Seth Baumgartner's Love Manifesto (3 page)

W
hump!

Dimitri's driver scoops into the tee box and sends a divot flopping through the air like a giant end-over-end loogie. His ball sizzles across the ground, skitters over the women's tee box, and trickles down into the deep grass.

“Muffed it again!”

“Keep your head down,” I say. “I'll watch where the ball goes.”

Dimitri shovels seed from the plastic bin and sprinkles it over the foot-long trench he carved with his club. “At least it's not a D.O.”

D.O. stands for “Dick Out.” It's an unwritten rule that if you don't hit your ball past the ladies' tee, you have to unzip your shorts and hit your next shot with your wanger swinging in the breeze. Even though I've seen plenty of shots go short, I've never known anyone who's actually unzipped.

“Stinks about your job,” Dimitri says, stroking his lame attempt at a goatee. He's been experimenting with his facial hair for months. Every time I see him, he's sporting something different. “You should work here at the club with me. Audrey got a job here this spring, and she loves it.”

Audrey is Dimitri's sister. She's two years younger than us, just going into sophomore year. She's bony, all angles, like someone drew her with a protractor and a sharp pencil. And annoying as anything. Constantly butting in.

“Employees play free on Mondays,” Dimitri adds. “And Audrey works in catering. That means free grub, too.”

“I already
do
play for nothing,” I say. “My parents are members here. Anyhow, I used to get all the free Belgian fries I wanted. After two days, I was sick of every sauce on the menu.”

“Come on. How many freakin' fries can you eat? I'm talking burgers, dogs, wings—the whole enchilada.”

“Enchiladas? I hate Mexican.”

“You know what I mean.”

Dimitri is not what I'd call fat, but he's definitely carrying around some spare pounds. Let's just say that if there were a sudden famine, he wouldn't be the first to go—that is, unless all the skinny people got together and ate him.

I tee up my ball. “There's no way I'm working at the club.”

“Why? Too good for it or something?”

“It's not that. Shut up while I hit.” I waggle my club head a few times, draw it back, and swing.

Ping!

There are few sounds more satisfying than the
ping
of a golf ball as it rockets off the face of a steel-headed driver. Although the sound is perfect, my shot sucks nuts. My ball goes hard right and punches through the leaves of some low-hanging branches. “Did you see where it went?” I ask.

“It ain't on the fairway. I can tell you that.”

We grab our bags and make our way to Dimitri's ball. “So what's the deal?” he asks. “What's wrong with working at the club?”

“First of all, I need to start my college apps.”

“How much time could you possibly spend on that? Crank out an essay about how you've overcome some tragedy. Make up something about how you were in a bad car accident and learned that life is precious. No biggie. What's the second reason?”

“I want to work on my podcasting this summer.”

“Podcasting?” Dimitri says.

“Yeah. If I want to have any shot at getting on the radio in college, I've got to work out all my kinks. I got a new soundboard last week. That same guy at my mom's station—the sound engineer I told you about—gave me his old one. Once I learn to use it, I'll be able to put together a decent-quality show.”

“Come on, Seth. Podcasting is for geeks, wannabes, and never-haves. Podcasting isn't going to get you gas money.”

“What's a never-have?”

“I don't know. I just made it up. But I can tell you that it's not good. Anyway, I've listened to your lame attempts at podcasting. You suck.”

“All the more reason to focus on it.”

“All the more reason to quit,” Dimitri says. “Some things are beyond help.”

“If I'm going to be a communications major, I've got to get a handle on all this stuff.” I refasten the Velcro on my golf glove. “Anyhow, I guess the big reason I don't want to work here at the club is that I don't want to be scraping and polishing my dad's spikes all summer.”

“Look, I hate my parents as much as the next guy, but it's no reason to wuss out when it comes to a sweet job. Anyway, your dad's pretty cool. At least he doesn't fly all over the country playing in geekwad bridge tournaments like mine. How lame is that?”

“No, my father is just a geekwad accountant.”

“Touché.”

