Fifty Two: Pirate’s Cove Mini-Golf
Sometimes I like to be dramatic. I suppose that’s no secret to anyone in my life. Sometimes I like to lay the seat back in my car with a cigarette between my lips, the window open, and mellow dramatic songs playing through my speakers. Preferably I like to park my car out in the middle of a field where I can really feel sorry for myself, I’m afraid of the dark so although I sometimes talk myself into driving out there in the middle of the night, I often chicken out and park my Range Rover in back of the parking lot at the KFC by my house. With the glow of the drive through illuminating the concrete and the orange blush of the tacky street light next to the dumpster, I feel much safer than I would in the middle of some rednecks property by myself. The droned voice of the bored and overworked fast food employee coming through the speakers at the drive through is strangely comforting. It reminds me my moping is just that, and life could be a lot worse. I could be standing inside a greasy fast food restaurant wearing a visor asking gangstas how many biscuits they want with their fried chicken. There are a million other bad lives I’ve dreamed up for myself because I’m not very good at appreciating what I have. I have to spend some time convincing myself each day that as far as lives go, I’m pretty fucking lucky.
It’s hard to remember that with a broken heart though. It’s hard to remember much at all with a broken heart. In the two weeks since our dance at Gabrielle’s apartment, I’d found it difficult to remember the four-digit code to access my voicemail and the exit to take to get home off of the freeway. It was suddenly difficult to remember to put shoes on when I walked out the door and climbed into my car, and sometimes I’d have to leave the car started up in the driveway while I ran back inside for a pair of flip flops in the front foyer of my parents house. There had been at least two times in the past weeks that I’d grabbed one of my sister’s instead, stretching them out with my heel and toes hanging off the front in the back.
My mind was fogged though- by her, by my life being at such a stand still, by emptiness.
I never considered myself to be the kind of person to need other people around me to survive. I supposed I’d always seen myself as independent, bold, self-reliant. But a lifetime being surrounded by family, a 4 year long marriage, and a loss of “self” left me unable to properly function on my own. It was hard just starting out the day. I had to remind myself how to get up, get in the shower, towel off, wrap my towel around my waist while I combed my hair in the mirror. It was the easy things that somehow seemed the hardest sometimes, and yet those were the things I clung too because they were easier than the tough stuff.
I established a routine. Wake up, shower, make breakfast usually consisting of a bowl of cereal and coffee, unless I was feeling particularly inspired, then I’d usually go that extra mile of throwing some bacon in the microwave. Somehow with all the years I’d spent trying to convince everyone around me that I couldn’t cook, I’d convinced myself as well that cooking wasn’t one of my fortes.
I was determined to get my life on track. I focused on it all day long because it was easy to slip up and find myself sinking down on the floor of the bathroom with a cigarette, closing my eyes and resting my head back against the wall, before standing up and undressing and climbing into bed at 2 in the afternoon. Depression is the hardest demon I’d ever had to fight in my life, but I wasn’t giving up. At the risk of sounding like a motivational speaker at a juvenile detention center inspiring young teens to regain control of their lives, I knew that I would go nowhere if I didn’t make a change- if I didn’t fight. I had to fight now, or I’d have to fight in 20 years in the future when I was an overweight, unsuccessful, Gabrielle-less nobody, so I figured I might as well get the struggle over with.
She was my motivation every morning as much as I sometimes liked to tell myself I was doing it for my own good.
After breakfast I’d get in the car, knowing my house was the biggest trigger for my depression. I’d go anywhere. More times than not I’d end up at starbucks reading a paper and drinking a venti coffee, venti because it made me feel like a “regular” there which somehow made me feel that much better than everyone else walking in and out with their tall vanilla bean frappuccinos. Who the fuck orders those at a coffee shop? Amateurs. Somehow in a world where most of my previous confidence had disappeared, I found pride in my Starbucks selection.
Sometimes I’d park my car and walk around the Rose Garden. Sometimes I’d go shopping. It’s not surprising that sometimes I’d drive past Gabrielle’s house looking for the Blazer parked out along the curb, but I never went inside. I needed to sort my life out before I contaminated hers. I’d fight for her, but not in the way I had been. I wouldn’t harass or manipulate or chase. I’d fight my own battles silently- for once in my life,
I returned home everyday at 4:00 on the dot, showing up at the studio on our property with some kind of peace offering for Isaac and Zac. It ranged from doughnuts to sandwiches to Cuban cigars when I was feeling especially rebellious. Then we’d work until 7 when we were called in to dinner. It was amazing how we were all in our twenties at this point and yet here we were, grown men, being called into the main house by our mother for dinner. And yet I needed it, no matter how pathetic it made it feel sometimes.
