Leaving Home Chapter 4

Leaving Home
Chapter 4
 
I usually spent around thirty minutes getting ready in the morning between washing, shaving, brushing my teeth, and dressing. I planned on a few minutes extra this morning because of Jennie. We were dressed, bed made, and promptly out the door. I knew from experience that Dr. Whitney’s office was sixteen miles away. Usually, that would take me about twenty minutes to drive.
 
Unfortunately, there was always the chance of running behind a school bus at this hour, and that’s precisely what happened. There was no chance of passing on the narrow, twisting road. Finally, as we approached the South Carolina state line, the bus turned off into a housing development, and the traffic cleared. Ten minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot precisely three minutes early.
 
Jennie, as expected, had to complete primarily several blank forms because she had never visited a doctor during her five-plus years on the road and couldn’t remember the rest. She had no vaccination records and never received a flu shot or other treatment. Jennie was called, and she asked me to join her. “Please, Doug, I’m deathly afraid of needles.” I held her hand as we followed Jan into the office. I explained that we both wanted blood and STD testing.
 
“Then you’ll both have to give urine and swab samples. The urine must come at the beginning of your stream. Jennifer, I’ll need a swab of your vagina, and Doug, I’ll need a swab of your urethra before you urinate. Understand?” We did. Jennie went to the lavatory while I gave blood. I stayed with her when she returned, telling her to close her eyes. That worked; she never felt the slight pinch. I went to the lavatory when she was finished.  
“Dr. Whitney will have your results next week.” I paid my co-pay and Jennie’s bill, and we left. We passed the shopping center two minutes later, where I had met Jennie only a few days before.
 
There are dozens of restaurants in North Myrtle Beach, so we were able to find a breakfast place easily. We had just ordered when I asked if she had ever played golf. “I played softball and soccer in high school, just like all the other ‘out of control’ kids did, but never golf. Why?”
 
“I usually play two to three times a week, even in the winter. I wouldn’t mind having some company. If we went out in the afternoon, it would be warmer, and we could play without even keeping score. If you played softball, you’d pick up on it easily. You probably won’t be great, but neither am I. You’ll be part of a vast majority. I’ll need to get you some clubs and some golf clothes.”
 
“Special clothes? Just for golf?”
 
“Yeah, you’ll find them helpful even for daily wear. I have what’s known as a ‘wind shirt,’ although it’s more of a pullover jacket I take whenever I travel. It’s thin and light but warm because it keeps the wind from penetrating your skin. I also have a Merino wool sweater in stock for days in the 40s. It’s fragile. I usually wear four layers—a tee shirt, a mock turtle neck, a sweater, and a wind shirt. I have five, some heavier than others because the weather changes, and sometimes they must be washed. There are two big golf shops right down the road.”
 
“Isn’t this going to be expensive,” Jennie asked. I just laughed, smiled, and winked. I’d told Jennie the truth: I had pocketed more than a hundred million, much more. I had been offered more than a billion dollars for my investment program. I accepted employment for the two staff members with a few conditions and my ability to continue using the program in total secrecy. In return, I agreed never to sell it and to allow them unlimited use forever. I didn’t plan to live forever and had no family or heirs. It was a no-brainer, even for a nerd like me.
 
I was finishing my pancakes when Jennie excused herself from the restroom. I paid the check and waited for her just outside the entrance. Soon enough, we drove south on US-17, the main road through virtually every town between here and Charleston. Five minutes later, I pulled into the big parking lot at the PGA Superstore. Golfsmith was right across the street. “How do you know which one to go to,” Jennie asked.
 
“It doesn’t matter that much. Their prices are virtually identical, but they’ll fit the clubs to you here. That’s important. I’ll explain that you’re a novice so the salesman will spend forever with us. You’ll see.” I took her hand and led her into the big store. The one difference between the two stores was that this one also sold clothing and equipment for tennis. I had no interest in that. Sometimes, I could barely hit a stationary golf ball.
 
Once inside, I led Jennie to the area where she could try various clubs. I wasn’t surprised that we were intercepted halfway there by one of the salespeople. These guys must work on commission. They were even more attentive—always had been—than even the car salespeople.
 
“Yes, you can help us. I want a set of clubs for my friend here. She’s a total novice.”
 
“Then I assume you’ll want an inexpensive set of clubs.”
 
“On the contrary, I believe one should always have the best equipment. Let’s see what you have, and then I’m sure she’ll want to try them out.” He smiled and led us to the back of the store where the ladies’ clubs could be found. They had a good selection from top brands such as TaylorMade, Nike, Adams, and Callaway. He showed Jennie how to hold the clubs using several types of grips. I always used an interlocking grip, so that’s what I suggested to Jennie.
 
