aRISKocracy

aRISKocracy

The Pursuit by Christopher Lubrano

CHAPTER 1

I was living in Pompano Beach, Florida, working at the Biltmore – Miami and training to take on the golf world. I would drive for forty-five minutes in what was called “the Exploder,” which we’ve had since high school, up and down the beaches of South Florida via I-95. Waking up at 4:30 a.m. to be at the golf course by 6 a.m. to start my shift. The Exploder’s back seat packed with golf clubs, shoes, clothes, dirty socks and empty packs of smokes. Soon as I ate lunch and then clocked out at 1 p.m., I would change clothes in the parking lot, grab my golf bag and shoes, and turn around back towards the clubhouse to practice. I would squeeze every ounce of daylight out the day to stay out on the course peacefully and uninterrupted, practicing for about six hours or so daily. Then I would head back to the parking lot to change into my gym clothes, hit the gym for about an hour most of the time and then turn back up I-95 north to the Atlantic/Commercial exit.

On work and practice days by the time I got done with everything and on the road it would be about nine, maybe ten. I would be famished by the time I passed the art deco pastel lights of downtown Miami. So I would hold off by smoking cigarettes or a joint in the car sitting in traffic to almost South Lauderdale. I would usually recap my day and figure out what I was going to do later that night before I had to wake up at 4:30 a.m. again. With the amount of tips I made minus gas for the next trip south and smokes was my usual dinner budget. The selection consistently consisted of either a sandwich or a prepackaged meal from my local grocery store. So I’m really not sure what day it was I just remember it was the early of March 2010 and my friends were coming to visit in a couple days. I stopped at my usual Publix on Commercial and AIA and cruised the aisles looking for dinner. Since I had an abbreviated kitchen in my long stay motel room on the beach. Owned by an old college buddy of mine still hanging around in South Florida after moving his family and friends from Michigan. I had neither proper cooking utensils or time to waste cooking, so I selected mostly precooked food, packaged snacks and anything immediately edible. That day’s choice, spinach and walnut salad, dressing on the side, no fork included in a covered plastic ready to eat bowl.

Unlocking the door, dropping my golf clubs and gym bag, I opened my express dinner. After a couple of bites, satisfying my empty stomach temporarily, I placed it in ever so gently on the top rack of my fridge. Walking outside into the quintessential motel courtyard with a cigarette in my mouth and no shirt on. I fired up the grill and went to my buddy’s place twenty feet away. With a somewhat startling Kramer-like entrance, everyone turned from the motel apartment counter-bar, smiled, and continued on with “motel” conversation. There was chicken and steak cooking on the grill. Doors were open, motelers walking about, smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, yelling at each other from across the courtyard. I grabbed my salad out of the fridge, a plastic fork out of my collection in the drawer next to the sink. Walking to the grill and placing my salad on the picnic table made of bathroom tiles and base from what looked like a birdbath. I collected the chicken and steak from the frill and tossed it in the pan and brought it into my Adam’s place. Everyone dug in and I grabbed some of both and placed it on top of my salad. Twenty minutes later food coma starts to set in and I walked back to my place and grabbed a smoke and sat on my steps. As I’m smoking I start to get a little indigestion, which usually never happens to me.

So, for me this is a bit strange going through stomach pain because my stomach can handle anything. I never really get sick. I puke when I get shit faced, pretty often, I guess. Otherwise any dinner of any kind always works: raw, cooked, whatever goes down without a fight. Deciding to lay down I threw on the TV, and chilled out digesting my dinner. Every minute that goes by, the pain progresses and within like ten minutes I was fucked. Right then, my crew gave me a knock to say, “what’s up” and everyone is done for the night. When I’m uncomfortable it sucks, but I can’t sleep when I’m in pain. There are many more stories of me not sleeping but this is by far the worst. I tried taking a shit, farting, drinking water, and smoking weed. Nothing helped at all.

I’m not sure what time it was but it was late when I started sweating, like take-a-fucking-shower sweating, the kind of sweat that pours out of you in a sauna. I’m worried, restless, and scared, and then I felt like I was going to vomit, fast. I waddled to the toilet just in time to make it to the bowl. I threw up so hard I felt my chest expand, and my insides come out, hard. Really fucking hard, almost hard enough to come out of my nose. Oh, shit! All of a sudden one more just as bad. On my knees over the toilet, I did it again, even harder, and it hurt so much my body hurt after it was all done. Fuck, really? Fucking, really, dude? So it’s probably five a.m. and I’m in serious pain. All I remember is being scared, alone, and without health insurance. Fucked.

Adam and I are the early birds, waking up at four or five a.m. daily. He went to the gym as a trainer and I hit Miami and the golf course. I knew he was up and by this time I was hyperventilating because I was in so much pain and scared. I knocked on his door, breathing erratically and writhing in pain. He opened, and I said, “You gotta take me to the hospital.” He took one look at me and said, “OK?” with a touch of confusion.

I get in his truck and I’m dying, moaning, groaning, breathing heavily like an asthmatic, trying to tell him what happened just hours ago. By this time I had started hyperventilating, my arms got frozen against my body, panting, all ten fingers mangled up against my chest, and Adam starts laughing at me.

We get to a red light, I yell, “Blow it!” and “Go! Go!” It hurts, that’s all I think, it hurts so much. At this time I’m only thinking about my stomach. Navigating through the Florida parking lot maze to the entrance, it’s bad, really bad. I walk in and immediately throw up gross, yellow bile and find a row of chairs that I apparently just rolled around on because I was unable to remain still. Adam is now pleading, yes, pleading with the nurse to help me, but instead of coming to my aide, they just kicked over a bucket for me to vomit in. Awesome, thanks, dicks! Oh, by the way, there was only one other person waiting. Adam had to leave for work and, after what felt like hours I actually got onto a gurney. So from midnight of the prior evening until, let’s say six or seven a.m. I’ve been in major hurt. As I lie now on the gurney I’m trying to relax and convince myself I was OK and safe, but given the situation I highly doubted it.

Hours after laying on the gurney and moaning in pain I finally get some attention after what seemed like forever from the nurse who injected me with morphine and my body after twelve hours or so, relaxes, legs straightening out, arms falling to my side and able to rest on my back. The nurse asks for my name and Social Security Number first, of course. Then, they start in on what drugs I’m on. The answer every time was nothing. But they were convinced I was a heroin addict. Really? I’ve done enough drugs to know that heroin is bad, so, really? Fucking, really? They took blood sample after blood sample. X-ray, sonogram, and still they have no clue what is wrong with me. All alone, no cell phone service, no way to contact anyone, even the nurse staff. I peeked up at the ceiling, licked my dry, salted lips for hours because of hospital policy, I wasn’t allowed to drink anything at all, ever, just in case I had to go into surgery. After about sixteen hours in the emergency room, nothing is wrong with me apparently. So I get three bottles of pills and stomach meds and have a bad one, see ya later. Oh, and by the way, look for the bill in the mail.

CHAPTER 2

So I get home and I’m in a daze. I still can’t remember anything that happened between leaving the hospital and the next night. All I know is that I had to pick up my friends from home at the airport and bring them back to the motel to party. I scooped them up, showed them the Biltmore, got some weed, and drove back up to Fort Lauderdale. So I explain as much as I could to them, what happened, I couldn’t work and now broke because I had to buy drugs without insurance, maybe $100-150. Without question, our rendezvous has been compromised significantly. This is when the story gets crazy. So now I can’t work because of the emergency room visit and my dear friends are in town to party, and I can’t even drink, and in March, in Florida, you want to drink and go out like the thousands of other spring breakers. This was no good. As far as I can remember, I couldn’t eat anything, so I drank coffee and smoked cigarettes while I contemplated which kidney to sell to pay for my little stint in the E.R. I usually took all my meds in the early morning because I couldn’t sleep and just patiently waited until 7 a.m.to pop some pills. Not sleeping, sober, is the worst. I wasn’t even thinking of anything because my insides were ruling the thoughts in my brain. At about maybe four p.m. everyday after the E.R. I would get a splitting headache, feel nauseous and that would continue all night. As each day mixed into the next without food or sleep, I started noticing my ribs a little more. I was one-eighty with six per cent body fat before the ER, a couple of days after the E.R. I probably weighed one-forty to one-fifty. Countless hours on the course and in the gym wasted because of a shitty five-dollar salad.

I didn’t quite understand why I wasn’t feeling better and not eating. It became clear when next day the whole crew went to the beach for some Dennis Rodman Volleyball Tournament party. Still not drinking, I sat on the beach in ninety-degree weather wearing jeans, two t-shirts, a long sleeve, and a hoodie and I was freezing. This is where the anti-fun began. After hours of drunken debauchery and sightseeing college kids passing out face down in the sand, I actually felt so bad I had to leave. So with a packed Durango with music pumping down A1A it got worse and worse. Sweating, hot and cold, headache and still stomach pain, I basically crawled to my place and jammed four Advil in my mouth. I’m scared now, really scared. Am I sick? Is it the flu? Or worse? I got underneath all the covers with all my clothes on, still freezing and Angela walks in with a thermometer and put it in my mouth as she sat next to me patiently waiting for the beep. The temperature reads one hundred and two point one and I stayed in bed the rest of the day and night. Angela who was with Brian at the time was crucified for helping me with jealousy and rage.

From dusk to dawn, I didn’t sleep one minute because of how awful I felt sweating like a whore in church and popping Advil like Skittles to curb my fever. The next day I was not much better but I finally after now four days actually ate a meal. It was bar pizza at an ocean bar where one of our crew used to play every Monday night. It felt good and I started to feel a bit better so I smoked a cigarette looking out at the ocean when I felt the initial pain that would cost me one hundred thousand dollars. Sharp, acute, and not very distinguishable was a slight painful kind of itch in the dead center of my chest. Was it the cigarette? Was it my heart? I started to worry internally as everyone around me was enjoying the night out. I stretched, drank my water, and the pain progressed to being fairly constant.

Lauderdale-by-the-sea is this little beach town just south of Pompano with bars and restaurants tightly knit inside a couple blocks. We all walked around the corner to this Irish Pub with Red Sox gear all over the place. Sipping water and grabbing a chair, I tried my hardest to fight the pain that started just hours earlier, smiling, chatting, and keeping my game face on, I socialized, if it weren’t for the situation brewing in my chest, I would have had a great time. Fuck! Whispering it over and over to myself as I quietly winced in pain. Fever still kicking, chest pain, and in a chair, I catch eyes with a gorgeous blonde across the bar. Oblivious and in pain I look back and she is now staring at me. “That’s weird”, I said to myself, and as I looked behind to check whether she was looking at something behind me. That awkward surprise that, yes dude, she’s looking at you. Moments later my buddy’s sister comes up to me with a big smile and tells me that this blonde chick cornered her in the bathroom to ask her to hook her up with me. Weird. Currently, I was on sabbatical from girls and relationships or anything that involved actual effort on my part. Then she walked around the bar to fetch my newest fan. She was fucking hot as shit! I really cannot believe she wanted me. Now insecure and shy, we talk about New England, her being a Masshole and her disgust with the kind of people in South Florida. After basically no time at all we exchanged numbers and my masculine victory became thwarted by the pain hindering my life.

