West Coast Story 

West Coast Story, copyright @ 2006, by Jeff Jacobs
Publisher:  Tom Newton, Gravity Resources LLC.

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ABOUT THE BOOK:

The natural beauty of Oregon and the West Coast forms the backdrop for the story of five people whose lives reconnect thirty years after their free-spirited college days.  Tremaine Higgins is the gifted painter whose life is at a crossroads after his long marriage has ended.  Cathleen Herald is the woman he loved, now a respected judge whose life and marriage become embroiled in scandal and tragedy.  Dabney Griswold is the woman he could have loved, now a social worker carrying a lifelong secret.  Raymond Saunders is the talented director whose own secret revealed itself with shattering consequences.  And Andrew Kramer is the stockbroker riding the wave of the late-nineties surge, numbing his way through life to forget the horrible aftermath of the Vietnam War.

It is the spring of 1999 and Tremaine is traveling to the Oregon coast at Cathleen’s invitation, about to see his life upended, only to have it further complicated when he later travels to San Francisco to visit Dabney.  Meanwhile, Ray must endure a son’s pent-up anger unleashed on a stormy L.A. Father’s Day, and Andy’s demons come to life with chilling consequences on a hot Fourth of July.  And when they all unite later in the summer on the Oregon coast, Tremaine, Cathleen, and Dabney confront each other in a climactic showdown.

Stretching from the late sixties and the Vietnam War to the millennium, West Coast Story brings together people and events familiar to the generation living those times and confronting the big issues—race, gender, sexuality, family, and culture.  But it is also a simple tale of love, friendship, passion, jealousy, and dishonesty in which deep universal emotions rise to the surface revealing themselves in unsettling ways.

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Author’s note:  Pioneer Point Country Club is loosely based on Willamette Valley Country Club in Canby, Oregon.  Andy is a stockbroker who has PTSD from Viet Nam. 

EXCERPT (Golf scene, of course…)

He had an incident where he snapped on the Fourth of July.  Cathleen is a judge who is embroiled in a lawsuit involving a fraudulent condominium development.  The action takes place in late July of 1999.

Pioneer Point Country Club meandered across a mostly flat piece of land overlooking the river upstream from the city.  Truly in the country, away from the snooty older clubs and upscale new courses around the city, it had been developed in the early sixties just as golf was starting to capture the attention of the man on the street thanks to television and Arnold Palmer.  A no-nonsense layout of almost seven thousand yards, it had stayed pretty much unchanged when Andy joined in the late eighties.  But in the prosperous nineties when golf skyrocketed and younger members starting coming in, the old guys got pushed aside and the course was modernized with a new clubhouse, better irrigation, and the layout toughened to deflect improving technology.

Andy resisted most of it, he could still outdrive their metal clubs with his old persimmons.  Taking a club and smashing a little ball, the letting out of aggression.  He just took the club back, swiveled those big hips, and let it fly with all the power he could muster.  The boys called it the “caddie swing.”  But he was a master on the greens, great touch, a ten-handicap.  Not bad for someone who never practiced.

Not far from his old hometown, Andy enjoyed driving through the familiar country of his boyhood, past the filbert orchards, the dahlia farms, the Christmas tree farms, even taking the ferry once in a while when he felt particularly nostalgic.  Saturday mornings he’d had the same game for years.  Golfers are like that, fastidious in their habits.  Once they find their groove they don’t want changes.  Don’t mess with the early morning tee-off time, they like predictability, jokes, birdies,  and cold beer.  The same group of guys, Ken Nakiyama, Tim Peyton, Ralph Driessen, the same Slazenger ball, the same game of hearts afterwards, make a day of it, a routine he looked forward to all week.  Andy had the last kid in high school, the days of soccer, football, basketball, baseball, chauffeuring between the school activities were gone and the men enjoyed their empty nests.  And the wives came to tolerate this primal instinct of the male species for camaraderie and competition.  Truth is they liked getting their husbands out of the house on Saturdays, no sports, no hassles, just a nice quiet house all to themselves.

When Andy arrived, the first groups were just teeing off and they were still mowing some of the greens.  They cut them twice a day this time of year.  Tim was on the practice green putting, Ken and Ralph were hitting balls.

“Morning, Tim.”