More than anything, I want to tell Dimitri what I saw at Applebee's. But even though he's my best friend, the idea of letting him in on such a big family secret…I'm not sure I want to do that. It would make everything feel more real.

“The third reason—” I say.

“The third reason is that you're a pussy. You're a plain no-holds-barred pussy.”

“I'm not—”

“Shut up,” Dimitri says. “All your whining is getting into my head. I've got a hole to win here. I'm going to spank you today, next week, and every week this summer. Then my dad and I are going to spank you and every other team at the tournament. Now that Kyle Sanders is away at
Cornell, it's a soft field. I'm going to kick your ass.”

Thinking about the father/son golf tournament twists up my guts like I've swallowed an oscillating fan. I'd rather wrap my three-iron around my dad's neck than play with him.

Dimitri addresses his ball with his three-iron, waggles it a few times, and swings. His club slices through the cabbage and connects with a sharp
tick
. The shot flies straight and low. It's one of those slow risers I love to watch. The ball turns to the left with the curve of the fairway, lands softly, and rolls next to one of the sprinkler heads. It's about a hundred yards short of the pin.

“Nice poke,” I say, trying to figure out how I'm going to recover. Hitting out of the bushes with Dimitri's ball a wedge away from the hole puts me in a tough position. I've got to play the next shot aggressively or get damn lucky with my putter.

We spread apart and head off in the direction my ball went. Past the trees I punched through, the ground is mostly dirt and roots and rocks. I head over there.

“So, that sucks about Veronica,” Dimitri says.

My insides clench up even more. I've been so focused on my father that the whole Veronica mess sort of took a backseat.

“Now you're trying to get in my head,” I say.

“I figure you can't screw up worse than that first shot.” Dimitri points to a cluster of trees. My golf ball gleams from a rats' nest of roots next to the fattest tree. “There it is.”

I drop my bag and check my lie. The best I can hope for is to punch it under the low branches—roll it out onto the fairway—and pray for a miracle on my third swing.

“You really loved her, huh?” Dimitri says.

Tears rise to my eyes, but I take a deep breath to settle myself. “She sucker punched me. One minute she's all hot and heavy, and the next day she dumps me. How does that happen?”

“You're so melodramatic. It's like I'm playing golf with Walt freakin' Whitman over here.”

“Seriously,” I say. I pull out my five-iron and choke down on the grip. “If Veronica can just turn off her feelings like they're a lawn sprinkler, how real could our relationship have been?”

I take a half swing and give the ball a swat. It pops off the root and makes a good line up the fairway. It bounces a few times and comes to a halt around forty yards short of Dimitri's. It's still only a stroke to the dance floor. Not bad.

“You're better off without her,” Dimitri says.

“Easy for you to say. Aside from that mysterious Cassandra girl you claim to have met freshman year, you've never even had a girlfriend.”

“Her name is Clarisse, and she's from Oregon. She had to go back west and—”

“Yeah, I've heard it all. You'll tell me two or three things about her and then get to the part about how she liked hooking up in the Starbucks bathroom.”

“It's true,” Dimitri says. We come out from under the
trees, and the sun blinds me. I pull down the brim of my cap and put on my sunglasses. Dimitri seems unfazed by the light, which is just further evidence that he's some sort of unnatural creature. “Veronica's a ditz,” he says. “She's a space cadet.”

“No, she's not,” I say. “She's brilliant in math, pretty good in science, too.”

“Okay, maybe she's not a space cadet, but she's no high-ranking space official. She's like a space private first class. A space corporal at best.”

“Is ‘space idiot' a rank? You'd qualify for that—probably get some kind of medal for exemplary service.”

Dimitri ignores me and goes on. “I've said it since day one. You need someone who's into the same things as you.” He begins counting on his fingers. “Veronica couldn't care less about golf. You guys always argue about movies….”

“Guys and girls are supposed to argue about movies.”

“Not like you guys. I mean, what kind of girl hates
Army of Darkness
? It's a total classic. That's why you've got to work here with me at the club.”

“The girls here love Sam Raimi movies?”

