Dream Me(9)

A few minutes later, I was beginning to doubt the whole thing had ever happened.

“I guess you can be on your way now, ma’am,” the small guard said with a nod.

“Actually I’m here to see Pat Fremont. He’s my father.”

“Pat, the new golf pro?” The guard opened his eyes wide. “You know how to get to the golf shop?”

I shook my head, which resulted in him pulling out a map that looked like one of those placemats they give to kids in the restaurants along with a box of crayons. The guard, who introduced himself as Earl, charted my path with a red marker.

“Not too far,” he said. “Just down the road a bit.” He looked at me somewhat skeptically. I must have been a sorry sight by then even though my clothes were already dry from the soaking they’d just received. “I can call security to take you there. Put your bike in the back of one of our trucks.”

I’d come this far and wasn’t about to give up. “I’ll be okay. Thanks, Earl.”

“You’re a tough one, airnch you?” It was sort of a cross between aren’t and ain’t. “What’s your name?”

“Babe.” I waited for the reaction I was sure would come. I could never introduce myself without some feedback about my name.

“Babe, wait just a second if you don’t mind.” Earl bent over and rummaged around under the counter of the guard house.

When he straightened up he was holding a camera. “Mind if I take a picture? I’m kind of a shutterbug . . . hobby of mine.”

Well, the truth was I did mind a bit but our family had befriended a lot of Earls over the years. The men and women who spent their lives in the tiny guard houses of resorts across the country. They were people who could make your life easier. They’d guide you to the best and cheapest restaurants, accept packages for you when you couldn’t be home, pull strings to get the cable guy out to your house faster, give you the lowdown on the club members—who to avoid and who you could count on for the big Christmas tips. Guys like Earl played an important role, so you never wanted to alienate them if you could help it

“Not at all,” I said, straddling my ancient bike and turning to face the camera with my cheesiest Hollywood smile.

__________

I followed the map to the marina. Once there, I had the option to continue riding on the street or taking the narrow boardwalk where yachts—which cost more than most people make in a lifetime—were tied to docks with strong, thick ropes. The boardwalk seemed much more interesting, but the wide gaps between slats of wood made it impossible for me to ride. I got off my bike and pushed it along the boardwalk while checking out boats that looked more like mansions than sea-going vessels.

Crews were busy on most of the boats, scrubbing decks, hosing down the sides, vacuuming. I knew a yacht was always kept ready for the whim of its owner and it took a lot of work from a lot of people to keep them that way. I’d seen them before on another coast with other names. The crews, mostly young men, were part of my world—the people who made things run smoothly for the pleasure of the super-rich. We needed the jobs that paid for our food and rent, and put clothes on our backs. For those lucky enough to play inside the gates of the Crystal Point Yacht and Country Club, the rest of us were just background noise. But most of us knew the truth about what little happiness those expensive toys actually delivered. We didn’t desire them—what good would that do? That lifestyle was a lottery not many people were lucky enough to win.

When the marina came to an end, I climbed back on my bike and continued on the main road which ran through Crystal Point, connecting its waterfront custom homes to all points of pleasure, wrapping them together with a silky black bow. The marina gave way to red clay tennis courts and Olympic sized pools. Velvety green acres of fairways lined the road on either side. I saw the main clubhouse with its white stucco walls and turquoise tiled roof. Just across the parking lot was a much smaller, but similarly styled building: the golf clubhouse. That would be Dad’s kingdom for as long as he could hold on to his job.

__________

“Babe, honey! How’d you get here?” Apparently Mom hadn’t called ahead to prepare him, but my generally messy appearance must have given him a clue as to how I got there.

“I rode the bike.”

“All the way here? What a champ!” I could tell he was proud of me. Many parents might have been horrified.

“Yup. Thought I’d come get the truck and explore the town.”

“I’m just about to go out for a lesson, but here’s the key. Make sure you’re here to pick me up by six and we’ll throw the bike in the back of the truck.”

__________

Lucky for me, I could drive a stick shift. The truck’s air conditioner didn’t exactly churn out cold air, but at least it was coolish.

On my way out the gate, I saw Earl and remembered that Mom had asked me to pick up some fish for dinner.

“That seems a more sensible way to travel.” He smiled approvingly at the truck.

“I was just wondering, Earl, where’s a good place to buy fresh fish?”

“Nuggins is the best,” he offered without hesitation.

“Nuggins . . . like N-U-G-G-I-N-S?”

“Nah. It’s Vietnamese. N-G-U-Y-E-N apostrophe S. Nuggins.”

I didn’t know how to pronounce it myself, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t Nuggins. Earl gave me some directions about it being just down the road a bit, not far, you make a left here and a right there, something about a bridge, and you can’t miss it.