“Morning.”  He barely looked up, canning a ten-footer.  Tim was a serious golfer, worked hard on his game, and was always tinkering with his swing.  “Looks like it’s going to be a hot one.”   It was warm for seven o’clock in the morning but they’d be done by noon, in the shade of the clubhouse for the hot afternoon.

“Did you bring your checkbook?”  Tim continued, shaking his ball from the cup.  “The hole looks as big as a bucket.”

“Aren’t we partners today?” asked Andy.

“Nope.  You’re stuck with Ralph.”  Tim was grinning as he lined up his balls for the next hole.

Andy looked toward the practice tee.  “What’s the problem?”

“A severe hangover.  He and Linda did their thirtieth high school reunion last night.  I guess it was ugly.”

“Great.  And here I was such a good boy.  Looks like I’ll be holding up the team today.  Hope my back can take it.”

“Speaking of which, how is the back?” asked Tim.

Andy paused, remembering he had used his back as an excuse for missing a few games after the snap.  Funny, he was back to golf before he was back to work, reminded him of that old joke about the guy who was interrupted by a passing funeral procession while putting, looked up and placed his hand across his heart.  When his partner asked him what he was doing, he replied, “She was a good wife.”

“Better.  I’ll get my shoes on and join you for a few putts.”

Andy was lacing his shoes in front of his locker when Ralph wandered in and headed for the urinal.  He unzipped his Bermudas and drooped his head Andy’s way.

“Christ, I’m getting too old for this,” said Ralph, laying his head back.

“I heard.  How’s Linda?”

“Worse.  Said she wasn’t getting out of bed all day.”

Andy finished, grabbed a sleeve of balls, closed his locker, and joined Ralph.  He was still at it when Andy zipped up his shorts.

“Can’t shut it off, huh?” kidded Andy.

Ralph’s head jerked forward and without zipping his Bermudas he dashed into a nearby stall and puked his guts out.  Andy tried not to laugh as he returned to his locker to put in his keys.  He heard Ralph opening the stall door, coughing, and running water at the sink before laboring around the corner.

“Have you got any aspirin or Excedrin?” Ralph pleaded.  Andy had to laugh to himself, this was so unlike his firm’s business lawyer, usually such a straight-laced guy.

“I’d recommend a Bloody Mary instead,” said Andy, handing Ralph a bottle of aspirin.

The ceremonial flip of the tee on the first hole gave Andy and Ralph the honors.  Golf is so gentlemanly that way.  When you get to go first on a tee you have honors, and your opponents stand back in graceful deference, practically bowing as you stride onto your elevated dais.  You bend down to insert your tee as if to acknowledge the accolades, stand back and peer down the fairway as if you are scanning the audience, then go into whatever routine you have developed after years and years on the circuit.  In Ralph’s case, leading his team the front side, it was a gingerly shuffle that carried him between the tee markers, and when he addressed his ball, rocking a little more than usual, he noticed he was in front of the tee markers, a golfer’s taboo.  He had to retee it.

Once Ralph settled himself, waggling a couple of times as he always did, his eyes narrowing, Andy could see he was headed into the zone.  Ralph was never more beautiful than when he swung a golf club.  He could explain to Andy the intricacies of some SEC regulation, dazzling him with his astounding powers of reasoning, his proper pronunciation of legal terminology, the utter brilliance of his lawyerly mind.  But it was nothing compared to the way he took it back with his left side, keeping his left arm arrow-straight, tucking his right arm into his body as if it was glued to his chest, rotating those slim narrow hips so sensually, bending the left knee slightly while pivoting on the right as the club slid elegantly to parallel, then pushing with his right side and coming through with the club face perfectly square at impact, standing there after the follow-through with his hands high, still as a statue, balanced with the precision of a ballerina en pointe.  All his acumen at the law paled in comparison to the refinement he displayed on the tee, carefully honed from years of steady instruction.  And it all looked so easy, so smooth, good golfers knowing it is all in the timing, in Andy’s case more a matter of timing his jump.  Only this day, Ralph promptly duck-hooked his ball out of bounds.

A couple of snickers from Ken and Tim, Andy offered encouragement.  “Slow ‘er down just a little, pard.”

