At Arrowhead Country Club a young man reclined on a riding mower parked in front of the equipment garage. He wore a loose pink tank top and torn cargo shorts. His feet were propped on the steering wheel and he smoked a cigarette.
There are several things wrong with this picture.
The first, there is no smoking at Arrowhead. Second, displays of indolence are very strongly discouraged. And finally, all club members at all times must wear the proper sporting attire, clean, pressed and tucked.
Fortunately Ben Sieberson was not a club member. As he blew out a plume of smoke, a cart with a stenciled badge rolled past. Like the members they aped, the two starters wore expressions of haughty indifference, and ignored him.
A moment later another mower chugged to a stop. This was Ben’s friend, Jake Hooker. Both men were twenty-six. This is where the resemblance ended.
Not really. But Jake would not have been mistaken in any way for Ben, who in his own dark, scowling way, was handsome enough. On seeing Jake, in an undefinable, freakish way, one wondered if one was in the movies.
“Let’s go.”
“Where?” Ben asked.
“Anywhere,” Jake Hooker said. “I want to show you something.”
They jumped in Jake’s battered black jeep. The top was off, and wind blew through his sandy, lank hair. At forty he might be bald. At forty he might be a lot of things.
“Check this out.” He handed Ben a postcard. They waited at a stoplight next to a Chick-fil-A. Double lines of cars snaked from the drive-through and into the adjacent shopping mall. Cholesterol hadn’t taken hold yet in Glenview, Illinois.
Ben handed the postcard back. “That’s a nice house.” His head jerked as Hooker put the Jeep into gear.
“The servant’s house. Look at the one behind.”
“That’s someone’s house?”
“Not just someone’s.”
“What is it, then?”
“My girlfriend’s.”
“Which one?” Jake had several. They weren’t really girlfriends. Although they were certainly friendly.
“If I play it right. Ben. I met her here at the club. Their servant’s house is as big as my parent’s house. Or your parents. Do I have to spell it out?”
“No.”
“And you know the best part?”
“It gets better?”
It was pleasant for Jake to drive his old Jeep. As he worked the stick the engine bucked slightly, the warm May breeze danced, the road smooth, and others nod or smile as he swept past. They completed a circuit past shopping centers and newer office buildings, with broad Arrowhead Drive ahead.
When Jake smiles the future smiles back.
“She has a friend as rich as herself. Are you in?”
Where Jake sees roses, Ben sees… he doesn’t know what he sees. “You’re setting me up?”
“No Man Left Behind. That’s straight from the Marines.”
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com