Still not drinking of course, I had to be the designated driver, so I wrangled up the crew and drove us back to the Motel. By now it was around two a.m. By three a.m., everyone was down for the counter, but not I. My chest was now on threat level orange, so much so that when I laid down I couldn’t get comfortable no matter which position I tried (not like I had been for the past three nights). From around three to six a.m., I was more scared for myself than I had ever been before. The hours of my struggle were during the desolate part of the night when nobody is awake, and I was alone. Confused about what was happening to me and why my chest was hurting so much, I just wanted to cry loud enough for someone to hear me, but I couldn’t squeeze out a tear, let alone a whimper. I waited about four hours until the sun was up and my chest hurt so much that I had to wake someone up. For me, in cases like these meant that it was serious enough to ruin someone’s morning. Oh, fuck! Oh my God! No, no, no! I said out loud as I had difficulty walking. Difficulty walking, my pain was so severe. If anyone can relate or understand how much pain one has to be in to struggle taking steps. There is no comparison. It’s extremely painful.

CHAPTER 3

Knock, knock, knock. Nothing. Silence. Knock! Keeling over, unable to raise my arms or speak loud enough for someone to hear my cries, panic almost sets in, but I know I will have to take care of myself if nobody opens the door of my buddy’s room. Knock! Knock! Help! Please, help! Then my buddy’s sister opens the door in a dazed hangover, because it had only been a couple of hours since I had seen her last. HA! Wow, remembering the hours before everyone’s bedtime. We were in my room, I was hurting bad, but not revealing my pain, she kisses me. Yeah, what the fuck, basically I was dying and she was clueless to the severity of the moment. I denied the sex being forced upon me, proof of my pain and fear.

“We have to go! You have to take me back to the emergency room!” I said with a voice she had never heard before. “What? Why?” she replied. “My chest hurts.” Being a nurse, my buddy’s sister was even baffled, as she had basically been keeping tabs on me since I had picked them up. Handing her the keys and slowly walking behind her, I knew that this was really serious. Am I going to die? Is this a heart attack? Why do I have a fever and why does the actual center of my chest hurt enough to keep me from walking? Where is my heart? Close? Is it my lung? Fear, straight fear, brought me to hand her my keys and call my parents “Mom, I have to go back to the hospital,” I said with short breaths.

Panic sets in now firmly after I told my mother what was happening. I remember thinking, it hurts, it hurts, and the only thing on my mind was getting to the hospital. She dropped me off at the E.R. I was at four days before and walked in and told the nurse, “My chest hurts.” This time there was action. I got a wheelchair and a bed almost immediately as the hospital’s eyes widened with dollar signs. Laying in extreme pain on the gurney, the same nurse that I saw the first time recognizes me and says, “Why does your chest hurt? You’re too young to have symptoms of heart trouble.” Heart trouble! My brain stumbles over the words. Oh, fuck! Fuck! Please no! I screamed in my head. honestly twenty-eight year old me, heart trouble? At this moment I remember thinking that, I’m going to need to be stronger if this changes your life in any way, you are going to have to be strong.

I guess this is where it starts to get crazy. Maybe it’s better to say, “blurred.” I was in the E.R., in serious pain. So here comes the blood work, then the morphine, then fever. As it happened it was like a vivid dream, the combination of everything made it seem lucid. As I laid in the gurney in ridiculous pain… it’s difficult to describe except to those who also have stories of broken or cracked ribs. Pain, real pain in the center of my chest, it was like the first time I saw the scene in Saving Private Ryan when the German soldier slowly puts the Rambo knife into the Jewish-American soldier’s heart. It was only in one little part of my chest, right where you think your heart would be. Shit, it was so close that all the “expert” doctors and nurses thought so as well.

But anyway, prior to this hospital visit, I have a history pain from, now here is a list: catheters, concussions, urinating blood, stitches, broken wrists, fingers, toes, cuts from knives, and then there is probably another list you can make of normal everyday accidents. So as it relates to the pain in my chest, it was incomparable; nothing listed above was anywhere near as painful as this. I couldn’t do anything without it constantly hurting. It didn’t stop, ever, and if I even as so much had to move around on the pillow with my head, the pain became so excruciating that I would gasp or moan. People attending to me and around just became quiet out of respect for my suffering. So here comes the morphine, and everything slowed down, but the pain never left. They stuck me in the same arm as (three days) earlier with a straight morphine injection.

I lay there as I started to sweat from the fever, they took blood then they put me on an IV. So just to recap, my chest still hurts like a motherfucker, I have a fever of like 102.7, which I’m now sweating from, I have my arm out straight with the IV in it and I’m groaning from all the pain. I’m so scared I can hardly believe it. I might die. Is this that bad? Now I get nurses, E.R. doctors asking me questions about what I’ve been doing and trying to figure out how I got this way. And of course, it is difficult to fathom how this happened. Here we go, remember what state I’m in, explaining all this.

“I was here days ago and you said I had food poisoning. Then I got a fever and then my chest started to hurt. It got too painful, which is why I’m here.”

That was said over and over to everyone that asked. However, the first time I was in the E.R., they thought I was a drug addict. Would the same people remember me from three days earlier? So, I got it again: “Have you used any drugs or alcohol?”

“No. I only drank coffee and water and smoked marijuana and a couple cigarettes. I’ve also been taking everything you prescribed the last time I was here.”

They still didn’t fully believe me. Great. So they leave me and one nurse stays and checks my vitals and temperature. Burning up (one hundred and three degrees), soaking the sheets, sweating so hard my hair gets wet. Now, she moves faster to put ice in latex gloves to put in spots on my body to cool down my fever. They haven’t let me have a drink yet so my lips chapped up till there was dry lip skin peeling off. So the ice was looking good, and I asked for one cube. Reaching for the ice hurt, let alone getting it to my fucking mouth, but I was so hot that my hand nearly melted it away. But I got some and it was gone almost immediately. Once my fever subside it bit from Tylenol or whatever I ate, now I got a move. They wanted me to get in a wheelchair to get x-rays. Ha, really. Let’s get up now, because laying on my back and being tortured with pain isn’t good enough. I still have my clothes I came in with on, so, they laid out some patient scrubs I had to change into. I know when you change into hospital clothes you are stuck there for a long time. There is always a part where you know you won’t be coming home anytime soon: when you have a little fucking hospital smock! Fucking smock on, dude! Awesome.

CHAPTER 4

I can’t remember if I was there long enough to get more drugs or not, but I don’t think I did. Two nurses are pushing me to get into a wheelchair to wherever the x-ray room is supposed to be. I slowly move and separate my feet to shimmy to the edge of the gurney. This hurts, and I haven’t even gone anywhere yet. Great I have to do this, I can deal. By the time I got my legs to hang over the edge, there was more weight on my chest. It was painful, eleven out of ten, maybe twelve. The most pain I’ve ever felt, ever! I just though, “fuck, you have to get in that wheelchair to make the pain stop. As the nurse helped me to the floor, I found out I could straighten my back out, so I keeled over and awkwardly turned into the wheelchair. With every touch or grab with my arms and hands just turned up the pain. I was in, but there was no rest for the pain in my chest. It got worse and stayed worse. Every little turn or bump that the wheelchair went over kept it at a ten. I’ve lost like thirty to forty pounds and now I can’t keep my head up in a wheelchair.

I’m getting rolled through blue painted hospital hallways unable to pick my head up too see where we were going. An x-ray is inevitable in my state, after several looks from hospital foot traffic made me realize that I wasn’t looking so good. For a chest x-ray, you have to stand up as they position this machine around you. Standing up meant hunched over slightly, head loose on my shoulders and arms basically limp at my side. Now, here comes the funny part. The nurse says, “Take off your shirt.” Ha. I didn’t actually laugh, because it was not funny at all, but just the idea of moving my body to get my shirt off seemed ridiculous. OK, how do I do this? Shit. I don’t know.

I’m going to have to unplug the IV first, so the nurse does, then I start moving my arms, as I would normally take off my shirt. Nope, not going to work, it hurts too much. The other option was to get my arms through my sleeves and then get the shirt over my head with the help of the nurse, of course. Slowly I started bending my right elbow in toward my body. I was in so much pain from this it was like slow motion feeling every second of torturous movements. As the nurse maneuvered around me to get started on the other arm I get my arm in and do the same after a quick breather. Then my shirt goes over my head and the hospital smock goes on, which thankfully was much easier considering it has no back and resembles a moo-moo. Now for more fashion statements with nice black, heavy lead vest that’s going on next. It’s like a bunch of leather jackets but in only one vest. Once the weight of it laid to rest on my shoulders in a slightly hunched over position. It was tough to move without making me cringe. It was like every direction it turned, or any motion I made with my upper body sparked a shot of pain. It has been at least ten minutes since I arrived and I was now ready for the x-rays. The wheelchair gets pushed out of the way and the nurses take cover in that little control room. I’m by myself in the room taking direction from the x-ray technician. “OK, now lift your arm up so we can get your right side first.” “Shit I try to get it up by lifting my elbow.” Ha! Really? “OK, now try to keep your arm up as high as you can.” This fucking hurts, it seemed like every muscle I moved just made the hated constant pain worse, and then worse. So I take a deep breath and get my arm up so about forty-five degrees from ninety degrees at my shoulder. Not that much, the nurse speaks into the mic again. “OK, can you try the other side?” I turned my head toward the window knowing that my answer could be felt as well as heard. “I can’t do it.” I replied with such a defeated pitch in my voice so the nurses turned off the mic for a second, conversed quickly and said to me, “OK, keep your arms at your side and be still.”

The lead vest still hindering every move I made, I got in position and waited to be told they were done. Round One was almost over. I thought to myself, once the x-rays come back then a random nurse or doctor will show up and tell me what they investigated. So here we go, back into the elevator, through the hallways and into my little parking spot in the ER. Who knows what time it is, where my phone and wallet are, which was all I had, and if anyone even knew I was in such bad shape. I waited in silence, fever still at about one hundred and three, sweating, in so much pain I couldn’t lay still, and moving anything hurts. Figure that one out. Even more scared than before, I just needed someone I knew with me. In the hospital you are basically a project in the mix of the nurses and doctors professional jobs. No one really gives a shit about you they just follow so they can do their job, like pretty much everyone else. But lying there with an unknown illness and in so much pain. I just wanted someone to talk to me.