Ralph teed it up again and adjusted his glove, stared down the fairway, and took a deep breath to try to compose himself.  Same routine, a couple of waggles, and he let fly again.  This time it was straight down the middle with his characteristic slight left draw.  He retrieved his tee and walked back to the cart as Andy stepped forward.  “That a partner, much better.”

Andy stuck in his tee and adjusted the ball so the number was up.  “Well, what are partners for?”  He lined up the ball on his left heel, squared himself, swayed back, and let it rip.  The ball exploded off the tee in a high trajectory but the club face was open on impact and quickly faded to the right and into the rough.

“No problem,” said Andy.  “The green opens up from there.”  He joined Ralph who was slumped in their cart.  Given his condition, Ralph had insisted on a cart, Andy joined him, usually he carried his clubs.  Real golfers walk.

Ken and Tim split the fairway and they were off, Ken carrying his clubs, Tim pulling a cart, Ralph and Andy leading the way as they followed the cart path down the fairway.

Ralph was all over the place on the front nine and although Andy was only three over going into the ninth hole, they were eight down.  The ninth was a par five he could sometimes reach in two, and they decided to cough, one of those cute terms golfers use to indicate to the other team they are doubling the bet.  At eight down, if they could eke out two winning birdies, instead of winning four points they could win eight and even the bet.  The back nine would then determine who won the eighteen.  Golfers are very precise mathematicians.

All drove in the fairway on nine, Andy definitely letting out shaft and passing all of them on the fly.  The hole was four hundred ninety-five yards and he stood over his ball contemplating a one iron with just over two hundred yards left.  He loved that club and with traps right and left he felt he could control it better than a fairway wood.

Their opponents came up short but would have easy chips to have a good look at birdie putts.  Ralph hooked his into the trap on the left side and would need to get up and down for his birdie, a “sandy.”  Andy took a good bounce in front of the green, and rolled onto the front edge.  Eagle putt.  Unfortunately, the pin was tucked back right, the green a huge two-tiered piece of real estate, and from the bottom level where his ball stopped he was looking at a ninety-footer up and over the slope  He’d be lucky not to three-putt.

“So, did you see the headlines this morning?” asked Ralph as they wound their way down the fairway.

“No, I haven’t read the paper yet,” replied Andy.

“Things are really heating up on that lawsuit,” related Ralph.  “They’ve subpoenaed several lawyers for depositions.  And that judge who just got appointed to the Supreme Court.  Pretty juicy stuff.”

Andy had a client who had bought a unit in a posh development on the coast and knew a lawyer in Ralph’s office who had also bought one so he was watching it closely.  He had asked Ralph to keep him informed.

Andy was stunned, turning to Ralph.  “How the hell was she involved?”

Ralph turned to him.  “You know of her?”

“I went to college with her.”

“Really?  Did you hear her husband blew his brains out?”

“Yeah, I read that, couldn’t believe it.”

“Well, I guess her husband was up to his eyeballs on the project and she may have known something too.  Apparently, she presided over another lawsuit against the same engineers involving similar conduct on another project.  May have done some favors for the engineers.”

Andy couldn’t believe it, not Cathleen.  “You’d think if there was any truth to it the governor would never have appointed her.  Aren’t they pretty thorough in the selection process?”

“Maybe.  But there’s a lot of politics involved and he was getting a lot of pressure from the women’s groups.  Who knows how deeply they looked into it.  She’s really on the hot seat now.”

They had reached the green and Andy sat in the cart thinking of poor Cathleen while Ralph grabbed his sand wedge and disappeared into the deep bunker.  Tim and Ken had already hit their approaches, Tim made the top tier and was looking at a twenty-foot birdie putt while Ken was just below the slope with about a forty-footer.  Cathleen must be beside herself, thought Andy, you’d never know it from their conversation.  Probably because she’s innocent.  Of course she is.

An explosion of sand and Ralph’s ball arching high toward the hole brought him back to the reality of the game.  Ralph had judged the long bunker shot perfectly, the ball bit dead in its tracks on the upper tier ten feet from the hole.

Andy clapped.  “Bravo, partner!”  He realized he’d better get down to his ball, he was next up and it would take all his putting prowess to get it close.

