Seth Baumgartner's Love Manifesto (19 page)

P
reparing for a golf tournament is nothing like cramming for a test. It's not like you can stay up late the night before with a golf ball in one hand and a nine-iron in the other and somehow figure out the secret to hitting well. Golf has to do with timing and feel and something my old golf instructor called “muscle memory.” I have no idea what that is, but I'm pretty sure my muscles don't have it. Aside from the few rounds I played with my father and the one time I played with Dimitri a few weeks back, I haven't practiced at all. My muscles probably have amnesia.

The greenkeepers have been setting the pin locations and placing the tee markers since before dawn, but I was the first player to arrive. I was staring at my bedroom ceiling all night anyway. I figured I could putt for a while to see how the greens are running and hit a few buckets at the range, but instead I decided to hang out in the locker
room. There is something relaxing about being in here. It's quieter than a coffin, and the polished oak lockers, huge leather armchairs, and thick red carpeting make me think of royalty. Although my father, like each of the other members, has a double locker with an engraved brass plaque toward the front, I prefer an unmarked one in the back.

Some kind of smooth jazz saxophone music floats down from the speakers. It reminds me of the day in Applebee's when I first saw my father with Luz. The day Veronica dumped me. Is Kenny G stalking me?

I wonder what Luz has been up to. I haven't seen her in over a week, not since she re-dressed my wound and scooped away all my bad energy. I'll have to admit that my wound has been healing quickly, but I'm not sure if it's from what Luz did or just because she took off the heart-shaped tanning sticker. I haven't seen much of my dad this past week, either. Must be nice to be able to blow off your family and hang out with your mistress in her love nest across town.

I twist the wrench, tightening the last rubber spike to the sole of my shoe. My dad knows I haven't been practicing, and he is making sure I won't be able to blame it on any sort of equipment failure. A brand-new box of spikes was waiting for me on the kitchen table next to my car keys.

I can hear his voice in my head.
Power comes from your hips, and your hips can't transmit power unless your feet have a firm grip on the earth. You need a solid foundation.

I give each spike an extra quarter turn to make sure
they all stay tight and then I lean forward to put on my golf shoes.

“I had a feeling I'd find you back here.”

At first I'm startled. Then I'm just plain surprised Dimitri came so early. He's a late riser.

“I couldn't sleep, either.” He is bare chested, wearing only purple shorts, his black golf shoes, and a ridiculous attempt at a mustache that trails down in a swoop and attaches to his sideburns. He's holding a cardboard tray with two Styrofoam coffee cups in it. He drops his duffel bag from his shoulder and sits across from my bench on a leather wingback. He hands me one of the cups. Hot chocolate.

“So, what's with the…?” I gesture to his face.

“The mustache?”

“If that's what you want to call it.”

He strokes the fuzz with his thumb and forefingers. “Not enough guys do the mustache thing.”

“You make a good argument for why.”

“Come on, if guys stop growing mustaches, we'll see the disappearance of the best word in the English language.”

“And that would be?”

“
Mustachioed
.”

Ignoring his mustache and any further conversation about mustaches is the best course of action here. “So, tournaments make you nervous, too?”

“Nah, I've got nothing to prove here. It's not my club.”

“What about the ten grand? The scholarship?”

“What about it?”

“Don't you feel pressure to win? Isn't your father on your back about it?”

“It's found money,” Dimitri says with a shrug. “If it weren't for me working here, I wouldn't have a shot at it in the first place. Anyhow, by the time I get out of school I'm going to be so buried in loans that ten thousand dollars isn't going to make much of a dent.”

“How come you had trouble sleeping, then?”

Dimitri lifts a foot and inspects his spikes. They're old, caked with grass and dirt. “Just stuff, you know?” He picks at some of the grass and tosses it to the carpet. “Stuff between me and you, I guess.”

“Look,” I say, “I've been thinking about what happened and—”

He lifts a hand to stop me. “No worries.”

“What do you mean, no worries?”

“I mean, don't sweat it. It's water under the bridge. Ancient history. Let bygones be bygones. That poop's been scooped.”

“That poop's been scooped?” I ask.

“There's always room in the lexicon for a new figure of speech.”

I hate to admit it, but I've really missed the bastard. I want to forget all the bad stuff between Dimitri and me, to let things go back to the way they were before he stormed out of the pro shop, but that's exactly what I was thinking when Veronica came to the house yesterday. What good would it do to ignore things? I'm still not quite sure what
set Dimitri off. How could I ever be sure I won't say something else that will bother him?

“No, Dimitri.” My face swells with heat. “We need to talk this out.”

“What's to talk out?” he says. He fidgets with the lid of his hot chocolate. The white plastic flap snaps off. “Just let sleeping dogs lie.”

