Seth Baumgartner's Love Manifesto (17 page)

Intro Music: “Clumsy” by Fergie

Just an FYI: We hit a major benchmark the other day. More than two hundred fifty downloads after my last podcast. I must be doing something right. A special thanks to all my loyal listeners for getting the word out there. And, in other news, more theme songs are rolling in. We're up to twenty-two now. I think I'm going to start my own record label. I like the ukulele duet by Keiki and Robin and the theme song played entirely on Fisher-Price kids' instruments. You guys rock.

So, in the last segment I told you all about finding myself in the belly of the beast, in the lioness's den, in the coils of the serpent. It all came about because I was hanging out with this girl. Like I said before, this girl's got a kickin' bod. No, she's beyond that; she's slammin'. I saw her in
a bathing suit last week, and I couldn't keep my eyes off her. The trouble is, all she talks about is club music. And if I change the subject, somehow she finds a way to bring it back to…you guessed it, club music. They say there's a perfect match for everyone, but I think this girl's perfect match would have to have an earbud jack on the side of his head and a USB port in his ass.

My buddy tells me to suck it up, to put up with her babble in order to get with her, and, believe me, it's a tempting thought.

I hate to admit it—I know it makes me seem shallow—but I want to keep it real here on
The Love Manifesto.
Should I put up with her just to score, or should I hit the road because there's no connection? I mean, if love is just a chemical reaction, then why should it matter if I like her?

Anyhow, back to meeting my father's mistress. Here's the crazy part. If I didn't know she was screwing around with my dad, I would've thought she was pretty cool. I mean, the hocus pocus stuff was weird, but aside from that…. Now I don't know what to think. It was so much easier hating this woman from the parking lot. Once I got to meet her, I found out she was sort of a nice lady with troubles of her own. It doesn't look like she's got a lot of money. Her kid's being redeployed to Afghanistan….

Can my no-good cheating father really bring her happiness? And if he does…

I guess I'm not sure what to think.

Hey, I'd better crash. I've got a full day of work tomorrow, and I'm already whipped. As a consolation,
I've decided to post my full list of 156 Reasons I Love My Ex. Maybe
loved
is the better word. Anyhow, I've been working on it for the past few weeks. I'll probably regret it tomorrow and delete the thing.

You're listening to
The Love Manifesto.
I hope you have a better day tomorrow than you had today. Ciao for now.

Outro Music: “My Curse” by Killswitch Engage

“I
've been working in catering for months and it just hit me a few weeks ago,” Audrey says. “Instead of just serving, it would be far more interesting to be on the production side of things.”

“You mean…”

“Making it.”

We're lying on the hill that slopes down to the fourteenth green. It's the spot where all the workers meet on Wednesday nights. Dimitri, who hasn't said a word to me since he freaked out, is chipping a bucket of balls down the hill with a few of the other employees. A bunch of girls from catering, all of them still wearing their tuxedo shirts, sit in a cluster nearby. A radio pumps out some love song I've heard on my mom's show about a thousand times.

It's a clear, moonless night. The stars are so bright that I feel like I could reach up and pluck one from the sky.
The white smudge of the Milky Way stretches across the fairway from tree line to tree line.

I turn to see if she's joking, but blades of grass tickle my cheek. I look back to the sky. “What do you find interesting about it?” I ask her.

She doesn't answer right away. “All of it,” she finally says. “I mean, you take a bunch of ingredients, most of which taste nasty on their own, and combine them so something delicious comes out. That's so cool.” Audrey pulls her knees to her chest, and we look at the sky some more.

“Is that what you want to study in college?”

“Nah, just a hobby. You like my sandwiches, right?”

Doesn't she taste them herself? I want to tell her the truth, but I don't. “Sure,” I say. “They're great.”

Dimitri takes a swat at a golf ball. It pops up and trickles down to the green. The ball takes a few bounces and settles into a nice roll. It curves toward the hole and hits the flag, coming to a stop within six inches.

“Boo-yah!” he calls out, mostly toward me. He picks up his beer and takes a swig. “Now that's what I'm talking about.”

A few of the other employees cheer Dimitri on.

Dimitri downs the rest of his drink. “Now that's the game I'm bringing to the tournament!”

The green is spotted with range balls, almost more so than the night sky is with stars. I am tempted to tell Dimitri that even blindfolded, if you throw enough darts, you're bound to hit the bull's-eye once in a while.

“Ignore him,” Audrey says.

“Way ahead of you.”

She crosses one leg over the other. “So, you're sure you like my sandwiches? I didn't follow the recipe exactly. I tried a few things of my own.”

“No, seriously. Your sandwiches are excellent.” I pluck a fistful of grass from the ground and roll the blades between my fingers. I want to tell her the truth, if only to save others from the trauma, but something in me tells me to stay quiet.

