into play."

"I remember," Jake said, carefully keeping the irritation from his voice. Greg had felt the need to remind him of this on the last hole as well.

Celia, to her surprise and to Greg's, actually blasted her ball quite nicely over the canyon. Unfortunately it also went over the green. In a classic case of overcompensation she had decided to hit a four iron instead of a five or a six. Her ball was safe but it was also more than twenty yards off the green.

They got in their carts and drove across the wooden bridge to the other side. While Celia went after her ball Greg and Jake stood near the edge of the trap Jake's ball was located in.

"So how goes the wedding plans?" Jake asked. "Have you set a date yet?"

"We're thinking about late January," Greg said. "That way it will fall in her break between recording and going out on tour so we'll have some time to spend together before a long seperation."

"January huh?" Jake asked. "Are you gonna go somewhere warm for it?"

"Celia was thinking about Hawaii," he said. "We haven't started planning anything just yet though because she's still balking at the prenuptial agreement."

Jake nodded, remembering how bitterly she'd mentioned that particular sticking point in the past. "Women really don't like those things much, do they?"

"Yeah," said Greg with a sigh. "I've heard all the arguments against it. It's not romantic, it's saying that we're planning to fail, it means you don't trust me, so on and so forth." He shook his head. "I don't like to think of myself as a tight-ass or anything but I do like to deal in reality. I'm worth twenty million dollars and Celia has no net yearly income at all. We live in a community property state for God's sake. I can't risk half of my earnings like that. You understand, don't you, Jake?"

Jake nodded truthfully. "I surely do," he said. "If you were a cop or a fireman or some other kind of middle-class wage earner I'd tell you to get over yourself. But when you're talking about more than a million dollars... well... you're right. You have to protect yourself."

"Exactly," Greg said, clapping him on the back. "Hey, you like cigars? I got a couple of Cubans in my cart."

"You talked me into it," Jake said.

There was a crack as Celia chipped her ball. It bounced three times on the green and then rolled off the front edge, stopping just beyond the fringe. A profane and very unfeminine articulation came drifting over the ground to their ears.

"You might as well pop out of that trap now," Greg told Jake. "She's liable to hit that thing back and forth across the green two or three more times before she starts putting."

"Right," Jake said. He climbed into the trap and addressed the ball, careful to keep his club head from touching the sand until he actually made his shot. As he'd been taught, he hit two inches behind the ball, scooping it out of the trap on a cushion of sand. It bounced once on the grass and then dribbled slowly onto the green, stopping about eight feet from the pin.

"Nice out," Greg said, although it really hadn't been all that spectacular.

By the time Jake was done raking the sand bunker back to smoothness, Celia had chipped her ball onto the green, only rolling five feet past the pin this time. The three players mounted the green and Greg removed the pin and placed it on the ground.

"You're up, Jake," Greg said. "You get a stroke here but be sure not to miss this putt. I plan to get my bird."

Jake nodded and kneeled down behind his ball, looking at the slope of the green and trying to decide which way the ball was going to break. It appeared the slope was just a hair to the left so that meant if he aimed for the right edge of the cup it should, in theory, drop right into the center. He stood up and lined up, glancing from the ball to the cup a few times. He took a deep breath and struck the ball with his putter. His line had been just a little bit off but not enough to matter. The ball rolled smoothly across the green and dropped neatly into the cup.

"Nice sandy par," Greg said. "Now the pressure is on me to keep you from winning the hole."

Celia was further away from the cup than Greg was so she putted out, taking two strokes to do so and ending up with a five for the hole. Greg then stepped up to his ball and spent the better part of two minutes examining the green from three different angles.

"Come on," Celia said playfully. "Let's do it while we're young."

Jake laughed at her second reference of the day to Caddyshack but Greg didn't seem so amused. He shot her an irritated look before finally bending over his ball and making his stroke. His read was off. Instead of catching the center of the cup it hit the outside edge. For a second it looked like the ball was going to break loose and roll on by but it managed to hang on by the thinnest of margins. It swirled three times around the cup and dropped in.

"Yes!" Greg said, pumping his fist as if he'd just sunk the winning shot in the final round of The Masters and would soon be getting his green jacket.

He was once again jovial as they went back to their carts. He reached into his golf bag and produced two Cuban cigars and a cutting tool. He prepped them and handed one to Jake.

"What about Celia?" Jake asked. "Doesn't she get one?"

Greg acted as if this was a joke and gave a polite laugh. Jake glanced at Celia and saw she was shaking her head at him and giving a throat-cutting gesture with her finger. Jake nodded and brought up the subject no more.