“Enough with the clichés,” I say. “They're not going to stop me. What's going on?”

“Nothing.” Dimitri scratches the plastic flap against his thigh and slouches low in the armchair. “It's going to sound stupid.”

“It can't be more stupid than me being hung up on Veronica for the past month. I've been so wrapped up in my own problems that I didn't stop to think you might be having some of your own. What's going on?”

I'm not used to seeing Dimitri at a loss for words, but now that I think about it we haven't had many conversations in the past few months deeper than which girls in our school he'd like to have sex with.

Dimitri places his cup on the bench I'm sitting on. He crosses his arms over his chest. “You've been talking all summer about Veronica, wanting to get back with her. You've been podcasting about love. You went out with Caitlyn…. Sorry to hear about you getting shucked in the oysters, by the way.”

“You listened to the podcast?”

He nods. “You're going to have to fill me in on all the gory details.”

“Gory they are.”

“Anyhow, you had a girlfriend for months,” Dimitri says. “You split up with her and bounce right into all this other stuff. Things happen for you, Seth. Nothing ever happens for me.”

“That's not true.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Maybe it's just that I make things happen.”

“Yeah, right,” he scoffs. “Aside from me, you barely talk to anyone. Now my sister is interested in you, and it freaking pisses me off.”

“Audrey?”

“Come on,” Dimitri says. “Don't act like you haven't noticed.”

“We're just friends.”

“What about all the sandwiches?” Dimitri says. “It's practically like a cat leaving dead mice on the doorstep.”

“That's the problem,” I say. “The sandwiches
taste
like dead mice.”

“That makes no difference. She's putting in the effort. She's never done that for anyone. Not Kevin. Not anyone. Audrey is hot for you. No matter how much it disgusts me, she likes you.” Dimitri looks up at the high windows. The sun is just starting to peek in. “And I've got no one.”

“What about Jill?” I offer.

“She blew me off. No explanation. Just a total blowoff.”

“That sucks.”

Dimitri shrugs.

“What about all the other girls you talk to?” I say. “Every few days you're boasting about someone else, about the phone number she's scribbled on your hand.”

“It never pans out,” Dimitri says. He flicks the plastic tab from his hot chocolate lid into the corner.

I feel like a full-blown therapist now, at least like the ones I've seen on television. “Why do you think that is?”

“I don't know.”

I let time pass, let him think about my question some more.

His jaw muscles clench a few times. He looks down at the carpet and finally goes on. “Have you ever heard the saying about fat chicks and scooters?”

“What saying?”

“You know. How fat chicks are like scooters…”

I shake my head.

“Come on, you've heard it. They're fun to ride, but you don't want your friends to see you on one?”

“I don't see your point,” I say.

“I'm like that in reverse. I'm the scooter. The trouble is that girls don't like riding scooters, not even if no one sees them.” He's starting to sound tense, and I begin to regret pushing this conversation so far right before the tournament. “Girls want to be my friend, but none of them want to be my
girl
friend.”

“That's not true—”

“Come on, Seth. It's totally true. Look at me.” He stands up and slaps his bare belly. Everything from his neck to his legs jiggles. “I'm gross. You said it yourself. I
have man-boobs. What girl would want to be with me?”

“You talk to girls all the time.”

“And every single one gives me the same line:
Let's just be friends.
Everyone says it's about personality, but it has nothing to do with personality. It has everything to do with looks. And looks are something I've got in short supply.”

He punches a locker. The sound shakes the walls.

Now that I've opened this can of worms, I feel like it's my responsibility to close it back up. The trouble is that I'm afraid anything I say will sound like something my mom would tell someone on her radio program.

Finally, I say the first thing that pops into my head that is nothing like that.

“Dude, you should see Caitlyn dance on the hood of a car.”

Dimitri turns to me. “You saw Caitlyn dance on the hood of a car?”

“She danced on the hood of the Red Scare,” I say.

“You've got to be kidding. Tell me everything.”

I tell Dimitri every detail I can remember about the parking lot party. I tell him everything that happened afterward in Luz's apartment. I tell him how my father and Mr. Peepers both choked on Audrey's sandwich and how Veronica came to my house to see if I'd get back with her. I tell him every detail, and I don't leave out a single thing.

Slowly, the smile I'm used to seeing on Dimitri's face finds its way back there. He doesn't interrupt me, doesn't say a word. He just smiles, nods, and takes it all in. And
when I'm done, he asks me only one question: “Was it all worth getting iceboxed in the plums over?”

I think on that one a while. Finally, I nod. “Absolutely.”

Dimitri pulls a polo shirt from his duffel bag. It's neon green with large white polka dots. Beside it, he lays a purple-and-green plaid beret. “Oh, and you have my blessing,” he says, pulling the shirt over his head.

