Excellent Part 2: The beginning of a momentous day for E.J. Some Call It Luck : Some Call It Luck - Chapter 15 by Jim Wile

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language. Background A brilliant and beautiful but insecure, nerdy young woman befriends a going nowhere older alcoholic caddie. Together, they bring out the best in each other and collaborate on a startling new invention   E.J. Budrowski Three years later July, 1986     The day began pretty much like many days for me—with a raging hangover. I had partied hard last night because I’d had a huge payday yesterday. Although I’d been fired off the bag on the 16th hole and didn’t receive a dime from my player, his opponent actually paid me $100 for my efforts. I’d better explain that. See, I was caddying for two guys who had a big-money match going against two of my favorite players. Though I may have cost my guys a hole or two, they didn’t have to cuss me out and fire me the way they did, even though I might have been a little blotto. Anyway, today would end up being quite different. I’d fallen asleep in my clothes, so I didn’t bother changing them, just wiped off a little bit of vomit I found on my shirt. After grabbing a quick cup of instant coffee and a couple of chocolate-covered donuts, I headed to the bus stop to catch a ride out to Brentwood Country Club. When the bus arrived, I got in and sat down next to old Rafe, another caddie who was also headed to Brentwood this Monday morning. Rafe was my best friend among the caddies at Brentwood. He was a big, black fellow in his mid-50s with a perennial smile on his round face. “Mornin’, E.J. How’s it hangin’?” “To the left this morning, Rafe. How you doing?” “Oh, fair to middlin’. Say, I heard you was fired off da bag yest’day. Whadju do?” “I don’t even remember now. Bastard didn’t pay me a dime either, but I made out alright. He and my other guy were playing against Eddie Phillips and Jeremy Daniel, who ended up winning and taking four grand off my guys. After the match, Eddie comes up and gives me 100 bucks, just like he’d paid me to screw up.” “Well, you don’t need no payment to screw up, E.J. You da worse caddie I ever did see, an’ I seen a few.” “Well, thanks, Rafe. I’ll remember you in my will.” We went back and forth like this all the way to the bus stop about a quarter-mile from Brentwood and continued it the rest of the way there to the club. Brentwood Country Club was a beautiful old place, dating back to 1926. It had a large, Tudor-style clubhouse with a big, circular driveway that led up to the front door and enclosed a perfectly manicured lawn surrounded by beds of red canna flowers. Flower boxes adorned the windows on the ground floor. The caddie yard was next to the Pro Shop, behind and to the left of the clubhouse, and that’s where Rafe and I headed. No sooner had we come into the yard and were about to sit down on one of the long wooden benches, when Tony Colosi, the caddie master, spotted me. He came out of his office and was immediately in my face. Tony was a short little Italian guy, about fifty years old, wearing a red baseball cap and with a cigar permanently affixed to the corner of his mouth. He had a high, raspy voice and a quick temper, and he started right in on me. “Jesus Christ, E.J! I got a mouthful from your player yesterday. He cussed you up and down, sayin’ you caused him to lose his match. Said you was also drunk on the bag. I ever catch you drinkin’ on the job, you’re outta here. Capiche?” I reeled slightly from this onslaught. “Uh, sure, won’t happen again, Tone.” “Well, it better not. You screw up like that one more time, I’ll make sure you don’t caddie here or any place else around here!” and with that, he stormed off back inside. I don’t know whether it was the remnants of the hangover or the ass-chewing I just received from Tony, but my head was pounding, and I felt like crap. “Jesus, Rafe, I think he meant it.” “Sure he meant it. You don’ mess around wit dat li’l guy. You betta straighten up an’ fly right from now on.” We sat down, and he put his arm around my shoulder. We just sat there like that for a while. “Here, I’ll tell you a joke, cheer y’up some,” said Rafe.   “A rabbit an’ a bear be takin’ a dump together side by side in da woods. When dey get done, bear say to da rabbit, ‘You ever have a problem wid shit stickin’ to yo fur after you take a dump?’ Rabbit say, ‘No, I don’ guess I do.’ So da bear pick him up an wipe his ass wid ‘em.”   Despite my mood, I had to laugh at that one. “Not bad, Rafe, not bad. Hey, I got one for you too.” By this time, some of the other caddies began gathering around, since I had somewhat of a reputation as a joke teller.   “Okay, these three old Jewish ladies were talking together on a park bench in New York City, reminiscing about their dearly departed husbands. First one said, ‘My Sol was a high-class doctor. He had the wealthiest patients on all of the west side, including many Broadway stars.’ Second one said, ‘Well, my Hyman was an investment banker. He used to handle the biggest clients on Wall Street.’ The third one said, ‘My Abie wasn’t no doctor or banker, but he had a pecker so long, nine pigeons could stand side by side on it.’ After a while, their consciences got the best of them for stretching the truth a bit. The first one said, ‘I wasn’t totally honest about my Sol. Actually, he was just a pharmacist in a little shop on 53rd Street.’ The second one said, ‘Actually, my Hyman was only an accountant and did taxes for people in the old neighborhood.’ After a bit, the third one said, ‘Since you’re both being so honest, I have to tell you that the ninth pigeon—he had to stand on one leg.’”   This caused the caddie yard to erupt with hoots of laughter that immediately drew the ire of Tony, who came storming out of his office again. “Jesus Christ, fellas, keep it down out here. There’s golfers on the tee!” As he turned around and left, I flapped my fingers and thumbs open and closed and said softly, “Blah, blah, blah,” which added a few more snickers from the dispersing caddies. When the merriment died down, and the temporary lift the jokes had given me wore off, I resumed feeling my general malaise. It was starting to heat up, and there was very little airflow in the caddie yard, plus no one was catching a round of golf (or “loop” as we caddies call it.) It was Monday, and many of the members chose not to play because the grounds crew did a lot of work on the course on Mondays. This could be a long day with no promise of a loop by the end   Author Notes Part 2 begins three years later with E.J. waking up to the start of a seemingly typical day. But this day will end up being anything but typical for him.

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