The salesman agreed. “It’s the most popular, and I find it helps control the club more effectively. He helped Jennie select a glove, and we proceeded to the practice area. “These shafts will seem light to you. Don’t let that fool you. They’re graphite and extremely strong. I’ve never even come close to breaking one of mine, so you don’t have to worry about that. Now…here’s some advice—golf is a game of contradictions.” Jennie replied with a puzzled look. I’d heard all of this before. “Believe it or not, to get the ball into the air, you have to hit down on it. It’s called trapping the ball, squeezing it between the club and the ground or, in this case, the mat. Next, if you want the ball to go far, swing easy. Swinging hard, or over-swinging, gets your body out of rhythm. Only bad things will happen then, like hooking or slicing, and your distance will suffer, too. Just relax and swing in an arc. Ever play softball?”
 
“Yes, I played on our high school varsity for four years.”
 
“That should help you. It’s the same swing, except now the ball is smaller, on the ground, and not moving.” Jennie tried a few practice swings before actually addressing the ball. Her first few swings were weak, but she seemed to get the hang of it. She hit five shots with each club before returning to the TaylorMade Aero burners.
 
“I like the way this one feels, Doug. Is that okay?”
 
“It’s more than okay—it’s exactly right.” She tried several drivers and some fairway woods. I have always wondered why they’re still called “woods” when made of metal. Anyway, Jennie liked the TaylorMade there, too. Once we had the clubs, we walked over to get a couple of bags.
 
“Why do I need more than one?”
 
“You’ll need a cart bag for when we play. It’ll help you organize the clubs, and it’s big enough to hold extra gloves, rain gear, plenty of balls, tees, and first aid supplies in case you get a blister or a cut. It also has an insulated compartment to keep cold water or Gator Aid in it. On the downside, cart bags are heavy, so when we go to the range to practice, you’ll want something lighter and easier to carry. I also use mine when I travel. She selected one in pink and the second in purple. They were both excellent bags, so I was satisfied. I handed them to the salesman, telling him to meet us in his shoes.
 
“Shoes?”
 
“Yeah, you can play in your sneakers, but they’re not waterproof like golf shoes, and you can slip quite easily. Golf shoes have cleats.” She tried several, picking a pair more like sneakers than shoes. We bought two. Next: putters. I explained, and Jennie tried a few on their putting green. After almost an hour, she picked an Odyssey Works Super, which is a good choice, in my opinion. We spent another hour on clothes before buying three dozen balls and several markers, towels, and other tools. My bill came to $3,427.16, not too bad.
 
On the drive home, I told Jennie I’d be away for the weekend. “I think it would be good if you came with me.”
 
“Where are we going?”
 
“Santee, South Carolina.”
 
“Where on earth is that?”
 
“I-95 runs right through the middle of it. That’s how we’re getting there. I’m getting a dog.”
 
“Why can’t you get one here?”
 
“I could, but this will be a special dog. Before you came to live with me, I was alone every day and night except for when May was cleaning. I had a team of burglars break in early one morning about two months ago. The alarm went off, and I grabbed my pistol. It’s a smart gun that requires my thumbprint to be fired. I shot one of them when he tried to knife me, and the other ran. The guy lived, but he’ll be paralyzed for the rest of his life—the bullet went through his lung and severed his spinal cord. I might go to jail for a while, but the DA decided not to prosecute. The one I shot had a long record of burglary and even armed robbery, and the fact that he did cut my arm made the case one of self-defense.
 
“I thought at the time that I might need a guard dog. Dogs are notoriously light sleepers, and they have sensational hearing. A barking dog would probably scare most burglars away; you could always call the dog back. You can’t do that with a bullet. I’d like to have you with me so the dog will know you. We can take our clubs and practice. Then, when we come home, I’ll arrange some lessons for you.” Jennie leaned forward and kissed me.  
It had been a wonderful morning.
 
We stopped at the Farmstead Golf Links, where I was a member, and walked together into the clubhouse, where I picked up a ticket for three bags of balls. For some reason, this course puts their range balls into these neat nylon mesh bags, which disappear at an alarming rate, according to the head pro, a friend. We redeemed our voucher for the balls at the bag drop and walked together to the range about 75 yards away. We were almost there when Jennie said, “I can see what you mean about these wind shirts. It’s breezy here, but I’m warm—much warmer than I thought I would be.” I showed her what most people thought was the best way to practice—starting with a wedge and moving up to the longer clubs. She did as I suggested, and before long, she struck the ball like she’d been playing for years. She was a natural; I wasn’t. I could hit most shots reasonably well, but now and then. Well, let me put it this way—golf is only one of the four-letter words I’ve been known to use often on the course.
 