We were back outside at 8:00, rarely any later, and we’d work until someone made an excuse to finish. It was rarely me. After 4 years of avoiding them, of avoiding everyone, I savored their company. I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed them. I’d forgotten that even without Gabrielle, I still had people who could bring me happiness, I lived for her, but I wouldn’t die for her. I wouldn’t crumble without her. I couldn’t. It was fair to no one.
It was then that I’d usually take my drive out, set on some open field, and it was then that I’d usually end up at the KFC parking lot. I’d like to say my life is more sophisticated than that, but despite all my teenage efforts, I’ve never been sophisticated at all.
I’d sit there in the parking lot, allowing myself to feel sorry for myself for the first time during the day, settling into the feeling of pity for almost an hour- well, usually 5 cigarettes worth. I’d fight depression, but I wasn’t ready to give up chain smoking. Stupid ideas would come to my mind during this period, often involving Natalie, but usually Gabrielle. Sometimes Id’ consider going to the airport and crawling back to her in Georgia, begging her for forgiveness, telling her that even if I wasn’t in love with her, I didn’t need to be in love. I’d rather be with her than be miserable and alone. Somehow I didn’t think that would go over well.
As one might have guessed, I also contemplated repeating the nights at Gabrielle’s apartment, driving out to downtown, taking my place at the bar I’d come to know so well, and drunkenly banging on her door. I’m not sure how I fought the urge, because at times it seemed so easy, but I knew the easy way out wasn’t what we needed, and what we needed was time and room to breathe.
You can only imagine how much it surprised me when I was reclining my seat at the KFC parking lot and when I pulled my vibrating phone out of my pocket, I saw her name. I didn’t even consider not picking up. I’m too curious and irrational to pause like most people would. I answered after the first “ring”.
“Hello?”
Very inspired. I wish I could be more interesting with how I pick up a phone- like Uncle Jesse on Full House- “talk to me”. Instead I’m bland and predictable.
She paused however. “Were you waiting by the phone watching for it to ring?” she asked with a slight laugh to her voice, and to be honest, it kind of irritated me that she was making fun of my lack of a life.
“I don’t believe in letting it ring multiple times just to look like I was doing something important,” I responded, inhaling and glancing out the window at a truck with teenagers in the bed of it as it parked in a parking space near by.
She paused again. “Are you smoking?”
I’m not really sure why it mattered. “Define smoking.”
“What do you mean define smoking?”
“Smoking hot? Yes.”
“That was really lame,” she replied simply but I could hear her smiling.
I sighed and tossed the cigarette out the window since I knew at this point she’d be listening for each exhale and she hated smoking more than my mother even. I got more crap about it from Gabrielle than I did from anyone else. It got old after 4 years.
“I think we’ve both established I was lame a long time ago,” I muttered, sitting back in the seat and laying my head back again the leather headrest.
She paused. She kept doing that. I guess I was taking her off guard. “What’s with the mood?”
First of all, I hated when people asked that- not defining the type of mood they were referring to. “Mood” is supposed to just describe “bad mood” which seems stupid to me. Secondly, I had no fucking clue. I was feeling angry for some reason, a feeling I rarely felt towards her and I didn’t realize where it was coming from.
“There’s no *mood*,” I said, making sure that I said the word “mood” in a tone that portrayed my distaste for the word.
“No?”
“Nope.”
“I see. I’m assuming it’s a bad time. I can call back later?” she offered.
“It’s not a fucking bad time, Gabrielle,” I said a little more aggressively and loudly that I’d expected, surprising myself. I closed my eyes and let out a heavy sigh. “Why are you calling?” I asked after a moment.
“I was calling to see what you’re doing! How you’re doing!” she said kind of defensively.
“Oh yeah? You suddenly care?” I said, and then smirked a little, definitely a forced smile. “I’m great, thanks so much, yourself?”
“Why are you acting so rude?”
Who fucking knew. I didn’t fucking know. Actually, I did fucking know. She’d practically kicked me out of her house two weeks earlier and then hadn’t called since, hadn’t stopped by the house, had clearly avoided me, and now she was calling to make nice? That’s what my problem was. That’s why I was acting rude. I was hurt. I was fucking hurt by it.
“I just find it strange that you suddenly care after avoiding me for two weeks,” I finally responded.
“I wasn’t avoiding you.”
I knew it. I knew she’d say that. She’d play stupid.
“Alright you know what?” I asked, my voice challenging her now. “Call me back when you are ready to stop with the innocent act. If you want your space then that’s fine, I’ve been giving it to you if you haven’t noticed. But don’t call me pretending everything is fine and normal. It’s lame. It’s old. It’s been done time and time again. I’m not in the mood for bullshit.”
I sat my seat up and reached forward onto the pack of cigarettes on the passenger seat. She remained silent as I opened the pack of cigarettes, pulling one out and putting it between my lips. I paused when she didn’t speak and then sighed, taking the cigarette out of my lips. “Hang on,” I muttered, clicking the “mute” button and tossing the phone into my lap, lighting up when she hopefully couldn’t hear me.
