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But I figured it was a harmless way to keep his brain ticking over, and the cylinders firing—I guessed it was like how some old dudes studied the form, or spotted trains, planes and automobiles. Instead, Ernie spotted pussy. Keeping up the list was almost a full-time job though, as though he was constantly adding to it, there was also a high natural churn rate, given that most of the women on it were also as old as time. There was a funeral every week—sometimes multiple. In that sense it was handy that his appetite far outweighed his abilities, and the list never ended.
I envied Ernie’s life. Big time. Discounting the fact that his friends and potential love interests were dropping like flies—and his own wife had died fifteen years earlier—it was a charmed existence. He’d retired decades ago, after a long and successful career that had come to an abrupt end due to the collapse of his company—or else he’d probably still be working to this day. He now filled his time doing whatever the fuck he wanted to.
His needs weren’t complicated—a little poker, a little pussy watching, a little golf, a little shooting the shit with friends—but that was what made him happy. Even having spent as much time with him as I had, I really couldn’t imagine that kind of luxury for myself. My life wasn’t about what I wanted to do, but all about doing what I had to do to survive.
As I pulled the car into the lot at the golf club, I looked in the rear-view mirror at Ernie.
“Nice day for a few rounds. Not too hot, enough of a breeze to keep us cool, but not enough to disturb the game,” I told him.
“That’s right, perfect conditions, just like God intended it, huh?”
“I guess.” Not that I believed in God, or the Universe or any other euphemism for Higher Power, especially not after the things I’d been through, and the things I was very much still going through.
“Looks like Martin is already here. That’s new his ride, right?” I jutted my chin toward the classic Rolls Royce in the space next to us.
“Yeah that’s it. The ostentatious bastard. We all know he’s richer than God. I don’t know why he needs to advertise it to the world. Someone should tell him that all that conspicuous consumption is ugly.”
I tended to agree—not that I had any business having an opinion about how rich people spent their money—but I did find the way Ernie’s friend, Martin, was all about the greens tacky as all hell. Ernie never said it in so many words, because he was way too classy for that, but I had a feeling it was the difference between old and new money.
Ernie’s people were rich for as far back as the eye could see. Sure, their fortune had diminished over time, and seemed to have ended with the loss of their family manufacturing business, but they had what people referred to as good breeding.
Martin, on the other hand had a fuck-ton of money, but probably less class than me. He’d made his fortune selling cars—hence the Rolls Royce—and that money was so new the ink was still drying on it. Literally. The guy was shady AF.
He was barely welcome at the club, for exactly that reason. He might have been able to buy the entire thing and everyone in it, but new money was new money, and the club was all about the oldest of the old school. Sometimes I thought that was the main reason Ernie was friends with Martin—because he knew it pissed off all the stuffed shirts he hated.
I had no idea whether he’d been that way his whole life, or if it was something he’d picked up as he’d grown older and more cantankerous, but he never missed an opportunity to flick the old guard the finger, for what seemed like nothing more than his own entertainment. I had to admire that in him. I aspired to that level of assholery when I was his age, if not sooner.
I jumped out of the car and opened the door for Ernie, offering him the crook of my arm, to help him out of the seat.
“Leave me alone. What do you think I am, some kind of old bastard?” That wasn’t only exactly what I thought he was, but also exactly what he was.
“You? Old? What are you talking about? You’re not a day over forty, are you?”
It was a well-rehearsed routine between the two of us, but it made me smile every time, regardless.
“Ha! I’ll be eighty-nine next birthday, and I could teach you youngsters a thing or two, I tell you.” I didn’t doubt it.
“Your secret’s safe with me, Ernie. If you don’t tell them, people will never know.”
“I know, right? Good genes in my family. Very good genes. I used to be quite the lady-killer before I married Lilian, you know. And let me tell you, we were very happily married for fifty-eight years, but there were always plenty of women who wanted a piece of the action. Plenty. There still are, when I come to think of it. I’ve still got it.”
I stifled my laughter, turning it into a grin. “No doubt. If I’ve still got even half as much as you by the time I hit your age, I’ll be happy.” I smiled to myself. I loved the simplicity of our schtick. We both knew our roles, and played them to a tee. I handed Ernie his cane, and prepared to walk at a snail’s pace across the parking lot. He might have liked to think otherwise, but the fact was Ernie was no spring chicken, and was starting to really slow down, even just in completing simple tasks.
At least his body was getting slower. I saw no sign of any change in his brain. I once heard or read somewhere that with aging, you either got to keep your mind or your body. Very rarely both, and if the old people I knew—mostly through Ernie—were anything to go by, this definitely seemed to be true. Those who were physically spry had only a loose grip on their marbles. Those who were still able to perform mental gymnastics weren’t about to run any marathons. I often thought about which I’d prefer when the time came—not that I’d have a choice in the matter—and would flip-flop back and forth between which I thought was the least bad option.
Once we were inside the golf club we spotted Martin in his usual spot, propping up the bar, nursing a scotch and soda. It was 10 a.m., but as ever, nobody seemed to notice, or care that it was a little early to be knocking back the hard liquor.
While they chewed the fat, I went farther into the club to arrange their round of golf, and say hi to a few people. Not only did I bring Ernie to the club at least once a week, but I worked there too—Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. It wasn’t the worst of jobs, and I had it to thank for the sweet gig that was being Ernie’s babysitter or “elderly companion”, or whatever the fuck it was officially called.
That made it totally worth putting up with all the boring old rules and regs, and bullshit procedures. Not to mention being treated like a second-class citizen because my skin was a few shades off white. The place was an old-school hell, in some ways, but the money was way better than I’d earn working in a fast-food joint, or somewhere, doing the exact same work, and most importantly, it came with insurance. I appreciated the job for that fact, and so did my dad.
As I rounded the corner back to the bar to take Ernie and Martin out onto the course, I stopped in my tracks, and my blood ran cold.
Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.
I briefly considered my options—fight or flight, and for the second time in twelve hours I did neither, just stood momentarily dumbfounded and motionless. In the end, I had no choice but to opt to fight. Figuratively. There was nowhere I could run to that wouldn’t draw a heap of unwanted attention, jeopardizing both my gig with Ernie, and worse still, my job at the club. I couldn’t afford to risk either, so I forced one foot in front of the other, and approached the group.
Chapter 5