Andy marked his ball and brushed off a few flecks of grass, replaced it carefully ahead of the marker with the number up and the “Slazenger” pointed directly at the hole, one of those funny little superstitions golfers believe will make a difference.  Ralph was tending the pin, pulling it up and down so it clanked against the metal cup.

“If you can’t see me, maybe you can hear me.  Knock it in, pard,” he yelled.

Sure, thought Andy, I’ll be lucky to get it within ten feet from here.  All serious, he stalked the green sizing up the putt, trying to figure where he should aim on the slope to catch the right break to the hole.  Tim and Ken were standing together, talking quietly.  When finally he addressed his ball and took his stance, their talking stopped.  Never were men so courteous as when they were on a golf course.

Andy brushed the putter through a couple of times.  Ralph stood perfectly still holding the flag in his right hand so that his shadow did not fall across the cup.  He stared down at the trusty bull’s eye, the only putter he had ever used, had it since college.  Looking at the distant pin, the slope, back at his ball he made a long takeaway, a firm stroke, the meat of his putter struck the ball and it began its long journey in the general direction of the hole.

The ball caught the slope and veered to the right about the line Andy had gauged.  Speed was good, the hill slowed it just right, and as it fed to the hole Ralph removed the pin and waited.  Andy had already started the long walk up the green but stopped dead in his tracks when he realized the ball was headed straight at the cup.  As Ralph jumped in excitement, the pin in both hands parallel to the ground, the ball struck the cup, did a three-sixty, and stopped less than an inch away.

Andy crumpled to his knees at the foiled eagle.

“Jesus, I thought it was in!” exclaimed Ralph.

Andy pulled himself up, caught Tim and Ken standing together, shaking their heads in tandem.  “Great lag, the rest of that’s good,” said Tim drolly, but not without a sense of relief.

“I never get any breaks,” said Andy, picking up his gimmie bird.  Front-nine score:  thirty eight.

When Ken and Tim failed to make their birdies, it was up to Ralph.  And he came through, his ten-footer found the back of the cup.  Their two birdies doubled evened the match and left the other team muttering to themselves.

After hot dogs and beers at the turn, a Diet Coke for Ralph, things got pretty competitive on the back nine.  Back and forth, Ralph finally started to hit a few shots.  By the last hole, he and Andy were one down.  The entire round would be decided on the eighteenth, the monster, a par four of four hundred thirty-two yards up a hill and down to a huge green bunkered on both sides.  Hell of a finishing hole, and their five dollars on the back, another five for the eighteen, rode on it.

Ralph and Ken came up short in the valley in front of the green on their second shots.  No advantage there.  Now it was Andy’s turn.  He had driven into the trees on the right and figured the one-iron might just do the trick, keeping the ball down to thread the gap between two pines.  And he was right, his low bullet shot straight for the green, pummeled into the upslope in front, popped up, and rolled back fifteen feet short of the green.  Not bad considering where he was.

“Nice recovery, pard,” said Ralph, walking over to get a club.

On the top of the hill, straight down the middle, Tim was bearing down on the green.  He flicked grass into the air to check the breeze, there was none, and eyed the yardage marker.  He seemed indecisive in his club selection, going back to his bag twice.

Finally, he settled on a club, took aim, and arched a high one over the valley that finished on the front edge about thirty fee short of the pin.  He didn’t seem that happy, but Andy knew when you made the monster in two, it was a good day.  Their work was cut out.

“You just hold Ken, I think I’ve got Tim’s number, got a good feeling about this one,” said Andy confidently, speeding down the hill next to a smiling Ralph.  He knew his partner’s short game.

Ken and Ralph played their pitches about the same distance away and the stage was set tor Andy’s chip.  He knew he had to get it close and hope Tim would miss the birdie.  Andy walked behind the hole to check the line to where Tim was marking his ball, then jiggled the pin to straighten it, looking at Tim.  “Just in case,” he said.

Returning to his lie, a bit fluffy, Andy took his time, flipping the wedge a couple of times to get the feel, walking up the slope, measuring where he wanted to land on the green.  Plenty of green to work with, just a matter of how far it would run.

Now he was ready and stood over his ball for one final look.  Taking his stance, hands ahead of the ball, he took it back barely breaking his wrists, arced the club head through, and scooped the ball cleanly onto the green.  The ball bounced twice before settling into its trek across the putting surface.

