In The Company of Men

Still in behavior push-back phase. Mr. Robinson helped usher in the cycle, with his appropriate and very flattering description of my current reactionary tendency.

He compared my reasonable approach to petty indignities, to that of the coat of arms of the Family Montresor. The image is that of a huge human foot, crushing a serpent. The serpent's fangs are embedded in the heel of the assailant.

No One Assails Me With Impunity.

As an example, my behavior at the golf course today. I approached the range with respect, because there was already a hitter. I set up near him, because on the far end of the range, was a loud couple. I never said a word to him. The only time we happened to become face-to-face, was once, as he walked to his vehicle. There was no call to speak, so I gently touched the brim of my cap, then quickly settled into my stance and took a whack.

I noticed way way before then, that the fellow, a really big hitter, was a citizen-soldier, with the United States Marine Corps.

When he left, some runt pulls up in his wife's white Sentra, and clicks the alarm during my backswing. I said to him, "I ain't gonna steal your car.." If the universe were only him and I, there is a very good chance I would allow my impulse to crack his skull open to rule the day.

But, I like to hit. I like when my old-school metal clubs make that satisfying sound. That's why I would find a way to play, blind. For the sound, and the way the club head feels in my hand, after a perfect shot.

So, I hit out, and walked over to the putting green. The loud couple happened to be there, chatting away loudly. Each time they opened mouth, they made sure their pie-hole was pointing at me. I don't really care about the flip-flops, and sticking tees into the putting surface to provide some guidance.

But when I walk up to within ten feet of you, and address you politely a few times, I would appreciate a gentle response. What that couple got, was vintage mattie. First, I pointed them out to the counter attendant. Then I calmly walked back to my group of balls, and picked up the two that I came with.

The new one, a cool translucent ball, got putted right into their conversation, while I was already making tracks for the Silverado truck. I got in, and pulled up alongside the putting green. Other golfers, sensing the direction of my gaze, began ambling to the green's edge. Like parting the Red Sea. I stared at the couple for about five seconds, then checked my rear-view.

When I decided that they weren't going to turn, I said calmly, "Hey, girlfriend!"

She straightened up from her stance, and cast a feminine eye toward the sound.

I waited until then, and said, "Naaaah, not you, you're too ugly," then cackled as I let my foot off the brake pedal and glided home. I love my shit-kicker '78. Goddam right it looks like the kind of truck that a downtrodden landscaper would favor.

I wouldn't want MY desert-runner any other way!