The next hole was a long par five with a sharp dogleg right, a creek along the left side, and a green that was liberally guarded by lipped sand bunkers. Celia managed to hit her ball into every hazard there was and ended up with a ten. Jake and Greg both put their balls on the green in a regulation three strokes. Jake's ball was about thirty feet from the cup but he putted it close and then tapped in for a par. Greg's ball, on the other hand, was only about five feet from the cup. Eagerly anticipating another birdie he putted carelessly and missed long. He had to concentrate just to sink the next one for his own par. Since it was the number five handicap hole Jake got a stroke there and took the hole.

"All right," Greg said as he mounted the tee for the sixth hole. "I'm done screwing around. It's time to start kicking some rock star ass here."

"Bring it on," Jake said, puffing from his cigar and wishing for a beer.

It seemed that Greg was going to be true to his words. Though Jake shot a par on the next hole Greg got another birdie and won it. On the seventh, where Jake got a stroke, Greg was only able to pull off a par but Jake hit his second shot out of bounds and ended up with a six.

"All right now," Greg said as they wrote the scores down. "You are now three holes down for the nine, my friend. The automatic press has just kicked in."

Jake nodded. What that meant was that if he lost the next two holes he would owe Greg the original thousand for the nine plus another thousand for losing the press. It was time to buckle down and start playing like he meant it. Press, after all, was another way of saying pressure, and under pressure was the way Jake worked the best.

The eighth hole was a simple par three, the number seventeen handicap so Jake would get no stroke here. It turned out he didn't need one. Using his eight iron he dropped the ball less than three feet from the pin and was able to putt it in for a birdie. Greg landed on the green as well and rolled to a stop about five feet from the pin. Once again, however, he misread the slope of the green only this time he didn't get away with it. The ball deflected off the side and rolled six inches away. Greg tapped in for a par and lost the hole.

The ninth hole was a long par four with two creeks crossing the fairway in very inconvenient places. It was the number one handicap hole so Jake did get a stroke. Greg blasted his drive almost two hundred and eighty yards and then used a five iron to drop it on the green about twenty feet from the pin. Jake's drive was also quite impressive but his second shot was hit fat and stopped twenty yards short of the green.

"I've got my par in the bag," Greg told Jake as he approached his chip shot. "Remember, if you don't win this hole then the press is a tie and you'll owe me a thousand for the nine."

"No pressure though," Jake said with a smile. He then proceeded to pop his ball high into the air with a sand wedge. It landed less than eight inches from the pin.

"Nice shot," Greg reluctantly said.

"Thank you," Jake said. "Should I leave my putter in my bag?"

"There are no gimmees when a thousand bucks is at stake," Greg told him.

"As you wish," Jake said.

Greg tried his damndest to sink the twenty-foot putt. In the end, however, he came up short, leaving it less than three inches from the cup. He putted out for a par. After waiting for Celia to putt out for her seven, Jake stepped up and with a casual backhand flip of his putter knocked the ball into the hole for a four. With his stroke thrown in he had won the hole.

Greg was not ungracious. "Very nice," he told Jake, shaking hands with him. "I won the front nine but you won the press. That puts us even for the front."

"That it does," Jake said. "So... do they sell beer at this joint, or what?"

"They do," Greg said. "Let's go hit the bar before we go to number ten. I'll buy."

They ended up having two beers before taking to the back nine. As they sipped imported Fosters from frosted mugs and as Jake and Greg smoked cigarettes and tapped their ashes into a crystal ashtray, Celia asked Jake about the current state of his love life.

"Well, I don't lack for companionship when I want it," he told her. "I have been kind of busy with the flight lessons and all lately but when the uh... the need comes upon me there's always the Flamingo or one of the other clubs. I can always find a woman or two willing to be entertained for the evening."

"Or two?" Celia said playfully.

"Variety is the spice of life," Jake said while Greg grinned knowingly.

"No girlfriends though?" Celia asked. "Have you been seeing anyone more than once since you dated that college student?"

"No," Jake admitted. "I got kind of soured on the whole relationship thing after that. As a matter of fact my flight instructor just propositioned me for such a relationship the other day."

"Your flight instructor?" Greg asked. "This sounds interesting."

"Not really," Jake said. "She's cute and very nice and all, but I had to turn her down. I'm just not ready to get into another relationship with a woman. They never seem to work out and someone always ends up getting hurt."

"That's kind of a shitty attitude," Celia said.

"No, not at all," Greg interjected. "I know exactly where Jake is coming from here."

"You do?" Celia asked.