The nurse walks in to check my temperature and vitals, as they did on a schedule so far. She could see I was still in a lot of pain so after recording information she needed, she hooked me with some morphine and left. I’m not sure how long I waited but it must have been hours. The E.R. doctor came in with my x-rays and a nurse, running through the pleasantries and small talk about how I was feeling. The doc says that they can’t see what’s bothering my chest in the x-rays they just made me deal with. So they are trying to schedule me a MRI so to get a better look. Of course a time or duration was never stated and I am left in limbo. I started noticing fever start to come, so again with the fever. I get my vitals checked and then have to ask the nurse when I can get more Tylenol, morphine, and whatever else I needed. “Let me check, and I’ll come back and let you know when you’re able to have more pain medication,” the nurse says sincerely due to the look on my face.

Five minutes go by and she brings me some drugs and I can relax a bit. When the morphine hits and I have a fever it’s bitter sweet, but minus the fever, there is a moment of relief that felt like a brief escape from hell. But knowing it wasn’t going to last would always spoil the party. Soon after the nurses came in and said, “We are going to admit you to the hospital and bring you to a room upstairs.” Here we go I fucking knew it would end up with a sleepover. Fuck, I’m done for this officially fucking sucks. Fuck. Back into the wheelchair, pushed in the elevator, and on my way to the “extended” stay program. I was so upset, not knowing the cause of all this misery just the trip to my new room made me question what was going to happen to me. This is really series and it couldn’t of happened at the worst time. Thinking of what I might lose and how this is going to effect my plan just adding to the negativity I was feeling.

CHAPTER 6

I pull up to my room head down trying not to move or look around to keep the pain in check and I notice there is another person laying quietly on the gurney closest to the door. So I get the window and a TV. Now a fresh bed, I appreciated struggling onto sheets not damp from my sweat. Again, careful steps to get settled with my chest and attach the IV that was put in earlier by a nurse in a vein on the soft side of my elbow, what would you call it, forearm pit? In this position I couldn’t bend my right arm at all because there was a needle in it, which I could feel whenever I moved my right arm. So it lay straight at my side. Now I’m in, ready for more drugs as my chest continuously hurt, but that wasn’t going to happen for a while. I turned my head as much as I could, peeping over at my neighbor, an old man sleeping. I wondered why he was here. His long slender body covered to his waist in bed sheets, sitting in an upright position like myself. His hair white from old age and most likely been in Florida since he retired like so many other seniors. I thought to myself then that I had a lot of life left in me and whatever I got, he’s probably got it worse.

I’m flipping through my remote attached to the bed for something to keep me company. I waited, watched TV and just felt the fever coming back it must be almost time for drugs again. Burning up, sweating again hard. I press the call button for the nurse and about one minute later she came, noticing my fever by the sweat dripping down my face and neck. She grabs more ice and packs it in to latex gloves and put them under my arms behind my neck. This fever sucks, the worst one I’ve ever had. I’m so hot the ice is so cold it’s uncomfortable, then it starts to cool me down and I get freezing cold in a highly air conditioned hospital room. It soaks in my clothes, sheets, pillows and body. The nurse comes back to check on me and, changes whatever is wet without having to move me. Basically, just the pillows. But I’m assured once I go for an MRI I will get dry bedding. Then another nurse comes in to check vitals, take blood and finally give me something for the fever and pain. It must be late at night because the hospital quieted down, but I couldn’t sleep, eat, drink, or go to the bathroom, resembling purgatory.

I don’t know why I remember the time but the nurse and doctor came in and say I have to get an MRI at eleven p.m. It must have been soon because they started getting ready for me to move. It was going to be the last MRI of the day so I was being rushed. The problem for me was that the morphine was wearing off and the faster I moved the more it hurt and thus the less it worked to suppress my chest pain. Up, IV bag, wheelchair, elevators, hallways, and in the MRI room. MRI is a big machine that’s loud, claustrophobic, and you have to lie down and still for twenty minutes or so as the tube you slide in takes a scan of all your insides. It’s been about twenty-four hours since it started. I get up slowly and get on the conveyor belt bed and start to lean back. Nope. The pain from trying to start to lie down was excruciating. I stopped, almost in tears. I can lie down on an angled gurney when I have to, but this was totally flat. The nurse gets behind me to ease my descent to the flat MRI conveyer belt the pressure from her hand combined with leaning back was over the top. I stopped, asked if I get more morphine, she said, “if necessary but you just had pain medication not too long ago, you won’t be able to have it until later.” Shit. Fuck. Balls. It hurt so much, but it was late, it was the last chance to get an MRI until the next day, and I couldn’t wait. Here we go. I tell the nurse to get more pillows to lie on as I prepare for literally the worst. She props them in the only places the MRI machines would allow. I had to do this not, its going to hurt a lot and then I have to be still until its over and deal with whatever pain I’m in from laying down inside the small, claustrophobic space.

I get halfway down and the pain stops me as I moan in agony and start to breathe heavily. At the point of no return, I knew I couldn’t go back up and try again, so fought it and got my back on the pillows. Wincing and grunting with every breath and exhale the nurses frantically jostled the pillows around and positioned my far journey down the conveyor belt. The move to a flat position was so painful that it took a lot out of me and the pain in my chest just reverberated continuously, so I lay motionless while the MRI tech did her job. For about 20 minutes I had to endure on my back, knowing I could listen to music I requested some reggae to ease my mind as I waited for the whole process to end. Pain at a ten now, I get up, wheelchair, hallways, elevator and back to room. The entire ride an IV in my arm, which had to be straight and my chest feels like someone as a voodoo doll of me and keeps stabbing me in the chest. Back in my room on a dry bed, it’s late, dark, quiet, and I’m wide-awake. The night nurse just started and came to check vitals, take blood and give me morphine. Every time someone came to take my blood, which was apparently every six hours, so that would be the third time today I’ve been stuck in the same arm, same spot, and in the same arm that had the IV in it. Feeling better because of the drugs and better about not having to move I start to feel the fever and sweat a bit. I call the nurse to tell her about my fever growing, she takes my temperature. And because I’ve a fever for now a couple days, I could easily tell if it was coming and going and the severity of it without knowing my actual number. I guess as the thermometer beeps, 102.7? She turns to me with wide eyes in amazement because I guessed my temperature to the decimal.

As I stood in general, no one knew anything yet on what my condition was, which means no food, no drink as precautions for possible surgery or operations. I laid awake flipping through channels and listening to my unaware neighbor sleep and snore. Not one person came to check on me for two hours or so until my next vital check, blood, and pain medication routine. It was like four a.m., no hint of sleep even though I still haven’t slept more than a couple of hours in five days.

CHAPTER 6

The sun rose and I just waited until someone came in for anything. My neighbor wakes up and I turn toward him for any sort of human contact. Nothing. I’m sure h has his own problems and doesn’t need to concern himself with me. I’m guessing he has cancer and he’s here because he had some sort of complication. The nurses tend to him first, as they should, and of course they tell him that he is released and his family is coming to pick him up now, which was ironic because I was listening to what I wanted to hear for me. Of course I was next, vitals, blood, pain meds, and doctors. General hospital doctors who were assigned to me. “Christopher?” “Yes?” I reply, acknowledging that she has the right bed. “So far, we do not know why you have a fever and chest pain. We have requested an infectious disease specialist and an orthopedic surgeon as well as gastro-intestinal specialist.” Three different doctors were going to renew my test results and assess further possibilities and treatment. I’m left alone, just as my neighbor’s family came in to greet him and save him from further hospital care. They arrived with smiling faces and relief that their loved one was coming home. Crowding around him I could only hear as he sounded happy to have the company of his family. This made me jealous for a second until I realized that whatever was bothering me was probably minor in comparison to his medical condition, although he was not 30 and in the prime of his life.

Tic-Toc, morning ESPN and random daytime TV until the infectious diseases specialist stops in, at the same time as my periodic vital check, blood sample and pain meds. This guy would not stand close to me and talked at me with a distant monotone voice from the foot of my bed as the nurse was stabbing arm with needles, he tells me that there was still no definitive answer to my problems. “I’m going to review your blood tests for bacteria and possible infections.” OK? Still no answer to why I was there. Every four hours I got pain meds, every six hours, vitals, blood, and temp, still no food, drink, or bathroom.

Sparingly I used to phone to update whoever called, but also keeping my mother in the loop so she didn’t go completely crazy. As per my request she called the Biltmore to update them of my status. Because that’s what it took to solidify my story to work and my boss who had a tough time believing my story as well. The doctor comes back with his little clipboard and stands at the foot of my bed giving me the impression he doesn’t want to catch whatever it is I got. He says, “We didn’t find anything in your MRI results to explain why you are in so much pain, but we did find something in your blood that might be causing your fever and stomach pain.” Oh good, it’s in my blood, I thought with extreme sarcasm. “I’ve ordered further tests to find out what it is, so we can determine how to proceed from here.” He leaves, and I’m left to ponder my situation. I became so confused because it’s taken this long to come to a half-assed diagnosis. Is it rare, treatable or is it permanent and worse than I ever thought?

My brain was clouded with drugs and negative thoughts that the time passed slower and I couldn’t focus on anything. Vitals, blood, and pain meds, it must have been about time for dinner according to my scheduled visits from the nurse. Then suddenly someone gets wheeled in to the spot next to me. It wasn’t close, like arms length close, but I could hear everything going on over there. He was in pain, on his side moaning and groaning like I was. He says he has cancer and a large tumor in his belly. The reason he was here was because he was in pain and didn’t have any more medication. He settles in after a startled introduction and gets his meds and lies motionless. Now an even more depressing situation, this random dude next to me has to get himself admitted to the hospital in order to get medication for his cancer. This motivates me to keep hope and worry a little less because it could have been worse. I could have been him. He was an older black man dressed in normal clothes, slightly unkempt and noticeably not an affluent resident with the means to treat his illness. As I look at him in his exposed gurney making judgments as to his situation, he picks his head up slightly facing me and our eyes make contact. It was a startling moment as he then rolled away from me to face the other way.

The dinner bell rings and he gets a TV dinner. Still unable to eat I couldn’t stop thinking about the smell, making me wish, that I was hungry. My new neighbor who caught me looking over there. It was weird, we made eye contact, as he lay curled up on his side. The stare was like an unspoken acknowledgment that we were both in here for a good reason and there wasn’t a word said or even acknowledgement of each other with a nod. It was extremely eerie, not having a choice to be here with each other in the same room. I started wondering who was in the other rooms and if it was worse than this one. The point was made with that one short stare, it’s not over yet.

Sensing by the pain in my chest growing stronger and my headache that quickly turns to fever, it must have been time for drugs. Almost simultaneously when the nurse enters the room for checkups, my sick bunkmate throws up his dinner all over the floor. I couldn’t look because it was too painful to think about, but it happened several times as the nurse rushed to clean the mess. I hear them discussing that the tumor pushes against his stomach and this frequently happens when he eats meals and medication and thus his lack of necessary prescriptions. The night arrives and my pre-midnight check up was over so I knew from the previous night that it was deathly quiet. I find a movie and have it keep me company for a while, find another one and let it do the same. During “quiet time,” my right arm is really bother me, it hasn’t bent at the elbow for a couple days now, and it’s uncomfortable to say the least.