Audrey's cell rings, but she silences it without checking the number. “Probably just Kevin.”

“You can answer it.”

“I know,” she says. “I'll call him later.”

“How are things going with you guys?” I say.

Audrey pauses. “It's good.”

“That doesn't sound so ‘good.'”

“I mean, I don't want to complain because he's such a good guy. And I really admire that he cares about helping people. It's just that sometimes I wonder if we really connect on a deeper level, you know?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. That's a tough one.”

“A real tough one.” Audrey plucks a handful of grass and starts tossing the blades into the air.

The song on the radio fades out, and my mother's voice comes on.

“Welcome back to
Gayle's Romantic Rendezvous
. I'm Gayle, and we have Roz from Schenectady on the line. How can I help you tonight, Roz?” My mom sounds so different
on the radio than in real life. At least, I think she does.

“Hi, Gayle, I'd like to send a song out to my husband, Ralph.”

“What's so special about Ralph?”

“Oh, Ralph is the man of my dreams. He works two jobs to support us and still finds time to spend with my kids. We only got together a few months ago, but he treats those kids like they're his own. We were just meant to be together.”

“How do you know you were meant to be together?” my mother asks.

“I can just feel it in my bones,” she says. “I know it in my heart.”

“Well, I'm going to send a little Lionel Richie your way, Roz. I hope Ralph is listening….”

“Who put on this channel in the first place?” Dimitri asks. “Shut this crap off.”

One of the tuxedo-shirt girls picks up the radio and nestles it in her crossed legs. “It's my radio, and I'm leaving it on,” she says.

“If you want to hear a
really
great show, you should check out
The Love Manifesto
,” Dimitri says.

I want to go over there and hit him, throw his clubs in the stream, anything, before he says any more, but I don't.

“Go back to your lame golf career,” one of the girls says.

Dimitri curls his body over his next shot. “I dunno,” he says. “I just think a woman who talks on the radio about
love should have her own house in order first. I hear that lady—”

Audrey chucks a golf ball at him. “Shut up, Dimitri. Stop talking stupid.”

Dimitri hits another ball. It barely reaches the front edge of the green. “I'm talking stupid? Why don't you ask Seth over there if I'm talking stupid?”

I start to get up, but Audrey grabs my arm.

“Don't go,” she says.

“It's only going to get worse,” I say. “Dimitri will keep pecking at me until I say something back. Then it's going to get ugly.”

I get up and head toward the cart path, back toward the clubhouse.

“Come on, Seth,” Dimitri calls after me. “Tell Audrey how stupid I'm talking!”

I don't turn around.

I hear light footsteps coming up behind me. It's Audrey. I notice her T-shirt. It reads:

It's exactly what I want to do to Dimitri.

“Drive me home?” Audrey asks.

“Sure.”

We walk silently along the cart path.

Behind me, Dimitri's club slices through the grass much harder than it needs to for someone chipping. The golf ball punches through low-hanging branches on the far side of the green. It strikes a tree trunk with a loud
thwack
and bounces into the underbrush. There is no doubt that ball is lost for good.

A
s we turn onto Audrey's block, I catch sight of Kevin's Wrangler. Kevin is leaning over the side, messing around between his surfboard and the seat.

“Probably pulling out the drain plug,” Audrey says. “He doesn't put the top up when it rains, and the thing fills up with water all the time.”

“Doesn't that—?”

“Get my ass wet when I sit in the seat? Yeah, thanks for asking.”

“Actually, I was going to ask if it made the floor rusty.”

“Kevin is all about communing with nature,” Audrey says. “Rain is part of nature, and he wants to get close to it. Something like that. All I can tell you is that my ass does not like communing with nature.”

“Maybe I should drop you off and head out,” I say.
“I don't want to cause any trouble with you guys.”

“No trouble to cause.” Audrey turns down the music. “Kevin won't care.”

I pull up to the house, and Audrey hops out. Kevin is right there to hug her. He's wearing what I'm learning is his standard uniform: surf shorts, flip-flops, and a tattered tee.

“Hey,” he says.

Audrey smiles and scrunches up her shoulders.

“What's up, man?” he says to me.

We bump fists.

“I was just giving Audrey a ride home from work,” I say. I feel like I need to explain. After all, Audrey is his girlfriend. “A bunch of us were hanging out and…”

“Yeah, that's cool,” Kevin says. He grins at me, his head bobbing. He pushes his hair from his eyes.

“You weren't waiting long, were you?” she says to him.

“Nah, just a few minutes.” He looks at me and then down at Audrey. Then he pulls a purple rubber wristband from his pocket. “There's a sleepover in the park to raise awareness for the homeless.”