"I do," he said. "When one becomes a celebrity like we are it becomes very difficult, if not impossible, to maintain a romantic relationship with someone who is not a celebrity as well — or least someone who is not well-known or in the entertainment business in some way."

"Where did you come up with that crap?" Celia asked him.

"It's true," Greg insisted. "It's part of the two different worlds thing. The other half of the relationship simply cannot relate to what the celebrity is going through. They don't understand how women throw themselves at you, how everyone demands your attention all the time, how the lack of privacy is going to effect them. Assuming that the woman in question — or the man if it's a female celebrity — is not simply a gold digger of some sort, that she entered into the relationship with the best of intentions, it is inevitable that the long absences, the jealousy, the envy, the mistrust, and the fact that every aspect of their lives are thrown up on the front page of the damn American Watcher, is going to take its toll. Usually sooner rather than later."

"What a cynical point of view," Celia said.

"I prefer to think of it as a realistic point of view," Greg said. "Tell me, Jake, do you think I'm wrong about this?"

"I never really thought about it that way," he said, "but what you say does make a lot of sense. I won't go so far as to say it's impossible to maintain a relationship with someone outside the business but its certainly difficult. Just ask Rachel, my last girlfriend."

"That's hardly a good example," Celia said. "You cheated on her with a groupie while you were in Mexico."

"Well... yes, I did," Jake said, "but that was merely a symptom of the problem. I was never able to trust her even though, in retrospect, I realize that she probably truly did love me. I was always wondering in the back of my mind if she was trying to screw me in some way. I worried that she would try to get herself pregnant so she could get child support out of me, that she would start pressuring me to marry her, or that she was only with me for the publicity. Had I not been Jake Kingsley of Intemperance, if I'd just been Joe Blow who drove the garbage truck, I might've fallen in love with her. As it was, though, this instinctive mistrust of her kept my feelings for her from fully developing. Since they didn't develop I didn't bother resisting my urges in Mexico when the opportunity presented itself. Rachel was a sweet girl and I treated her like a servant, or, as she put it, like an employee. She was my hired girlfriend when I needed that particular thing in my life and she was entirely justified in telling me to shove my checkbook up my ass."

"Here here," Greg said, lifting his mug in salute to Jake's words. "You described the syndrome perfectly, Jake. People need to be with people who have common interests. That's why Celia and I get along so well together. She knows that everywhere I go women are throwing themselves at me, trying to get me to sleep with them, that they'll do anything to get it on with me. I know that everywhere she goes young men are doing the same to her. We both understand that we didn't do anything to encourage this and that it's just the way things are, right, C?"

She nodded. "Yes," she said, "I'm not saying that our relationship is not easier than if you were Jake's Joe Blow garbageman, or if I was a waitress in a restaurant, but I don't think that being from two different worlds necessarily rules out the possibility of maintaining a relationship. If two people are attracted to each other and there's no other reason not to pursue a relationship, then they should explore it." She turned to Jake. "How do you feel about this flight instructor, Jake? You said she's cute and very nice. Are you attracted to her?"

"Well... yeah," Jake admitted. "I suppose you could say that, but..."

"No buts," Celia said. "If you're attracted to her and she's attracted to you then you shouldn't dismiss her simply because she's not in the business. How would you feel if you walked away from her for such a petty reason as that and it turned out that she was actually your soulmate?"

"Oh Jesus," Greg said, rolling his eyes. "Here we go with the soulmate stuff again."

"Shut up," she said, slapping at his shoulder. "Soulmates exist. Sometimes people just don't know when they're looking at one."

"Have you found your soulmate?" Jake asked her, knowing it was an intensely personal question but interested in what her answer would be.

She looked at Greg who was looking at her, also curious about how she would answer. "I don't know," she finally said. "I like to think I have. I love Greg and I know he loves me. We're compatible with each other and we like the same things but I'm not sure that alone is what makes a soulmate. Sometimes, I think, it takes awhile for you to realize that you've found your soulmate."

"And does the reverse apply as well?" Greg asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Does it sometimes take awhile to realize that someone is not your soulmate?"

"I suppose it does," she said.

"And what happens when you've been married for five years and you suddenly realize this person is not your soulmate?" Greg asked.

"Or," said Jake, "when you've been married five years and you suddenly meet the person who is your soulmate?"

She smiled. "Interesting questions," she said. "And there is no correct answer. What any individual person would do in either of those circumstances is as varied as human personalities themselves. But I do believe one thing with all my heart."

"And that is?" Greg asked.

"Finding one's soulmate is very rare. I wouldn't think that more than one out of every hundred couples in this society are what I would define as soulmates. When such a thing occurs it should be cherished above everything else."