About four a.m., no sleep, no nothing. The graveyard shift’s first visit and I come to find that this one is not too bad to look at. Sponge bath! She is cute, surprised to see me awake. I ask her about my pain meds and when I could expect them. She says, “I’ll check for you, but I need to take your vitals first.” As she wraps the blood pressure monitor around my arm, I mention my discomfort with my IV and asked for her to switch it to the other arm. “OK, I’ll come back and switch it for you,” she says with a smile. Ahhh, progress, I was actually excited, not only for her to return and save whatever was left for my right arm. Fifteen minutes or so later she comes back with the appropriate gear for the arm change. Now, as far as IVs go, this is the format. This needle with a hook up and a valve goes in first, so what needs to happen is the over-an-inch-long needle has got to catch the vain, then they hook everything else up with tape and tubes. Smiling and getting comfortable to perform this routine nursing task, she gets ready. I told her to be gentle because I’ve been stuck with enough needles so far that it’s getting to me. So what does this dizzy bitch do, she fucking stabs me three times missing the vein, by the way, mine are good, so I abruptly tell her to stop and she says, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Being me, I jokingly tell her it’s OK, but she is in “time-out” now and get herself together and come back in fifteen minutes. Of course feeling a bit embarrassed she left and returned in the allotted time frame. “OK, let’s try this again.” “You better because you’re going be in big trouble if you don’t,” I say back as she readies herself for the second time with an empathetic smile.

It’s in! This time I actually looked just to confirm success and what did I see. The valve on the end of the IV was open, so blood was pouring out of me, enough blood to collect at the depression where my elbow touches the bed and of course keeping still. The small pool of blood made me wince a bit as I swallowed to check if I could possibly vomit. Nope, I’m good, thank god, as the nurse closed the valve and gently put my tubes to use. Now the IV in my right arm gets pulled out and a little cotton ball and tape go over my freed vein. Relief. Finally fuck, I slowly moved it around bending it slightly. It was so much better, because by this time, I’ve only got stuck in that right arm like a pincushion drained of its cotton guts. Looking at the guy next to me, I felt lucky for a second as I watch him try to get comfortable. Still up, for now six days, I catch the sun rising out of the corner of my eye and I wait. The graveyard shift ended at eight a.m. I came to anticipate the time I got a new nurse ready to check vitals and steal more blood. And here she is, a little late but acceptable. Vitals, morphine, then blood work, this time it was different, with the IV out she still got my right arm and it kind of hurt when she drew it into the syringe. Next, I get two doctors looking down at me the resident doctor and the infectious disease guy again. “So, we have determined by blood tests and narrowing it down by your symptoms, you have… Eccoli.”

SHIT. What the fuck, really? I thought while they tell me that they’ve ordered an IV antibiotic, I can start eating and drinking again but the pain in my chest is still unexplained. And there will be further tests to determine what’s wrong. Not quite sure how to take this news, better or worse, I’m still stuck here. I call my mother and tell her that they found E. Coli in my blood, and she tells me my father is coming down for a day or so. Reinforcements are on the way.

CHAPTER 7******

Continuing updates with whoever reached out to me. It went like this: “Eccoli! Yeah, awesome!” and then went from there. After some time on the anti-biotic the fever went away and the three or four juice boxes they gave me helped my brain and my deprived body of fluids. Lunch! The funny thing is that they asked if I wanted salad. Ha. No, No, I’m good on that. I got fruit and yogurt because I still lacked a real appetite. I had some tea and another shot of morphine. What spoiled my party was my neighbor throwing up his lunch almost immediately after he ate it. This time he was ready with a bucket but it still made my eyes widen to the sound, remembering how I felt vomiting a week ago. Taking my first piss in days, in an actual bathroom but I couldn’t make it father than standing up next to the bed, navigating my IV roller thingy, the IV itself, my chest, lack of strength, and getting my dick out of my shorts and actually getting it to the pitcher like porto-potty thingy. After episodes of various sitcom reruns and daytime TV it was time for pain meds, then vitals and then dinner, in that order. The doctors walked in before they left for the day to tell me that they have an orthopedist scheduled to see me later and as well as a gastro-intestinal specialist. Around six or seven was visiting hours and Angela shows up when I still have a plate of the hospital’s finest soup and crackers. Someone came to visit me, sweet. She sits next to me with a worried mother kind of look and I smile at her and say, “Thanks for coming. It’s been so lonely.” She asked for the recap of my state of health. I oblige with what I know while she takes a picture of me for proof to my story.

It felt just as short as a blink, hi and bye type visit because she said where I’m at only allows visits at seven pm for fifteen minutes. Noticing the dude next door she hurries a bit more to escape the somber mood of the room and hospital. After she left, the gastro-intestinal specialist shows up to question me. I start in with my already winded, confusing, and odd story of my salad, food poisoning, and now this. He focused mainly on the salad and everything after that the questions were: Do you still have the salad? Are you sure it wasn’t something else? How much vomiting? He said that knowing now it is E. coli, which is in our digestive system already, got into my blood stream and was causing the fever and the stomach pain. My digestive system had been through a lot since the first visit to the E.R. The doc said it would take some time to digest and pass normally but he wanted to take precaution and now have stomach muscle relaxer or some liquid form of Prilosec injected into my abdomen. Fucking shit, thanks more needles! Lets count them now: morphine every four hours, blood drawn every six hours, and an IV that has been in both arms. More fucking needles into my abdomen, which of course hurt worse than the others. Not too long after my last day shift visit, the orthopedist walks into examine my chest. Not cool. This guy looks nuts, beard, pot belly and voice recorder.

It’s late and he gets to the point, which I appreciated. “OK, so your chest is bothering you?” I reply, “Yeah, it’s a specific spot but whenever I move anything it hurts.” He feels around my ribcage bottom, sides, then bang, he got it, right on the money, and I wanted to fucking rip his fucking beard off his face. Then he goes, “hmmm, okay, so it’s only right there? The pain?” Writhing in pain in the first hour of my morphine trip, this was not a good start to the night. He makes some notes in his notebook and on his voice-recorder. Without so much as a good night, he just fucking leaves and I’m left in pain and with my mouth open in shock because this guy barely acknowledged me. Huh, OK, so now what? Watch TV, think about the progression of the last week and how unbelievably crazy it has been. I have E. coli, what? I can’t believe this shit.

I watch the sunrise, no sleep then eight a.m., vitals, blood, morphine, and more TV, my neighbor still in pain, but mainly sleeping because his meds were knocking him out. Why didn’t mine? Oh yeah, my chest pain and check ups won’t let me sleep. Now I get a visit from the resident doc with a recommendation to consult a cardiologist for my chest because the infectious disease doctor now thinks that the E. coli got into my heart, but the orthopedist says it is most likely a fractured rib at my sternum. The cardiologist comes up and tells me that the have ordered a Super EKG for the next day to fully examine my heart because the x-rays and MRI were inconclusive. Then the infectious disease doc wanted another test where they draw a shit ton of blood, isolate the white blood cells and follow them a special dye to see where they go. Fuck. Did anyone get any of that? I said to myself, now I have two tests tomorrow, which they are going to draw blood now for. Oh my fucking god! Now more needles, more blood, and still no diagnosis for my fucking chest, this is a suspenseful nightmare that has no end in sight.

CHAPTER 8

My father arrives from a business trip to see me for like a day before he had to go back. I filled him in on the situation and he sat for a night then left to check into the hotel. He came back a couple of hours later after showering and stopping at K Mart or somewhere to get me fresh boxer shorts, because if you didn’t know I’ve been in the same pair of drawers for like four days now. He is ultra concerned, and he watches me struggle to change my clothes then pee next to the bed in my hand held toilet and slowly get back into bed. He’s a pacer, so he paced, waiting impatiently for any news. Of course I explained the situation but I didn’t know what a Super EKG was. The doctor’s stop by one more time most likely because they knew he wanted to learn the latest. The deal was this, a Super EKG takes a look at your heart from your esophagus, that means they shove a not skinny enough tube down my throat for a while, so, I would have to go under anesthesia for this so called minor procedure, but it was scheduled anyway along with the blood cell test. Fuck, I started worrying with my dad about what was wrong with me. We talked for a little while and then the nurse comes in to end visiting hours and my dad left with a plan to come back before I went under, then he had to fly out again. Shortly after it was dinner, vitals, more blood, and more morphine and then quiet. My arm aches constantly now, already weak from all the blood tests and needles. It just feels weird, it’s aching and throbbing muscles and veins might be telling me they have had enough.

Another sleepless night as I lay in my bed channel surfing, waiting for my midnight and four a.m. visits from the nurse. I had chest pain, no fever, morphine, and another day of hospital waiting tests results. My buddy, Adam, that had dropped me off the first time worked close by at 24 Hour Fitness as a trainer. He popped in for a surprise visit at about six a.m. He poked his head in, unaware of the scene he sits down next to me, and laughing at my appearance he makes me smile as it reminds me of when he laughed at me on the ride over when I looked like someone from the Special Olympics. It felt good and hurt immensely to laugh but I accepted the pain because I haven’t laughed in a while. Adam is a good dude and I greatly appreciate his visit because we talked about what my plan was going to be with that hot ass blonde girl I met days ago. Shortly after he sat, he left for work with the brothers and I just waited for my eight a.m. vital check, blood, pain med, and breakfast. As it sits basically uneaten on my hospital bed/table my dad walks in. He looks tired and worried, so I try to look optimistic about the day to come. He’s tired so we get right into it. Leaving sooner rather than later he tells me that after the Super EKG they will know when I can leave because the two tests scheduled for today will determine the diagnosis of my chest.

My father had to leave to go back to work and I was alone and anxious to get this over with. I wanted answers and to get the fuck out of the hospital. I felt stuck, I had no strength or means to leave and the undetermined ailment in my chest was not discovered yet, so I’m here still. Getting closer to high noon, the nurse and cardiologist come in for my pre-operation briefing. The deal was this. I was not to eat, drink, etc. because of anesthesia required by the cardiologist. This is when my heart speeds up a bit. The cardio doc tells me that he doesn’t “find it necessary” to perform this procedure but it was ordered by the infectious disease doc so it’s going down. Well, shit-balls, why am I going through with any of this if it is, “not necessary, WTF.” The way that the doc talked about the details, which was simply getting deep throated by a not-thin camera/tube to check a “possible” reason for my chest pain. His speech sounded like a politician who lacked faith in his principles. Is this risky, what state am I going to be in after this? Fuck man, I have had operations prior to this that tested my nerves, but if this fucking doctor dick knows that it’s not 100% necessary to my diagnosis, it shouldn’t be done. Just put it on my tab, why not, it’s like they didn’t even give a shit that it would cost me money, let alone put me through yet another procedure. I’m sure my hospital bill was getting up there, and this did not seem as if it were cheap. Shit anesthesia by itself and the use of an anesthesiologist wasn’t cheap. Growing resentful and angry toward the white coats adding on to my bill, I clench my fist and keep my mouth shut in opposition to all of this. No lunch, vitals, shots, and no morphine. Shit was going down soon.