Audrey shoots me a look but slips the bracelet on her wrist.

“Hey,” Kevin says to me. “You want to come along?”

I point back to my car. The last thing I'd want to do is hang out with the two of them in the park, slapping tambourines all night. “Actually, I've got a thing later on.” My excuse sounds lame, so I try to add to it so it
won't sound like a blowoff. “I'm meeting a few of the guys from…you know, this thing I do.”

Audrey laughs. “Yeah, well, have fun doing that thing you do.”

I start back to my car when a white SUV turns the corner, deep bass pumping from the speakers. The truck stops in front of the house, sandwiching my car between itself and Kevin's. Dimitri stumbles out. He looks us over and chuckles. “Hey, all the players are present and accounted for,” he says.

Kevin's smile melts just a little. “Yo!” he calls over to Dimitri. “I burned that CD for you. I'll bring it over sometime tomorrow.”

“Cool,” Dimitri says. He taps the hood of the white SUV, and it drives off. Then he heads up the walk to the house. “By tomorrow, though, I'm not sure you'll be coming around all that often. Tonight might be serious talk night.”

Audrey walks up to Kevin's car and flings open the door, accidentally bumping her head on Kevin's surfboard. She climbs into the passenger seat and jumps a little, probably from the wet upholstery. Then, she slams the door and flips Dimitri the bird. “You're such an asswipe,” she hollers to him as she and Kevin pull away from the curb.

Dimitri looks to me with a satisfied smirk and disappears into his house.

“Y
ou've got to shorten that backswing,” my father says, scooping grass seed onto the strip of dirt I cut into the turf after my lame drive. “You're trying to kill the thing.”

Funny he should say that, considering I was picturing his face on the ball as I drew back my club. I snooped through my father's briefcase last night and discovered a whole bunch of receipts from the flower shop. It turns out my father is no stranger to that place. Over the past month, he's gone there a few times. First it was a huge summer arrangement, then he went to roses. The time I saw him with Luz, he ordered a bouquet of blue and white irises with red tulips.

Delivery date: “To Be Determined.”

I lay awake trying to figure that one out. To Be Determined? Why would he do that? I can't remember the last time flowers crossed the threshold of our own house.
It's like my mother doesn't exist anymore.

The only reason I'm playing this round is because my father spent a hundred bucks to hire me from the pro shop to be his caddy. I practically passed out when I found out he left the office to play in the middle of the work day. Mr. Motta thought it was strange, too, but a hundred bucks is a hundred bucks. Pure profit for the shop.

I toss my broken tee into the bushes. Tugging my golf cap low over my eyes, I plod back to the cart and slide my driver into my bag. I sit in the driver's seat waiting for my father to scrape the face of his club with his wire brush before returning it to its place in his meticulously organized bag.

“The tournament isn't far off,” he says.

“I know.” I try to seem enthusiastic, but my words come out sounding defensive.

“Have you been practicing?”

I don't answer.

“Look, Seth,” my father says, scraping extrahard at his club. He blows on it, then scrapes some more. “You've got to get out here on your own. Hit buckets at the range. Play a few holes before work. Stay late. Whatever it takes. You've got the time.”

“I've been busy lately.”

“With all that computer stuff in the basement?” My father slides into the seat next to me, and I stomp on the pedal. The cart lurches forward, and we make our way along the path to my ball. It's easy to spot, sitting up on the short cut of rough to the right of the fairway. “This
tournament is more important than that. There's a ten-thousand-dollar scholarship riding on it, not to mention bragging rights.”

“But the podcasting—”

“Are you going to make ten grand podcasting? It's a dead end.”

I get out of the cart. I pull out my four-iron and my five-iron, not sure which one I'll need. The yard marker says the center of the green is a hundred and sixty yards away, but the pin is positioned near the front edge, and the green is at least ten feet below us. I opt for the five-iron and line up. I draw back and give a few light practice swings, knowing I have more than enough club to get there.

I clear my mind and hit the ball. My right elbow stays glued against my side, and the power comes through my hips. My ball pops into the air with a sharp
thwap.
It lands on the down slope of the hill and takes a great bounce. My ball trickles onto the front of the green and curls to the left. It hooks around to within five feet of the hole.

“And we have a shot,” my father says. “That swing of yours is finally waking up.”

I trot back to the cart, where my father has already slid into the driver's seat. He hates when I'm behind the wheel. As we wind down the path to his ball, nearly fifty yards farther than my drive was, he says, “We came in third last year, and both kids who beat us are off at college now. We've got a chance if you can find a way to play like that last shot of yours.”

“Dimitri's in the tournament this year,” I say. “He's as
good as I am, maybe better. I hear his dad is good, too. He plays over at the municipal course. He's in a league on Thursday nights, and he hits another eighteen on Sundays. Sometimes twenty-seven. Dimitri says his dad's short game is wicked.”