After the range, we walked to the putting green. It was mid-afternoon, and it was deserted. I gave her three balls and told her to have fun. Fifteen minutes later, I was just about to stroke a twenty-footer when I heard her shout, “YEAH!” She continued when I looked up. “That must have been forty feet, maybe even longer.” I left my ball to give Jennie a knuckle bump, but she jumped up to wrap her arms around my neck and pressed her lips into mine. “I’m having such fun. It’s hard to believe that less than a week ago….”
 
I stopped her there. “Let’s not talk about the past. It’s no longer important. Only your future matters now.” Leaning down, I kissed her again, but only a short one. “Back to work,” I told her as I patted her butt. It looked as good in her jeans as it did naked in my bed. We stayed until the weather turned cool, then returned to my car to stow the clubs in the trunk. A minute later, we were on our way back home.
 
Once there, I showed Jennie how to clean her clubs. “I’m sure you’ve never watched golf on TV, but if you had, you’d see that the caddie cleans the club after every shot. I play with some guys who never clean their clubs. It’s essential to keep these little grooves clean. They grip and spin the ball.  
You’ll learn more about that when you take a few lessons. I think you’ll do well. You seem to have a knack for the game. Next week, we’ll get you out onto the course.”
 
“I had a lot of fun today, Doug. Thank you so much. Running into you was the best thing that ever happened to me.” What could I say? Absolutely nothing; she kissed me then, ramming her tongue down my throat. Man, could she kiss!
 
Anyway, I washed the clubs in my laundry tub, and she dried them and returned them to their bags. We were done in about twenty minutes, and then I surprised her by removing her golf shoes and washing them. I finished by washing mine, and then we carried all her clothes into the house. I dropped them onto the bed and went to one of the spare bedrooms for extra hangers. We showered quickly—no fooling around—and returned to the car for dinner. We were both hungry, not having eaten since breakfast.
 
I debated driving back to Myrtle Beach, but I had promised Jennie we’d go to Original Benjamin’s, and I liked to think of myself as a man of my word. At one time, I would have been forced to drive down Route 17 past light after light, probably being lucky to average 30 miles per hour. About five years ago, a bypass was created—SC-31, the Carolina Bays Parkway—where the speed limit was 65, but the average speed was closer to 75.  
That was where I headed now. Thirty minutes later, I pulled into the restaurant’s massive parking lot.
 
We were greeted by a “pirate” who gave us some cheap plastic bead necklaces. Just inside the door, Jennie marveled at the model of Queen Elizabeth. It must be thirty feet long, and the detail is incredible. I gave my name to the hostess, and we moved into the bar to wait until we were called. It was January—the middle of winter—and we still had to wait. Jennie looked at the sticker I’d been given. It was on my shirt. “Yellowfin Tuna?”
 
“Yeah, that’s how they’ll call us when they have a table for us. It’s easier than calling names they’ve never heard before. Margarita?”
 
“Yes, please,” I ordered, and a few minutes later, our drinks were placed on the bar in front of us. I dropped a twenty on the bar, leaving the change as a tip. Jennie and I chatted while we drank. She was excited about our day. She had just asked me a golf question when we were called. After reporting to the cashier, we were led to our table, but not before our guide picked up a basket of hush puppies. Jennie and I sat and ate a few before going to the buffet. I always ate the same things—cold boiled peel-and-eat shrimp on my first trip, crab-stuffed mushrooms, fried shrimp, and fried scallops along with an ear of corn on my second, and several pounds of crab legs on the rest, usually eating until I could barely walk. Jennie went for salad and soup, commenting as I fed her a large shrimp with cocktail sauce on how good the vegetable beef soup was.
 
I realized then that I hadn’t considered buying Jennie a wallet or purse. She’d not need them on the road, but now they’d be essentials. Oh well, tomorrow was another day. I followed my usual routine after eating nine clusters of crab legs. Jennie wasn’t that far behind me, having eaten six.
 
We were back in the car when Jennie next spoke. “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten so much. I couldn’t believe how good the food was. Doug, thank you for the best day of my life.” I sat there silent, unbelieving that such an ordinary day had been her best.
 
Finally, after almost a minute, I responded, “I’m truly sorry, Jennie. I keep forgetting how miserable your life has been, but I want you to know I had a wonderful time, too. Running into you was just as lucky for me as for you. You have so much energy and curiosity that I get a big kick out of watching you as you experience things for the first time.” I reached across the console to take her hand in mine. I knew she was grateful, but how far did her feelings for me go? I wasn’t ready then to tell her how I felt. I knew I could easily fall in love with her, but would she feel the same about me? Only time will tell.
 
 
To be continued