I took a deep drag and then picked the phone back up. “Okay I’m back,” I said. She was still silent. “So you’re not going to say anything at all?” I said after another moment.
Silence.
I glanced down at my phone to see if the call was still there and noticed it was still muted. Fucking genius Taylor. I rolled my eyes at myself and took another drag for good measure, and then turned the mute button off. “I’m back,” I told her again.
“Alright,” she said, and then licked her lips- I could see it in my mind. I’d studied her enough. “I’m not going to offer you bullshit. Not this time.”
This perked my attention and I sat there kind of staring for a moment.
“Oh yeah?” I managed to utter, trying to sound cool and collected, and I think I actually kind of pulled it off. Then again, I think I pull a lot off that I actually don’t- like Raybans and leather, or so I’ve been told countless times by family.
“Where are you?” she asked.
I glanced at the KFC. How humiliating. “My car,” I abbreviated.
“Where?”
Jesus Christ.
“Near the house.” I paused, cringing. “The KFC parking lot. Why, where are you?”
“Pirate’s Cove Mini-golf ,” she responded.
I paused and then cracked a smile, followed by a frown as I saw ashes fall down onto my jeans. I cringed and wiped them away kind of frantically, tapping the cigarette against the edge of the window.
“Why the hell are you there?” I asked.
“Why the hell are you in a KFC parking lot?”
I smiled. She had a point. “Maybe I was fucking hungry?”
“Maybe I wanted to play a fucking round of mini-golf?”
I smiled and tossed the cigarette out the window, closing my eyes and taking in her voice, her raw humor, her realness. “I’ve never played mini-golf alone. How is it? I’d imagine it’s not too difficult to take home the victory on your own.”
“You’d think that wouldn’t you?” she smiled. “However after my ball rolled into the concrete pond next to hole 4 twice in a row, I now believe otherwise.”
I laughed a little and reached out starting my car up, probably overly optimistic. “You want company?” I asked, eager but still maintaining my casual tone.
“If you promise not show off.”
I’m amazing at mini-golf and everyone knows it. I can’t help but gloat occasionally throughout the course.
“If you promise not to whack me in the balls with the golf club this time then you have yourself a deal.”
Way back when I was first married to Natalie the entire family went mini-golfing and she swung too far back. At the time I had to wonder if it was on purpose, or a subconscious urge she couldn’t suppress.
She laughed. “That was not your balls. You’ve successfully had two children since then. That was definitely your shin.”
Okay, it was my shin. She was right- but the story sounded better when you pretended it was my balls don’t you think? I smirked, shifting into drive. “Whatever,” I muttered. I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself down, but it was hard. I was ecstatic that she’d called. “I’ll see you in twenty?” I asked.
“Alright. I’ll be on a bench. I’m wearing a brown skirt if you can’t find me.”
Of course she was. She had to look like a complete hippy freak all the time didn’t she? Thank god that phase was starting to end and she was starting to look somewhat like a normal human being again.
“I’m sure I’ll be able to spot you without a description of your outfit, Gabrielle,” I muttered.
“I’m sure you will,” she said a moment later.
We got off the phone and I raced there as quickly as I could, pulling in next to the blazer and noticing there was only one other car there. So we weren’t the only fucking freaks.
I parked my car and climbed out, glancing at myself in the rear view mirror to make sure I looked hot enough. Hot. I was 24 and still using words like “hot”. That’s what happens when the thing that ages you, marriage and kids, actually stunts your growth more than anything else.
I flattened my red “Ramones” t-shirt from years and years ago, wishing I had worn something nicer that night. At least they were nice jeans. Thank the lord I wasn’t wearing my sisters polka dot flip flops. I was such a fucking woman.
I smiled when I got close to her, watching her stand up. “Oh, it’s you,” I called out. “I wouldn’t have recognized you without the skirt description. Thank god.” I glanced towards the golf course, pointing to a middle-aged man with a toddler on his shoulders. “I might have confused you with him otherwise.”
She smirked at the pair, walking closer to me and looking at me again. “The big one or the little one?”
“Definitely the man,” I said, as we came close, stopping in front of her. “You’ve got similar side burns,” I said, laughing and reaching out, touching the part of my face with side burns would be. Of course she had no sideburns, but picturing them on the edges of her face still humored me to no end and I couldn’t help but laugh out loud.
She laughed and stepped closer to me although I had stopped. “Shut up,” she muttered, leaning in and kissing my lips. It was longer than just a quick friendly peck, but quicker than something you’d see in a modern romance. I was caught completely off guard and when she leaned away and started towards the course with her golf club, I just stood there completely speechless, unable to move for a moment.