CHAPTER 9

“OK, it’s time for your EKG,” the nurse says as she prepares my IV bags for my transportation, but this time I was told to slide onto a gurney instead of a wheelchair. I looked at my neighbor for encouragement, but he was out, facing the wall, probably just listening like, I listened for him. We go downstairs to the OR, the nurse drops me off with two nurses or techs, an anesthesiologist and another doc, the same dude that filled up a two liter sized syringe of my blood for this test. I lay silent and scared as the four of them talk amongst themselves making final preparations for the cardiologist. I should be used to this, but the reservations of the performing doctor made it difficult to build up more courage. The dude who took half of the blood in my body the previous day stands next to me ready shoot the white blood cells back into my body. I’m looking at the filled syringe, which looks like some type of alphabet soup and I wonder if this is going to hurt my arm because of the lingering pain in my right arm filled with track marks in the middle of remnants of tape up and down my arm perfectly placed to notice where my IV had been days prior.

The two nurses call upstairs to check the status of the cardiologists who was tending to another patient. “The doctor is going to be late,” she says with a frustrated look toward her colleague. Immediately after that, the anesthesiologist says, “I cannot wait much longer because I have another appointment.” The nurses look at him in a way that made me nervous. Stated before, the safest and best way for me to come out of this procedure was to be on anesthesia. The five of us in the room started looking at everyone as we all impatiently waited for the doc. Five minutes ticks away, now ten, the anesthesiologist now feeling insulted by the tardiness of the doctor says, “I cannot wait any longer. I’m sorry.” The nurse frantically makes for the phone and pleads with this asshole to stay. Fuck. Shit. Am I getting out of this? Reschedule. Their nervous demeanor made me more worried than before as I still lay in pain waiting for this to be over. “I’m sorry, I have to leave,” says the anesthesiologist. Upon his exit, the two nurses turn to each other to bitch about the situation. They go back and forth two feet away from me about the late doctor and now their disappointment on losing an important piece of this operation. I’m close to breaking down. I have been through a hell of a lot recently and I’m at my wits end. No morphine makes it worse for my chest pain plus this bullshit going on in the ER putting me in panic mode. I wanted to tear up but I didn’t even have time. The blood guy, impatient as well, shoves the needle into my arm with a short warning, and slowly pushes the refined blood back into me. This was the last straw for my right arm it fucking hurt. My arm felt like gasoline was now pumping through my veins. I pushed through the Red Bull sized blood filled syringe, wincing as I felt it in my forearm. I can’t really describe it. It was like something was squeezing the insides of my arm and the longer it went the worse it got, leaving my arm in constant pain. Fuck. His job is done, so he leaves and I’m left with these two irritated nurses waiting on final decisions from the tardy doctor. They are going back and forth with each other about the anesthesiologist leaving and the question of what they could use to knock me out. On and on these bitches went while I’m lying in pain next to them, unfucking-believeable, without even the courtesy of speaking softly or moving father away from me. I’m looking at them with wide eyes but too scared to say anything. Just listening to them bitch about the doctor being late and the anesthesia guy walking out on the operation. And finally the doc walks in and then they start. It was something like this. “The patient has been ready for thirty minutes, and the anesthesiologist walked out,” says the nurse as the doctor is rushing to get ready. “OK, well then we will use a sedative, it’s not going to be a long procedure, but we will have to numb his throat,” the doc fires back with MD authority, and then says, “I don’t even think this is necessary.”

My breathing stopped. Uh, what?! Really? This is fucking crazy, what kind of fucking hospital is this? Considering what I have been through in my life, I know when, you get professional treatment by a hospital and when you don’t. This was no doubt the latter.

“Well, let’s proceed,” the doctor said after making me hear what he literally just replied about the operation. Oh, fuck. Fucking great, here we go. The other tests I could father myself a bit before shit goes down, but this is time it caused a panic. My heart pumping simultaneously with the heart monitor beeping a couple feet near my ear. Most of the time in a movie or real life, you just hear it, but when you feel it along with that unmistakable sound, it’s frightening. I tried to breathe and calm myself down quickly but it wasn’t in time. The nurse comes up to my head and says, “I’m going to spray this numbing agent down your esophagus.” What? “Then you are going to get a strong sedative so we can complete the procedure.

I can’t even think fast enough to finish my thought when the nurse says to me, “Open your mouth as wide as you can.” I opened up my big mouth and she sprayed. Immediately I stopped feeling my tongue, teeth, as she pumps the spray down my throat. It felt I was choking on my tongue. Gasping for a breath and to swallow, I was in between choking and vomiting, making super gross sounds that sounded like I was drowning or getting water hosed into my mouth. As I’m visibly struggling, but still in pain anytime I moved, the nurse says, “ I’m sedating you, please tell me what state you’re from.”

I was out before I got to the first “t” in Connecticut, still choking on the numbing spray. See ya’ later, first bit of sleep I got for a week. I have no idea how long I was out, but I woke up in my room, my poor neighbor still there. “Oh fuck, what happened?” I said to myself as I double-checked if anything was missing. Yup, all fingers, limbs, and dick are there. I guess I’m good. I reach for my phone and called my dad, who was extremely surprised to hear my voice. “I thought you weren’t going to be able to talk,” he says with new excitement. Stupid me, I said, “Why?” He says back, “Because they shoved a big tube down your throat.” “Oh, well. What’s up?” I said with a naïve tone, even though I felt like it just didn’t surprise me because the entire experience has been fucking nuts.

I feel the nervousness in his voice as we talk about the lack of results thus far. Who knows? And back to the waiting game. After the super-duper EKG it was time for vitals and more blood, my arm is on fire from the nurse taking my blood pressure. Instantaneous pain just having the needle in my arm hurt and them squeezing my veins burn like they were blood dry and constricted. “No more, no more,” I said out loud when she was finishing. My arm just beat up to shit from countless needles, at my side aching and weak. Apparently I missed lunch because my neighbor vomited his meal again as I wait with the TV on blast for some news from the docs. Two hours until a nurse comes to give me morphine but the entire time I just thought about which one in the room was getting out first. OK, so where am I at right now? Eccoli… and my chest hurt so most likely I’m going to have to watch my second neighbor leave as I stay longer. It wasn’t long after that when the nurses came in with the doctor to inform him of his discharge with a new prescription of pills. Shit, I can’t be here for even one more neighbor longer. I have no idea what day it is. I’ve got to get out of here, life, as I know it is going on and my life has hit a roadblock. This fucking sucks. I have to get out of here I kept saying to myself.

As I’m talking myself down from a possible internal episode, the docs and the nurses came in. It was different people all the time I know most of the nurses and only one doctor. In random order they told me that they basically just put me through a medical deep throat for nothing and the test with blood cells and the huge needle that resulted in my arm all fucked up wasn’t even done. Uh, wow! Awesome, you fucking pieces of shit! If I could move I would get up and kick everyone in the fucking nuts because they fucking suck my balls, fuck you!

Needless to say I was pretty pissed. But, then the conclusion was that I had, now get this, dislocated my rib from my sternum. This means that it was not cracked, broken, fractured, whatever. It was dislocated. I hope that you can imagine this. I threw up so hard from that one night, two pukes, that I dislocated my fucking rib from my sternum, which is that hard bone between your tits that all your ribs anchor from. What?! It was good news but bad news. Life and dreams, done, final diagnosis was E. coli from food poisoning and a dislocated rib. All that pain, for days or even weeks now was all because of a salad, a spinach walnut five fucking dollar salad. Whiskey, Tango, Foxtrot. Crazy, no one is ever going to believe this. It was almost comical, but not really funny at all to any one, ever.

CHAPTER 10

I’ve worked so hard and now everything has been compromised seriously compromised. How long was this going to last? So many questions went through my mind, constant scenarios and what ifs. Then I stopped and peaked over at the empty bed next to me, which reminded myself that it could be worse and you are going to beat this. Get your shit together dude, and get the fuck out of here. Dinner was lonely without the threat of near by vomiting and agony. My miniscule appetite was still holding on strong and I was skin and bones.

Surprise, surprise, my dude Adam shows up again. So he sits, bullshits for a second about work and silly girls. I tell him what the final verdict was an he said, “What? Are you serious?” He was so shocked he laughed. “Oh my god, man, that’s crazy,” he says to me. I reply: “Yeah” with no real feeling because I nearly predicted his reaction, verbatim. So that’s over with. I told him about that smoking blonde from the Irish bar, and we talk about that night for a second. “Should I text her? Can I check my Facebook from your phone?” I ask, just then remembering I had a social life. He laughs. “Sure.” He hands me his phone. I had to make my situation public and update my status as to get more attention. I posted “Can’t get out of the hospital” and checked some shit while I again brought up the hot blonde. “She was so hot, dude. I want her to be my nurse. Let’s set that up.”

I was fucked up enough to think it would be a great idea to text her. Oh, my. “What should I say?” I asked my buddy. “Tell her the truth.” Always good advice but not this time. A random girl who wanted my nuts is going to believe that the night I met her I was close to actual death and that I’d been in the hospital with a case of E. coli and a dislocated rib since then. Ha, yeah, right. I was loose enough from the drugs and the need for attention, so I though it was a good idea. OK, here we go. It’s fucking ridiculous, but I was like, “Hey, remember me? I’m in the hospital. What’s up? Let’s talk.” My libido, which has been on a sabbatical, called me an idiot. For him to just visit for fifteen minutes gave me some motivation to get out of here and recover. This made me even more restless and annoyed at my crazy, coincidental experience.

I have two more visits for vitals, blood, and drugs. The first visit, the nurse went for the right arm for blood pressure and it was like a vice grip on my bicep and everything below was painful, very painful, pins and needles. Veins still burning and aching. I tell her stop before she got to max capacity. I can feel my vein pumping hard against the cold padded wrap they use. “It hurts, it really hurts,” I tell her. “OK, then, I can use your leg?” she responded as I was already nodding my head. Relief, fuck, can’t do that anymore. Then yet another surprise, she has three needles and no morphine. Remember two shots in my belly, blood, which now had to be taken from the other arm, with IV in it, and two white pills. “What are these?” I asked. “Percocets, they are taking you off the morphine,” she said as I took them down as quickly as possible.