There was silence on the table as everyone pondered that thought. Finally Greg swallowed up the rest of his beer. "Well then," he said. "How about we go hit that back nine now? I got some money I need to win from Mr. Kingsley here."

"Let's do it," Jake agreed, finishing off his own beer.

They went back out to their carts and drove to the tenth hole. As they pulled up and walked up to the tee Greg pulled out two more cigars and prepped them. As he and Jake lit up Greg said, "You seem to be on your game now, Jake. Would you care to double the stakes for the back nine?"

"Double just for the back nine or for the entire eighteen?" Jake asked.

"Just for the back," Greg said. "I'm up a hole on you for the whole eighteen so it would hardly be fair to double that stake."

Jake thought it over and then smiled. "It sounds like a bet, Greg," he told him. "I believe I still have the honors?"

"I believe you do," Greg said.

Jake stayed on his game, helped along by the pressure he was being put under. Greg, on the other hand, seemed to be hindered by the pressure. Jake won number ten with a par. They pushed number eleven, another easy par three. Number twelve was a long par five and Jake was on the green in four and sank an eight foot putt for par, which, when coupled with stroke he got on the hole was enough to take the win. The thirteenth hole was the number two handicap but it turned out that Jake didn't need the stroke he was entitled to. He put his second shot on the back of the green and then sank the forty-five foot birdie putt. This put him up six holes to four for the game and, more importantly, put him three holes up on Greg for the nine.

"Looks like the old automatic press just kicked in," he told Greg, who was no longer in such good humor.

"I guess so," Greg said sourly.

Jake and Greg both shot pars on fourteen and fifteen. Since number fifteen was a hole Jake got a stroke on he went up one more hole there. At this point it was no longer possible for Greg to win the back nine. Number sixteen was another long par five but Jake did not get a stroke there. He shot par on this hole as well. Greg put his third shot close and was putting for birdie. Had he made it he would have won the hole. He didn't make it. He tapped the putt too hard and it rolled in and out of the cup.

"Damn it all," Greg said, looking at the sky in frustration. He knew the significance of missing the putt. By not winning number sixteen it was no longer possible for him to win the eighteen. The best he could hope for at this point was to win the next two holes and tie for the eighteen and the press. No matter what else happened though, he would still owe Jake two thousand bucks for the back nine.

Number seventeen was the clincher hole. Greg had to win it in order to stay alive. The number four handicap hole, it was a 198-yard par three over a lake. Jake still had the honors so he teed up and hit the ball fat with his four iron. It plunked into the lake five feet from the opposite shore.

"I think you just opened the door for me," Greg said, stepping up to the tee with renewed confidence. He then blasted a near perfect shot that came to rest six feet from the pin.

Jake walked up to the drop area and put down another ball. He took a few practice swings with his six iron and then made his shot. He connected solidly and landed the ball eight feet from the pin.

"Nice recovery," Greg said, clapping him on the back as Celia dropped her own ball in the drop area.

Once on the green Celia three putted and took her six. Jake then walked up to his ball and examined the lay of the green for a few seconds. It appeared there would be a significant break to the right. He aimed twelve inches to the left of the cup and took the shot. The ball broke just as he'd anticipated and dribbled into the hole with a clunk.

"Bogey four," Jake said. "And I get a stroke on this hole. Looks like the pressure's back on you, Greg."

"Looks like it," Greg said, walking up to his ball. If he missed this putt he would lose not only the back nine but also the entire eighteen and the press. He spent the better part of three minutes examining the shot from every angle. Neither Jake nor Celia disturbed him. Finally he leaned over the ball and putted. It wasn't even close. The ball rolled to a stop more than a foot short of the cup.

Greg ground his teeth for a few moments while looking off toward the ocean in the distance. Finally he turned around and shook Jake's hand. "Good game," he told him. "You play well in the clenches."

"That's where I'm at my best," Jake replied.

They played out the eighteenth even though it was meaningless to the bets at this point. Jake and Greg both shot par while Celia sank a long putt for a bogey. They headed back to the bar and had a few more beers while Greg pulled out his checkbook and wrote Jake a check for five thousand dollars.

"It's those damn strokes I had to give you that cost me the game," Greg said as he handed it over. "Next time we play I'm only giving you seven."

"Deal," Jake said, putting the check in his wallet.

Soon they said their goodbyes and Jake headed back to his house. He stopped at a bank and deposited the check on the way. After a two-hour nap he showered, got dressed in his going-out clothes, and then went out to the Flamingo. Within an hour he found himself a tall brunette who was willing to do anything he wanted.