“Your blessing to do what?”

“To date my sister. That Kevin was a total tool. I hate to say it, but you're less of a jerk than any of the guys she's gone out with.” I don't know what to say to that. Part of me wants to deny liking Audrey. Part of me wants to tell him I'll date whoever I want, with or without his blessing. Another part of me wants to give him a hug. He goes on. “But if I find out you're jerking her around, I'm going to do worse than kick you in the balls.”

“I don't think you could—”

“Believe me, I could,” he says. “Oh, and one more thing.”

“What's that?”

“Audrey can be a raging bitch, and I'm not getting involved to patch things up.” Dimitri pulls his shirt over his head and stands in front of the full-length mirror at the end of the row of lockers.

“Dude,” I say, “where'd you get clothes like that?”

He turns from side to side, admiring himself. Then he puts the cap on his head. He looks like someone ate a clown, digested it for a while, and then threw it back up.
“It's amazing what you can find on eBay.”

“I'm going to have to object to that outfit.”

“Overruled,” Dimitri says. “This is perfect. Totally Jack Nicholson Joker. Wait until you see what I'm wearing on Sunday.”

K
yle Sanders and his father, last year's tournament winners, sit at the head table along with several of the board members and their families. Just like at the Masters, the reigning champion gets to choose the menu. Kyle picked lasagna as the entrée, which is fine by me. It beats the borscht that Alex Grosheva chose a few years back.

After the cursory words from the sponsors and organizers, Kyle got up and told everyone how golf helped him better his life and how his scholarship helped pay for his first semester at Duke. He talked about playing on the team down there and how they're ranked in the top twenty-five nationwide. After the smattering of applause, they reviewed the day's standings. Neither Dimitri and his father nor me and mine are in the lead, but both our pairings are within striking distance. We're both in the lead pack.

The air under the heavy blue catering tent is stifling,
made nearly unbearable by the hundred or so sweaty people and twenty or thirty flaming Sternos crammed under here. My dad and I are sitting with Dimitri at one of the smaller tables. My mom had to host her radio program tonight, and Dimitri's parents both had to work late shifts. Audrey is working the banquet. She hasn't stopped scurrying around all evening.

“Interesting wardrobe selection, Dimitri,” my father says.

“Thanks, Mr. B. Purple-and-green tartan is traditional wear on the island of Skye as well as in Orkney. This tartan, though”—Dimitri tips his cap to my father—“is from the Cooper clan. The Cooper clan—”

“What clan wears green shirts with white polka dots?” my father cuts in.

Dimitri looks down at his shirt. It's already streaked with lasagna stains. “I believe that's the clan of the Loch Ness monster.”

My father takes a sip of his wine and turns his attention to his plate.

Audrey carries in a fresh tray of lasagna and heads to the buffet table. She lifts it up and sets it onto the silver rack over the small blue flames. She's wearing the required tuxedo shirt and bow tie, the black skirt and hose. She's even wearing a proper name tag, one with her own name on it. Is she starting to take her job seriously? Then I notice her shoes. Black sneakers with black skulls and crossbones all over them. Subtle, but very Audrey.

Audrey checks the other trays to see which ones need
replacing. Then she straightens up the beverage area. I notice she's wearing a red rubber wristband with a white stripe on it. I've never seen one like it before. I wonder what cause it supports.

She wipes her cheek on her shoulder and looks up at me. She smiles. It's an icy smile with tight lips. She looks back down at what she's doing.

I want to go help her, to see if there are any more trays that need carrying.

I want to grab her by the hand and talk to her, to take her out to our picnic table or that spot on the hill next to the fourteenth green and explain that no matter what she saw through the sliding door at my house, Veronica means nothing to me.

Audrey turns and walks back to the kitchen.

Dimitri nudges me under the table. He mouths,
She's pissed.

When Audrey comes to clear our table, she doesn't look at me. When she leans across to take my plate, I see her wristband. Stamped in block letters along the length of the red-and-white rubber bracelet, it says: N
O
D
ICKHEADS
.

“Audrey,” I hear myself say.

She looks at me, then turns away.

I catch up to her near the edge of the tent. Although her arms are loaded down with stacks of plates, she stops and looks up at me. Her face is flushed, tears welling in her eyes.

“Is everything all right?” I say.

“I'm fine.” Audrey tries to get by, but I get in her way.
“I'm going to drop these plates, Seth. Let me past.”

I step toward her, place a hand on her arm. “Did something happen between you and Kevin?”

She looks at me for a long while, a puzzled expression on her face like she's trying to do long division in her head. “You really are that stupid, aren't you?”

Audrey pushes past me and I'm left looking at Dimitri, who is leaning against a tent pole. His head shakes from side to side and he says, “I've been telling you that for years, but you never believed me.”