“Has Dimitri's father ever played here at the club?” he asks.

I shrug. “Not that I know of.”

“Then he's got no chance. You know how tough our greens are. They're the hardest in the Capital District. You've got to play them to understand them.”

“Dimitri plays them all the time,” I say. “He'll be like a caddy for his father.”

My father hits up, and his ball lands in the center of the green. It's got so much backspin that it rolls off the front edge into a shallow rut. “Crap on a crostini!” He thrusts his club back into his bag and eyeballs me. While he was swinging, I slid back into the driver's seat. I smile at him innocently, and he stomps around to the passenger side.

I head up the left side of the fairway toward the back of the green. “Plus Dimitri—”

“Enough about Dimitri,” my father says. “You sound like you want him to win.”

“Nah, he and I are on the outs. I'm just saying—”

“What happened?” he asks.

“Oh, nothing. I'm just saying that we shouldn't discount those guys as serious competition.”

“That's one of the great things about golf,” my father says. He pushes back his hair and resets his cap on his head.
“The competition is really against ourselves. As long as we do well, there's nothing they can do to stop us. If you focus on your game and I focus on mine, we'll win. Ten grand in our pockets and our names on the brass plaque in the clubhouse.”

“No problem,” I say. I pull the cart up to the green and hop out. Before I have a chance to slide out my putter, I hear the hum of another golf cart coming up the fairway.

It's the snack cart.

Audrey.

My father grabs his wedge and putter and makes his way toward his ball. “No food for me.” Then he reconsiders. “Maybe I'll take a bottle of water.”

Audrey pulls up alongside me. She's wearing a white polo shirt and khaki shorts. I prefer her “To Kill a Mockingbird” tee.

“Nice outfit,” I say.

“New policy. The board thinks some of us cart girls have been dressing too provocatively to get better tips.” Audrey pulls out a black cap and puts it on her head. In bold white letters it reads I
M
IDGET
P
ORN
across the front. “Nothing in the dress code bans this, though.”

“Have you ever seen midget porn?”

“Nope,” she says. “I just liked the hat. It made me wonder if it's midgets who like midget porn or if it's some kind of regular-sized-person fetish.”

“I'm sure someone has the data on that one,” I say.

“You think?”

“Sure. It would determine whether the midget porn
goes on the high shelf or the low shelf at the porn shop.”

“Would you guys mind quieting down?” my father says. “I'm trying to hit over here.”

Audrey slips out of her cart and stands alongside me. All I want to do is ask what happened after I left last night, but I'm guessing now is neither the time nor the place.

“I hate playing middlewoman,” she whispers, “but Dimitri wants me to tell you to shove an umbrella up your ass and press the Open button.”

“He told you to tell me that?”

My father glares up at me.

“He told you to tell me that?” I whisper.

“You don't think I made that up, do you? That's a Dimitri-ism if I ever heard one.” She places a wrapped sandwich, likely her famous-for-being-terrible chicken salad, on the dashboard of my cart. “You need anything else?” she asks. “I've got to run a cheesesteak up to Assemblyman Wright on the fifteenth.”

“No, I'm good.”

Audrey hops into her cart and hits the pedal just as my father swings. His ball pops up, barely touches the fringe of the green, and rolls back down the hill.

“Sorry, Mr. Baumgartner!” she calls over her shoulder as her cart winds up the path to the next hole.

Before my father has a chance to shout obscenities, I tell him to take a do-over. His next shot brings him within a few feet of the pin. We both putt out, and I beat him back to the cart so I can drive to the next tee box. As we make our way up the path, my father unwraps Audrey's sandwich.

“You mind?” he asks me.

“Knock yourself out.”

He takes a bite, and his face twists up. He gags twice and spits out the half-chewed wad of nastiness. “What the—?” He looks between the slices of wheat bread and tosses the rest of the sandwich into the weeds as though being near it might traumatize him more. “What the hell kind of sandwich is that?”

“It's supposed to be chicken salad,” I say.

“More like chicken
shit
salad. Did she remember to pluck the chicken before cutting it up? There might be some beak in there.”

I stifle another laugh and keep my eyes forward.

“Where's my water? I've got to wash my mouth out.”

“Crap,” I say. “I forgot to get one for you.”

That's when the curse words start to fly. As I roll up to the next tee box, my father leaps out of the cart and holds his face under the spout of the watercooler. He rinses his mouth a whole bunch of times and spits over and over again into the bushes. I can't help but think karma played a hand in my temporary amnesia. What goes around comes around. It was an honest mistake, forgetting to get his water from Audrey, but one that will probably put a smile on my face for all time.