This is the time for golfers when the game takes on epic proportions.  It can be a Greek tragedy or a Shakespearean history, triumphant or devastating, ignoble or exalting.  All eyes are riveted on a single object, a little white ball silhouetted against a patch of green earth, the chances it will disappear into a small hole remote.  But golfers are nothing if not optimistic, one shot, one stroke of brilliance, one unlikelihood, will keep them coming back, the drive toward perfection unattainable yet worthy of the effort.  Everyone knows it is a silly game.  Somehow, though, magnified, glorified by a pastoral setting of grass, trees, water, sand, and sky, it is irresistible.  Throw in the drama, the emotion, the breathlessness as you await the outcome of one stroke of club to ball, and you have everything that defines us a species.

When it was over, when the unlikely occurred, the denouement unraveling in glorious splendor, two golfers rejoicing, two distressing, Andy kissed his ball and stood next to the pin looking up the fairway.

“Let’s see,” he said, prolonging the moment.  “One,” motioning to his first shot, “two,” looking to his second, “three,” down at the cup.  “Three! Had a three, myself.”  Golfers are never at a loss to inject humor into pathos.

The outcome was all but decided.  When they were on the deck at the clubhouse afterwards sipping their cold ones, no one remembered Tim scuffing his approach putt five feet short and missing the comebacker for a bogey, Ken and Tim matching each other with bogeys.  Andy had had one of those days golfers dream about, thirty-eight/thirty-seven—-seventy-five—-best round of the year, and his team was victorious.  His beer was going down real smooth.  They ordered burgers, a deck of cards, more beers and before long their golf game was history, the bet had been squared, the plates cleared, and they settled into a friendly game of hearts in a comfortable heat under the shade of the umbrella perched overhead, nothing in Andy’s mind but the pleasurable tranquility of the then and there.  So he thought.

It was meant to be an innocent prank, one of those wild hairs boys sometimes have without really thinking of the consequences.  Never mind they were supposed to be cleaning clubs or retrieving range balls, it was time to break for lunch, and one of them just happened to bring along a string of firecrackers in his lunch sack left over from the Fourth.  You’re crazy, man, Willis will have our butts.  No, no, we just do it out there, no one’s around, it’ll be fun.  Wake up those old fogies.  They were standing just inside the storage area where bags were kept and clubs were cleaned, next to where the electric carts were parked in neat rows, underneath the deck.  The one with the firecrackers peeked around the corner to make sure the coast was clear, the other covered his own butt with mild protests but he didn’t really want to miss this one, and in the flick of an instant sparks were flying from the wick leading to the string of firecrackers placed on the blacktop under the deck.

Hit it!  Always the same, marching in a long column through tall grass, M-16s clenched in sweaty hands waist-high, safeties unlocked.  Cat Man always on point, he was the quickest, Eagle Joe, the chief, great eyes, pulling drag.  Don’t think, don’t talk, don’t whistle, don’t even breathe, said the Lieutenant, just react.  And when enemy fire came you hit it, your legs dropped out from under you as if they weren’t there and you emptied your magazine, popped in another and emptied it, kept firing until the Lieutenant gave the word.  Fuck the mosquitoes, fuck the creepers grabbing at you, the bugs, the leeches, the snakes, the fucking red soil that never came off and turned to stew in the monsoons.  Fuck it all.  Twelve months, you just wanted to stay alive.  Hit it!

 When Andy dove under the table, the beers, the cards, the half-smoked cigars cradled in ashtrays, all went flying, and it’s a wonder the table itself didn’t go, top-heavy with the umbrella dangling above it, as hard as he hit the base.  Thing moved a good three feet, though, right into Ralph’s gut, he was more surprised than hurt.  Tim had been pulling on his cigar, miraculously stayed dry, Ralph and Ken were soaked.  But no one moved, stunned by what they observed, overwhelmed by the stale smell of spilled beer and powder fumes, cigar and firecracker smoke, the other guys at the other tables staring in silence.  At their feet was Andy, curled up like a little baby in the fetal position, his head buried in his arms, sobbing incoherently.

It’s always there just below the surface.

Copyright 2024, Jeff Jacobs