“I'm just saying, you'll meet one of the members' daughters—maybe over by the pool, at the tennis courts—and you'll just hit it off. I'm telling you. There are some grade-A hotties down here, and they like golf. They like golfers.”

I hike my bag higher on my shoulder. “I'm not a golfer. I'm just good at golf. There's a difference. Anyway, I've got a lot of things to sort out first.”

“What's to freakin' sort out? You and Veronica only dated for a few months.”

“It was eight months, which isn't so short,” I say. “Right now, I just need some downtime.”

“You might think you need downtime, but what you really need, my friend, is to get back in the saddle. Not only will it let you forget about Veronica, but if you really want her back, it'll make her jealous as hell.”

“And you're an expert on this subject because…?”

“Have you been living in a cave? There are, like, a million movies about this crap. Now shut up and swing.”

We both hit up. Miraculously, my ball lands around eight feet to the right of the hole. Dimitri's shot goes long and rolls off the back edge of the green. There's hope for me yet. We're both sitting three, and I'm in better shape. I pull out my putter as we make our way up.

I hear the crackle of tires on gravel. A golf cart with an awning and several coolers mounted to the back rolls down the path from the next hole. The concession truck. A girl with long tanned legs and flip-flops sits behind the wheel. Her hair is pulled back under a baseball cap, and oversized sunglasses hide her face.

“Unless you're bringing us free food, get the hell out of here,” Dimitri calls over to her.

“Bite me, you fat bastard,” the girl fires back.

I nudge Dimitri's shoulder. “You're always wondering why girls don't consider you good boyfriend material. Maybe you should start by changing your opening line.”

“Dude, that's Audrey.”

It's been a while since I've seen her. I take a closer look at the girl behind the wheel, the girl behind the giant sunglasses and baseball cap. “Jeez, I didn't even recognize her—”

“Don't even think about it.”

“Hey there, Seth,” Audrey calls to me.

“Hey,” I call back.

“I'm guessing you two cheap bastards aren't buying anything.”

“Two bucks for a can of soda is a total rip-off,” Dimitri says. “Why don't you take your gougemobile somewhere else?”

“See you losers later.” Audrey shifts the concession cart into reverse and loops around the green. She drives down the fairway toward the golfers waiting at the tee box behind us. When she's gone, I check out the situation with my next shot.

“You're up,” I say.

“King of the freakin' obvious.” Dimitri brushes the grass with his wedge a few times and then gives a crisp stroke. His ball pops into the air. It lands on the short stuff and rolls in an arc toward the hole. It misses by a few inches and curls around to within three feet. Pretty good considering where he was sitting.

I mark my ball, polish it on the bottom of my shirt, and replace it on the grass. I kneel and dangle my putter out in front of me to try to figure out my line.

“Okay,” Dimitri says. “This isn't the U.S. freakin' Open. Take your shot.”

I stand over my ball, putter in hand. I rock my shoulders until my club face finds an easy swing that lightly brushes the ground. I draw the putter back and tell my brain to let my stroke happen.

Three short beeps chirp from my pocket—a photo message on my cell phone. I jerk up midswing, and the ball hops off the face of my putter blade. It takes a wider arc to the left than I planned and rolls past the hole. A foot and a half away.

“Gimme?” I say.

“Hell no,” Dimitri says. “This is high-stakes golf wagering here. We've got a buck riding on this hole.”

I pull my cell from my pocket and switch it to vibrate.

“If your phone starts buzzing during my swing,” he says, “I reserve the right to a do-over.”

“Can I take a do-over on that last one?”

“Fat chance.”

Dimitri sets down his ball so the Nike swoosh points straight at the hole, and he gives a gentle stroke. His ball rolls to the edge and drops in. “That's a bogey. Sink yours and it's a push.”

I make my way around the hole to my ball. As I do, I glance at the message. It's from Veronica. The photo is tough to see in the sunlight, but I can make out most of a face and the plunging neckline of a woman's sequined shirt. It's the woman from Applebee's—at least, it's part of her. Her eyes are looking upward as though she's talking to someone above the level of the camera. The text beneath the photo says:
This is her. I'll call you later.