Chapter 45, Green Grass Space Invader
By the summer of 1985 most of my new
income friends were conservative women with children like me plus a group of
older women who, like me, enjoyed cooking. From cooking they got me to play
cards and eventually dragged me to a golf course.
It was 17 years since my Motel 6
honeymoon night, 10 since crossing Edward’s threshold, 6 since walking out on Enrico
and 3 since visiting Darryl’s kiln. At 35 I was on the cusp of middle age, an
established, happily married woman with kids for all to see and secrets know
only by me.
The golf course was open to the public
but privately owned. Developed in the 1920's, the mature landscaping was
stunningly beautiful. It was operated by
a grandson of the original developer who was the resident golf pro. The course
included a quaint 1920's English style cottage restaurant with pub lounge, a
pro shop and above the pro shop the grandson’s private quarters den. He was 40
years old, unmarried and reputed to be a professional seducer, the golf course
his hunting ground, the den his seduction pad. Many women married and not, were
said to be his rendezvous den trophies.
At 35 I was the much younger “daughter”
in our party of 4. The oldest was over 60 and the other 2 close. For my golf
adventure I rented club from the pro shop but purchased a set of pink golf
balls and golf shoes, not wanting to wear shoes worn by others.
At the first tee, the 3 ladies
provided advice, mostly conflicting. Fully advised I swung hard, missed the
ball and made a divot. We laughed as they again vied to proffer advice but the
more I tried their suggestions the worse my swing.
I was getting ready for my 5th when he strolled over. The girls whispered the owner was coming. I assumed it was to scold me about my divots at the tee and smiled to disarm him. He smiled broadly back. I was relieved my lecture would be mild. He introduced himself as Elliot, the resident golf pro and explained he had watched from above the pro shop and then asked if this was my first time on a golf course which was obvious. He didn’t mention my divot trenching on his tee turf.
He had a shock of dark brown hair, like a rooster's comb, flirting blue eyes, a pleasant voice, was 6 feet plus and had a relaxed regal attitude which can only be acquired from being raised privileged. His attire was casual but expensive. I looked down at his shoes. They were tan oxfords with golf cleats! Instead of berating me for my divots he asked to assist me and without waiting for my consent stood behind me and informed me he would guide my swing.
He reached around and placed my hands on the taped club grip then moved my fingers about until he was satisfied I was holding the club correctly. It felt awkward but he assured me it was the correct grip. He was sure of himself, his voice calm and confident, his movement unhurried but deliberate. He placed his cheek against mine, his tanned hands held mine. Controlling me firmly from behind, he slowly swung my arms back and forth in swings against an imaginary ball.
He wore no jewelry. His after shave
smelled good. He was a space invader. He was invading my space without asking
permission. I didn’t push this trespasser away. The 3 ladies gawked, envious at
the attention I drew.