Soon after digesting, I was out like a light. I slept for four whole hours until I awoke to a nurse ready for vitals again. Wow, sleep. It felt so good. I didn’t even remember falling asleep. Fuck, I needed that. The nurse went after the right arm again as I move to protect it from the needle and blood pressure machine. She backed off and continues, then I ask what was the new schedule for pain meds since I switched off intravenous drug use to pain pills. She assured me it was the same, as my rib refused to stop hurting. Couple more hours till some pain relief and possible sleep again, both equally desirable at this point. I’m awake, which always happened to be the case because the check-up schedule I have to be on just wouldn’t allow more than four hours. I patiently waited ‘til the early morning to get my dosage, then sleep again, shortly after I woke up to the sunrise and completed a night of broken sleep which was probably about six or seven hours and more sleep than I had gotten for the last week.

CHAPTER 11

Still lacking any sort of appetite from the E. coli, the pain, drugs, and everything else. I’m alone, the only people I see work at the hospital. This is killing me, my chest is killing me, I have a beard, and my hair is some sort of weird white boy fro. Apparently, I smell pretty funky as well. The nurse comes in and she tells me that I have to wash up. I was like, “What?” How was I supposed to do that? I had an IV with two bags hanging from it and I couldn’t lift my arms much higher than my midsection. She gets super tough and tells me I smell and I had to. Oh, touché nurse, but this sucks, so take it easy. I was slowly getting pissed off, I never said much when I was in pain. My comic relief would only appear when my dislocated rib wasn’t as bad after pain meds. So I was just talking to myself a lot in my head, which makes sense because it seems like I never shut the fuck up.

The nurse starts getting ready for my journey to the bathroom twenty feet away that I haven’t seen once since I got put in this room. I don’t even think I’ve taken or been able to take more than six steps. This sucks. I know what I have and why I was here but I don’t want to anymore. The IV, attached to the roller in my left hand to accompany the IV thing in my arm. The “wash cloth” in my right arm moving moves. Now, the paper towel/sham-wow she gave me was supposed to get wet then you just use it like a towel to basically wash and dry. WTF man, I want a shower or a fucking sponge bath from one of these nurse bitches, considering how much this bullshit is going to cost. My body was hunched over, my arms practically useless, but I got them in the sink, wetting the sham-wow, questioning how the fuck I’m going to do any of this. This sucks. I had put it down on the sink and drop my shorts and boxers, then put them in a spot where they won’t fall to the floor or the nurse is going to have to help getting them back on. I grab my sham-wow and start “bathing,” weird, but I’m just following orders. Didn’t get everywhere, but I get the most important parts. Done about ten minutes later, I’m getting out of the bathroom and I just feel like shit, so weak and beat up. I winced in pain all the way back to my bed, as my head gets dizzy and heavy. I laid back down feeling half satisfied with my trip to the bathroom and out of energy. Vitals, blood, pain meds, then lunch. I didn’t get what I asked for, but it didn’t matter because I still couldn’t eat. At least I got some drugs after the now unbearable scheduled visit again, four or six hours later. This was really getting annoying. At this point I was still on the antibiotic IV and all the trimmings, the only real change was that I got off the morphine and onto percocets. I was still in pain and since the fever had gone away, my arm became more noticeable. That was the situation.

Since I was now on the road to recovery and my neighbor will spread the news of my diagnosis would spread, I hoped for more visitors but more so to just leave. I kept thinking about my exit and how it was going to be difficult to figure out my next move. When am I getting out of here? How long until I’m fully recovered? What am I going to do about work? Money? This was not good for me. I stayed up most of the night with small cat naps in between, just thinking how to answer these questions. The various “what if” scenarios that ran through my head were crazy, do I move back home? Stay here? What if I stay and the Exploder dies? Should I shack up in Miami, closer to work? How am I going to pay rent, a move or pay for medication and food? How long is it going to be until I’m back on the golf course and able to play tournaments? Gym? Fuck dude. I’m so fucked. I need to get out of here. But first I need to know about my recovery time with a dislocated rib. Shit, shit, shit. That time frame without playing or practicing I’m going to miss the whole season. Everything I worked so hard. I risked enough to get down there to play and now it’s for nothing. That feeling just depressed me more than being so sick and almost dying, the results of this hospital visit are going to cost me more than anything. My dream and life was gone and I was losing a piece of my life.

The early morning visit from the nurse was not pleasant. I was so upset with things that haven’t even happened yet. I just couldn’t be nice or appreciative of her. I’m the guy who always has a smile on his face, but I couldn’t acknowledge her with a glance or expression, just blank. I went through the whole day just the same as I did the others just without anywhere to go and no tests to take. On my afternoon visit from the nurse she talked to me about moving around more, sleeping on my side and getting out of the bed for a bit. I couldn’t really walk around or sleep on my side, which gave me the risk of pneumonia or blood clots, so I tried a little stretching. Prior to this suggestion from the nurse I didn’t really think about moving much at all, except for when I had to pee bad enough to get up. I needed to test my limits because this is how I gauge progress whenever I break something, so I started out trying to reach with my arms toward my feet. Oh no, that was not cool. I try twisting and turning, nothing was tolerable really.

CHAPTER 12

Guess who walks in my buddy, one of the brothers that owned the place I was staying, the one I’ve been friend’s with since college. He always tries to act tough so he strolls in, chest out, and sits in the chair at the foot of the bed against the wall. He starts off coy and passive, asking me what the deal was, listening, questioning and not quite buying it I felt. Now rent is coming up and I know he wants money because he starts telling me that he has all these projects coming up and all he wants me to do is work for him. I will not, ever. So my buddy, who is looking at me in the hospital bed, is being a tough guy and coercing me into paying off my rent debt by working for him. Not being sympathetic to my situation at all. This something I had told him when I moved in, because that was an option, work off rent on my days off. But because of my practice schedule I refused every time, and he hated that. I stopped and with a straight face told him “I don’t know how I’m going to do anything, I have to figure out what I’m going to do with work and golf.” That’s it! I’m not even out of the hospital yet! This was the truth and he was a selfish prick for suggesting anything to me. Rolling his fucking arrogant eyes he got up and just left. Motherfucker! What a fucking dick! I got to get out of here. The rest of the world was going about its business and no one was waiting for me.

It’s time for another round of vitals, blood, and percocets. To recap the routine if you haven’t gotten it down already was this: temperature, blood pressure, IV bag check, blood, two shots in the stomach, and two hours later two percocets. The nurse takes my temp, that’s cool. She takes my blood pressure from leg because of the pain in my arm, that’s OK. The shots in my gut sucked every time, as I would flex and make it worse. But the blood test needed to stop, so before she even got to that needle I tell her. “No, no more blood, please.” She asks me, “Are you refusing?” I say, “Yes.” Fucking bitch rudely took her shit and left. Nice, that saved me the worst part of these visits, and I now look forward to some drugs. The night went by slow with little sleep and no company. The entire night I just waited for the next sunrise so I can be one day closer to out of here. It was just bugging me because of the fact that nobody believed my story made me think that shit was going down and I needed to know what everyone was thinking and saying. My experience to this point is extremely unusual and fucked up even for me, it drove me crazy just thinking about it. I wonder what person knows that feeling, not the dude with a mortgage. I have seen that movie. Maybe other types of athletes or any sort of self-employed dreamer, the feeling of losing control of your life and dream because of a freak illness or accident. My rib was so fucked I knew I couldn’t play golf, practice or train, severely handicapped and this directly effecting my income and livelihood. 5:00 something I see the sun poking through the clouds and I’m up, waiting for the nurse, breakfast, and more meds. Fuck, this was the longest night I can remember and its over, maybe I can get out of here.

Eight a.m. like every other morning at the hospital. Vitals, but this time no blood and more drugs. The a.m. sports center loop was the only thing I had to watch, then it was just luck of the draw. Of course I was interrupted, but I don’t really mind because I would rather talk to a real person by now. It was a doctor and nurse, the doctor stops at the front of my bed as to not get too close and make me feel like even more of a health hazard. The nurse heads for my IV bags. “We can take you off the antibiotic now and remove the IV,” he said as the nurse disconnected the tubing system. Oh, fuck yeah, that’s awesome. That shit is out and so am I. And then, “…although we still need you to stay until our reports are done and you can be discharged.” Ah shit, but whatever, progress. The nurse starts removing the layers of tape surrounding the needle, pulling hard enough so I can feel the needle in my arm moving around. The tape comes off and my arm gets to breathe, then out comes the needle. Aaaah, like those Pepsi commercials back in the day. Now I get the pleasure of the still limited use of both my arms, and it was awesome. Looking at each arm, I noticed all the holes in both my arms with outlines tape marks. It looked like a chalk outline at a crime scene. They both were so incredibly sore and weak, so weak that when I made a fist my forearms hurt. When I would reach the point when your fingers touch the bottom of your palm I had to release the pressure because of how much it hurt me to do so. I felt the blood in my veins moving to new areas and flowing back to where it should be. I ask the nurse, “How long are my arms going to feel like this?” as I breathe in through my teeth. “It will go away,” she says not actually answering my question. WTF, that’s not what I asked as she walks out. Typical. The staff always spoke in such general uncertain terms and was fucking annoying considering if I was older or had insurance it would be much different. Whatever, progress, right?!

CHAPTER 13

I get the routine, minus the blood work, and the nurse tells me, “You need to get up and try to walk around.” I thought, “Uh, I don’t have to do shit, bitch!” So I just gave a look. She prompts me to get up so I do, which sucks, I feel better but still in pain and weak. I slip into my flops and start making moves. Baby steps, for me not even real steps thinking of anything outside this room, and then I thought about making a run for it. Ha. My chest hurt so much still. I wasn’t going anywhere. Remembering the nurse’s station with a huge horseshoe counter, as I get thru the doorway and turn left. I notice the daylight from windows further left as I pass strange looks from the nurses working. Wanting to be out of their line of sight I just head toward the window, at a snail’s pace. I could only imagine what I looked like, super skinny, hunched over, hands at my side and shoulders turned in.

Walking in front of the windows I noticed when I turned the corner, I hit a dead end and elevators. Hmmm, make a break for it I thought again. But I just turned to look out at the overcast day over rooftops and palm trees. Thinking, it’s probably warm out as I feel the chill of the AC and then wondering, what week is it? Fuck, what day of the year is it? Since it was a dead end in my walkabout, I turned around and went back into bed to sulk after 10 minutes. That’s not what happened. I could walk a little, so, OK, progress. Now, when do I get out of here? Again, afternoon vitals and drugs, and I chill watch TV and wait. This time impatiently. Why am I still here? I keep asking myself. Fuck. Instead of driving myself crazy all night again, I gave it one more night before I would pressure the doc to release me. The p.m. hours never seemed to go by very fast, it was so quiet and eerie. I would keep the volume low enough to barely hear from the TV stand on the wall because of the feeling of being scared or just interested to hear if absolutely anything were to happen.

The early a.m. hours, maybe two a.m., I started pressing the call button for the nurse to get more pain pills. I just wanted to knock out until the morning and deal with whatever necessary steps I need to take to be released. Unfortunately, I did need drugs, I was still in serious pain. This pissed me off for many reasons, but mainly because I thought this hospital and staff, were fucking garbage. Obviously, the service was not free, so if I’m paying for it, then someone better hop to it or I’m going to start being a dick and just get myself kicked out. The nurse finally came a half hour later than usual. I thought, maybe someone else needed her attention because they were in worse shape than me and I felt selfish for being so impatient.

