Nothing to Declare by Richard Ravin

Author:Richard Ravin [Ravin, Richard M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literary Fiction, Relationships, Romantic Triangles, The 1970s, The 1990s
Publisher: Richard Ravin
Published: 2020-09-19T16:00:00+00:00

FIFTEEN

DEWEY AND JESSE’S LOCKER ROOM COMPANIONS are suntanned fellows in their fifties and sixties whose fashion sense runs to sherbet-colored double-knits and mismatched plaids. Zipping into their golfing clothes, they wolf down morning eye-openers while roaring at the punch lines of their dirty jokes. Jesse arranges himself before a floor-to-ceiling mirror. His canary leisure suit—courtesy of Dewey and the Audubon Club pro shop—broadcasts a chemical sheen. Fabric brought to market by the happy folks who manufacture napalm and Twinkies. He salutes his new image, planting his rented golf shoes into the damp wall-to-wall. Ten more minutes, he’ll be voting Republican.

Dewey lounges on a locker bench in the company of his pals, amid hairy backs and beer bellies and more unclipped foreskins than Jesse’s ever seen. Savonne introduces Jesse as Emily’s honeybunch, and the other men take it up like a new hobby, baiting Jesse at each break in the conversation: “Hey, honeybunch, we’re bored and ignorant. You know any stories you can throw our way? Jew jokes, Irish, Negro, we’re not fancy.” “Show us your draft card, won’t you, honeybunch? Say boo, we’ll walk you on over by Magazine Street to the recruiting officer. Ship you to Nam swift as grease through a goose—Navy, Marines, even Airborne, you got the stuff for the 101st.”

Jesse masks his face in innocence and lets the banter wash him by. Marty would know how to meet these guys head-on and charm them into co-conspirators. Without his silver touch, silence and bashful retreat will have to do. Finally, Jesse and Dewey emerge into the sunlight and approach the first tee. Emily’s father addresses his ball without preliminaries: one corkscrew of his hips and the ball flies up and out with a sound like a pistol shot. Jesse’s hands are shaking as he balances his Titleist on its tee.

Dewey moves behind him without being asked, molds Jesse’s elbows and legs into proper array. “Careful piece of business, how you managed yourself in the locker room,” Savonne says, stepping back to observe his handiwork. “Going along to get along, that’s how the wide world likes it. Golf’s about the same. The secret is, allow the body to run the deal. Pin your elbows in, turn your mind off, and show the old man what you got.”

Crows flock beneath a nearby pepper tree, squawking and fighting over something on the ground. Jesse lets the noise take him over and the coppery scent of the foliage, then slams his wood against the ball. A spray of sod and dirt, a glare of white too white to mark against the sun. Somehow, fortune shining down, his shot goes a respectable distance along the fairway. In silent pleasure, the two men tote their bags to their next position.

Dewey stalks the front nine without a letup, and Jesse watches how he makes his game, powering his shots with overkill and unblinking concentration. He mimics Dewey’s method as fairly as he can, scarring the bluegrass with divots, tasting his effort as a swill of turf and caught-in breath and sweat.

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