When I woke up it was breakfast, but usually I had vitals before breakfast, so I was a bit confused. I got a quick visit from the hospital patient liaison, as he called himself, in the first couple days I was admitted. He gave me his card and his spiel about making sure my needs were met, I’m sure. So I get on the hospital phone and call this suit several times to find out what the fuck was going on and see if I could be released or at least when. My car was parked somewhere but I needed someone to help me get home. This fucker never came by or returned my call, so I had only one choice, I called my dad and told him that the liaison won’t return my call and that I haven’t seen or heard from except for the lady who dropped off breakfast. I asked him to call the hospital and get someone on the phone and get me some answers. This was fucking ridiculous. Bedside manner, where was it? No one gives a shit about me anymore my faith in the medical profession let alone this horseshit hospital has gone out the window.

My father calls me back a little while later with news that I was getting released today, just didn’t know when. I text as many people as I could that could be dropped off to drive me home. All I could think about while I waited for a reply was taking an extremely long hot shower. I’m going to use all the hot water I’ll be there till it gets cold. My arms had the remnants of tape I needed to get off so I didn’t look like an ill, contagious, and sickly dude that freaked people out. My hair was gross and greasy. I just wanted to wash these last weeks off of me. Finally, a reply, it was Carie and she was coming a bit later because of errands or some shit. It’s over. I’m getting out, two neighbors. X-rays, ultrasound, sonogram, MRI, super EKG, and needles for days, finally over. Wow, it felt like this was the longest two weeks of my life. Nervous and scared of what was going to happen next, I couldn’t even think of what to do about anything.

The doctor and nurse came in with my pain pills and instructions. This was the deal. I was prescribed an antibiotic for the E. coli, Prilosec for my stomach because of stomach trauma muscle relaxers for my digestive track and the percocets for my pain. The doctor said I was unable to work for two weeks and my dislocated rib would be at least six months of recovery. There is really nothing you can do a dislocated rib, except for give it time, everything else would take medication.

CHAPTER 14

In the last two weeks I dropped like thirty or forty pounds from my one eighty, dislocated a rib and survived E. coli, now I am discharged and on mandatory medical time off from work. I connected again with my ride said she would be there soon to drive me home. I asked her to clean my place and for new sheets remembering the state I had left it in, which was a bed soaked with sweat, random junk, and now multiple bottles of medication I just bought. She tells my hot little neighbor girl was actually seeing to that right now. Thank god, I couldn’t clean anything. I wasn’t even able to know what I could actually do, just going to have to see what happens and deal with whatever comes up. I stand up knowing that I didn’t have to lay in that gurney ever again. Even though I was in immediate pain, I wasn’t going to even sit back down. I snaked out of my smock, put it on the bed grabbed my shirt, and arms first, starting my first lesson of how to put on your clothes with a broken rib.

I got my hands through no problem, about up to my elbows so I could bend my aching arms for the next step. The t-shirt I had was luckily pretty big so with plenty of slack I collected the bottom half of the shirt to make it easier to get it over my head. I try to get my head down as low as it can go in order to meet my hands halfway because if my elbows either got above my armpit or in a direction that moved my hunched shoulders or rib cage it got too painful. With the very tips of my fingers I got enough of my shirt over my head to wiggle into the rest of it as it just fell down my upper body. This made me feel so sickly and skinny because I started remembering how the shirt felt the last time I put it on, confidently and in shape.

As I settle into my shirt, grab what little belongings I had and a plastic bag if dirty laundry my ride shows up at the door. She looks at me sadly and with sympathetic eyes as I stand in front of her weak and in pain. She says, “OK, let’s go.” I tell her, “I have to wait for my prescriptions and I’ll probably have to sign something.” Waiting at the doorway I am handed a handful of prescription slips and doctor’s recommendations. “Uh, we have to stop at the pharmacy before I get home, if that’s cool?” I asked Carie. She approves as she walks a couple steps ahead of me forgetting that I wasn’t as mobile. I’m walking very slowly and because I didn’t want to get myself in any pain until I had some pain pills. We get to the elevators but this time I was leaving. With the lobby button lit up, I start thinking of what was going to happen once I got home and what other issues are going to surface due to my handicapped chest.

The excitement of putting this behind me hit exactly when the elevator doors opened and I saw the main entrance. Glass doors exposed the freedom outside to the parking lot. I felt so insecure walking the fifty feet to the automatic sliding door to the outside world. Tape marks all over my arms and in plain view because of my t-shirt, all my spots with hair long and unkempt covering my malnourished, depleted body. It was obvious that I was real sick and my face just confirmed how much I had been through. Walking through the threshold where in Florida the AC and hot, humid air outside met and felt so good, the humidity immediately taking away the chill of the hospital. Listening for a second for all the familiar sounds I had missed for the last week. Honking cars, birds, the wind shaking the palm trees, car doors getting swung closed and my feet against the road and patches of grass in between rows of the parking lot.

Now, where is the Exploder? Carie is growing impatient with my lack in speed and awareness starts the typical annoyed breath and exhale, feeling like I’m lost. I start pressing the panic button on the keychain, literally and figuratively, in order to hear the obnoxious horn of the Exploder somewhere close. “Oh, there it is.” She takes the keys from my hand and walks ahead of me toward my car. As I’m approaching the Exploder I wonder if I can drive or not because of my limited range of motion or the seatbelt right across my dislocated rib. The little things I didn’t quite work out yet, like this, made me realize that it wasn’t going to be fun or easy to come back from this. It’s not the worst thing to be suffering from, but the pain and discomfort is going to last a long time, or at least longer than I can afford right now.

I can open the door but getting in it might be a problem. I guess it’s better than a car that’s lower than the Exploder. The only option that made sense was back my skinny ass up to the edge of the seat and squirrel my legs or using my arms, which worked with limited pain. She fires up the Exploder and since I haven’t heard her engine in awhile, it sounded like shit. I was fucked up, my car was fucked up, but it was familiar and gave me a sense of support from my old reliable friend. The Exploder and I have been through a lot, so it was somewhat ironic that I was in it at this time in my life.

Here we go, the speed bump throughout the maze of the hospital parking lot hurt every time as we made our way out. Idling at the intersection I look at my arms as I hold them side by side in front of me. They look awful as Carie confirms it with a glance as she then burned a hole through the red light holding us up. Tape residue marked the outline of everything they stuck in my arm, the needle holes still marked with a tiny spot of blood. Leaning back to get my head to rest for a second, I felt my shoulders straighten a little and I wince in pain and return my head to where it was. My driver looks over at me to notice a fraction of my trouble. It was not a far drive back to my hood, but I just put the window down to enjoy the warm breeze that I loved about driving in South Florida. Over the bridge and a couple turns later we get Walgreens and I am dreading walking inside with all my battle scars, so I grab a hoodie that was at the backseat on top of my golf bag to hide myself. Just looking at my clubs was saddening, let alone feeling so strange being in public.

CHAPTER 15

Head down dragging my feet, slowly walking inside, around other people hoping they wouldn’t look at me like I was sick and confirm my fear. I reach the line and start to wonder what the people that I’m standing with are waiting for. I was holding firmly multiple fresh scripts from a hospital stationary slip when I give this to the dude he is going to know what’s up. Starting to peak around the line at the people around me I caught eyes with a hot little cougar behind me. She smiled, and I got stuck for a second, looked away. A bit shocked I had to think about how to respond, my head still clouded by drugs.

I turned back around and complained, “Ugh, I’m dying here.” Basically because I felt she deserved a response from me but my weak mind and body could only come up with the truth, but she obviously I had no idea how true it was. There was a couple of people ahead of me in line that I tried to size up and guess if they were going to be quick or not. Are they regulars? Hopefully the pharmacist knows them and I can get in and out as I’m struggling to act normal and forget about how much pain I was in. My weak chicken legs give me doubts on how long I can keep this up.

Handing the pharmacist my handful of scripts. He investigates as I worry about the cost of everything and whether I can afford it knowing I have not been able to check my balance. Couple minutes he says, and exhale with relief and turn to look for a comfortable place to rest, to find out the chairs behind me were pretty low and probably not the greatest idea. I’ve been laying down for about a week straight and a little time vertical on my feet might help I realized before I attempted to sit in the blue waiting room chair they could have bought used from a dentist’s office. My name was called and I quickly get to the counter to complete my necessary mission. I get one bottle of antibiotics consisting of ten pills, one bottle of percocets, muscle relaxers, a bottle of Motrin, and a bottle of Prilosec. Total cost about $150, ten antibiotic pills for $100, ten bucks a pill and I wasn’t even convinced they were necessary after I’ve been getting it intravenously for days. This pretty much cleaned me out: Walking out feeling like I was actually raped. I couldn’t even express emotion. I was so fucked. Climbing back into the car to go a couple blocks south to the motel, I didn’t say a word, clutching my bag of pills as if they were the only good thing I had going. Everything else at the time was negative. The good news I’ve heard recently was followed immediately by results of other snowballing problems soon as I dodged one bullet I got hit by another.

CHAPTER 16

Arriving at my place at the motel to clean sheets and a blonde on her knees putting the finishing touches on my bathroom, wasn’t a bad welcome but I wasn’t even interested in anything other than a real shower. Trying to get my bearings straight on where everything was I needed, I kick the girls out and started showering with a dislocated rib. I will never take a shower for granted ever again, anticipating the awesomeness of hot water clean and the clean feeling before the steam clears from the bathroom.

First, I rigidly shuffle through my t-shirt, as I have been to get it off and position myself in front of the mirror reaching to turn on the hot water. As I look up from the sink and stare at my reflection I say, “What the fuck? God!” then stare back, blow out a breath of severe frustration I start. By using the full length of my fingers I haphazardly spread around shaving cream on my furry face, leaning with my left arm on the sink for some stability I slowly bring my arm up to get the razor to my face, by using the end of the razor’s handle I can reach the bottom of my sideburns and start shaving down. The dull razor versus my course beard made me double up on my down strokes, which made me feel like I was doing some carving to reveal my face. Remember that my rib never stopped hurting since that night, never, I’ve felt it for hundreds of hours, minutes and seconds, shaving away the beard I never saw grow made me think about the time I lost and the time I’m going to lose because of the rib that keeps reminding me of how much it hurt.

Watching the hair go down the drain I lean as far as I could from the hips to splash water on my face I had to keep everything close to my body to prevent any severe spikes in pain. If anyone close by watching me get water in my hands to my face would laugh for sure. I looked like an idiot needless to say there was water everywhere. By now I know that my ability to use my arms and hands pretty much depended on whether my task was in front of me and in my general t-rexish like reach. I get naked by just initiating gravity and get the elastic waste band of my boxers over my hips that were used to managing like 30/40 or more pounds.

Everything came off of me so easily because of all the weight I lost, even skinny me wasn’t used to it. Pulling the shower curtain open to get to the faucet I just look down at how far I had to go to get it going, wondering how I should go about getting that low. For days now I’ve only had to lay down, sit or stand up, so I wasn’t sure if this was possible without killing my chest. Do I bend at the waist and reach or should I bend at the knees? Thankfully, my workouts included abs because it was the only thing that saved me in these situations. I tightened up to keep my upper body still and bent my knees as far as I needed to in order to reach the faucet over the tub.

A couple of grimaces the water was on full blast I stood back up with help from the toilet. Oh, yeah! This is what I’ve been waiting for, cleansing my body from the hospital and my grossness. Looking down on my body I contemplate doing some man-scaping but quickly refuse the task to the feeling of steam building up. Getting in and immediately forgetting how hard it was to twist the temperature knobs, the hot water scalding me sped up my moves to fix it. Soon as I had that under control I just let the water hit me and warm my body as I rotated slowly to get my hair, neck, and back. Showering never felt so good. I could just feel the stale sweat, dirt, and a week of not washing run down my body from hair. Literally standing there just getting wet for about ten minutes relishing the feeling.

As the water starts to lose its heat, I was like fuck that I haven’t even started soaping up. The trip down to the faucet was necessary for the third time. Thinking about a possible starting point I landed on washing my nappy weird fro that has developed. I could get my hands up to about my forehead but not ot the top of my head so I just put a shit load of shampoo in my palms and tried to get as much of my hair as possible by moving my head around to keep my arms low enough to not aggravate my rib. So it was the opposite of what I would normally do, but it worked enough for the first shower.

Liberally dumping body-wash everywhere and gently washing my reachable front parts was all I could physically complete. The only backside parts that got clean were ones I got to through reaching under my legs, turning my shoulders was not possible. For good measure I washed my hair again using residual suds to go over my front side one more time. My last step was to bend into the now cool water stream to the faucet to shut the party down.

Stepping out and just air drying for a second I get the towel around me and walk straight to the bag o’ drugs. Emptying everything on the table and sifting through to find the good stuff I tear up the pharmacy bad to the pain pills, reading the directions to take as needed every six to eight hours I thought of whether my pain will be tolerable by the end of this bottle. So this means two now and then two more before bed and I’ll start tomorrow with two every meal and two before bed, eight a day, starting with the antibiotic, muscle relaxer, prilosec and motrin for breakfast.

CHAPTER 17

Popping the first two painkillers since I got home I went through the others, which I only took once a day. I’ve never really took pills I “needed” and as medication so it made me feel like an elderly person categorizing with weekly pill cases to ease confusion. Next step was some clean clothes and fresh boxers, another privilege I took for granted as I opened all the drawers to view all my options. Fearing I would be pulling my belt father down the line of holes in the leather I went with elastic gym shorts and a nice comfy t-shirt for now and pulled out a hoodie and long sleeve in case I needed it. I stood, paced, sat in my chair at the table and thought of what was going to happen when I stepped outside. I felt insecure about a lot of things but at the moment it was more about the feeling of not having anyone to really to talk too. I’m probably going to have to tell this story a million times and it’s so crazy, it’s actually unbelievable.

The percocets started to kick in and I felt a nice head rush that put me at ease. I shouldn’t try anything too crazy when I go out. Baby steps, it was just like taking baby steps. It’s like when you are walking with a little kid where you feeling like you are waiting after every step for their tiny little legs to catch up. It’s very frustrating and in my case not as cute.

Turning the corner toward the beach, I hope not to get spotted but I’m so slow that I see my Carie and T who sees me and with surprise opens her mouth then covers it with her hands in shock. I do what I always do, smile to cover up my distress or discomfort. Now I have to explain what happened to me, this started the storytelling and the reason I’m writing this book. I t began like this, short version I got E. coli from a salad, almost died. I threw up so hard I dislocated a rib from my sternum. That was usually enough to spark questions about the details and depending on the person, I would choose to indulge them or not. In this situation, the fresh ear I had from little T was enough for me to talk about significant details, which makes it more bizarre and confusing. As I’m explaining the brothers walk by in between work or some shit, but with very little interest they listen, give some small talk, and continue on their way. Knowing what I’ve already heard and seen from these fucks, they were most likely assuming I was full of shit and continued to run their mouths about me being a drug addict or something. How could I possible make this shit up? After the awkward meeting, the mood got weird and I didn’t want to be there another second longer, so I started my slow trek to the beach which was only about 500 ft away. Walking away I couldn’t help but be bothered of what just happened, the only thing on my mind was my chest and these fucking assholes thinking I’m still lying about everything. I’m not a liar. I have lied and worked hard to be an honest person after realizing that the truth is always the better route. So for me, this treatment is insulting, unfair and pisses me the fuck off. I didn’t appreciate that or the feeling of having that affect my mood. Then hearing the waves hit the beach made me begin to forget about this looming bullshit inching closer to having it in view. I love the ocean, always have and always will, it makes me happy. I’m drawn to it. Being the scenic dude that I am, the view is something that always gives me chills. I feel a warm shiver emanate throughout my body, like a mix of the beginning and end of the chills.

My feet hit the sand at the end of the walkway by the shower, stopping to rest and reap the fruits of my labor. That was the longest distance I’ve walked in awhile. Checking myself over, I remember the pain pills were helping me out. Walking out further onto the beach toward the water I felt like this time the chills of happiness and excitement weren’t there. This depressed me enough to just get my feet wet and turn back to my place to lie down.

Taking it slow all the way back it turned out to be a long, tiring trip so I thought I would do this again tomorrow. Maybe, use it to fill parts of my day considering I was not able to do shit for two weeks. Home, looking at the remote and pressing the power button made me think of al the TV I had watched, which I knew that I wouldn’t be doing much else, accepting the reality of my recovery.

The worst part of watching a ridiculous amount of TV is that you know what’s on at what times, to me that was sad if you don’t need the channel guide. My life now involved reruns and commercial filled movies on any one of four or five channels I typically flipped through. I let it keep me company while I rummaged for some food to eat, not particularly because I had an appetite but because I was ready for some drugs, knowing that I should put something in my stomach to mix with all the drugs. I didn’t have much but snacks, granola bars, trail mix and leftover shit from my visiting friends who now were at grandma’s in Boca. I fought through a couple mouthfuls of whatever wasn’t stale, took more drugs kept a drink and the necessities close by the bed within reach. Nervous about my first night back in my bed, I’m a little hesitant to make moves that might really hurt and negate my pain pills I just took. They were supposed to last me the whole night, something I questioned whether I could do or not.

CHAPTER 18

Grabbing the corner of my semi-neatly tucked sheets pulling them open enough to arrange my pillows and give my crippled body a wide berth when I was ready to go horizontal. Like getting into the car I had to reverse in and turn on my butt to get into sleep position. The only possible way to sleep was on my back. I didn’t even try anything else. Propping up a pillow like a back-rest to resemble the angle necessary for my chest in case I had to get out of bed again during the night. The only other time I got flat was for the MRI and we all know how painful that was.

Slowly getting my back closer to being settled on the bed my rib hurts and the pain increases all the way until I was down, so I just tried to relax and breathe the pain away. Flipping through the channels watching whatever movie was on until my pain pills helped me nod off. The next time I opened my eyes it was morning, like six a.m., scanning the room with my eyes to double check that I wasn’t still in the hospital. I feel the pain in my chest, which brings me to get up and start the medication process. My dependent body most likely woke me up but I was still glad I slept through the night without any major issues. Pacing around my table trying to arrange a drink to administer my pills I start thinking of how much time I have in the new day to do nothing. Prior to the past couple weeks my days were so long, being accustomed to busy days made me feel that until I get back to work I was going to be bored as shit. Free time was a luxury that I never anticipated having.

Sitting at the chair at the table I rest in silence contemplating the severe change in my schedule and the growing effect it’s going to have on my near future. Even if I was healthy I would drive myself insane from boredom, the fact was that with my dislocated rib made it impossible to do anything but chill out. What can you do with your day when you are in constant pain? I have no money, no strength, no appetite, and I can’t drive so I’m trapped at the motel for two weeks. At least the beach was right there or I would have absolutely nowhere to go. Going over the scenario over and over, again and again in my head, I found no other solution than to just accept my fate and be patient.

As the sun starts warming up, I waited for anyone to be up and about by drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes that I found mysteriously in my drawer. I thought to enjoy another shower while I waited for the painkillers to hit me. I mean shit one of the most exciting parts of my days now was getting lit up from percocets. The irony of it all was crazy I’ve never had a prescription before with the exception of antibiotics or allergy medication I took once when I moved back to CT from college. Now, I coveted my pain pills as a necessary evil to relieve my 24/7 chest pain, meanwhile the rumor I was an addict seemed more viable now than ever because of my dependence on them to help me get through the day.

Speaking with my parents after showering and dressing myself, talking to them about some of the concerns that were floating around in my head, they did the only thing they could do for me which was hook me up with some cash. I didn’t need gas, I couldn’t drink and I was completely sidelined in golf and work so I didn’t have any income to live and my savings for gold tourneys was meaningless now. I moved down to So Florida with very little money, like $400 dollars, future unemployment checks until I got a job, $1000 of sponsorship money for golf. Two visits to the Biltmore driving range landed me the job I needed according to my plan. This was October/November when I started work as outside staff, so I worked while I practiced at the Biltmore’s Donald Ross Resort Course. This job gave me freedom to take time off, play and practice for free but didn’t pay all that well even with tips, so if I didn’t work I didn’t make money, the crux of the life of a pro. With two weeks ahead of me, zero income, I couldn’t afford rent which was due in a week, so I had to roll the dice like I had done so many times before. My new budget, which was just crossing off expenses for anything golf related, was now minimal to say the least. For at least the next six months I was now prepared to rehab my rib, while doing so I would miss the entire 2009 season.

This being my initial 24 hours away from the hospital and on the road to recovery, I feel this is going to be a long day. Knock. Knock. It’s Carie checking up on me. She was most likely on her way somewhere else so she walks in quickly and gets to the kitchen, panning around as to survey my place and everything in it. I sit in my chair as she stands and we have small talk until she makes an excuse to exit. Left alone again I channel surf until frustration, subconsciously wishing that something I haven’t seen was on and I would be able to kill a couple of hours. Nothing. TV sucks. Stepping outside to smoke a cigarette noticing the grey overcast sky put another damper on the day. I need some sun and warmth. I felt defeated once more and just went back inside and shut the door.

The attitude that I exhumed even to myself was unfamiliar at best, even when it was bad or even really bad, I always kept a positive outlook in a cavalier sort of way by simplifying the situation. It’s mostly perceived as recklessness the way that I say it in person but in actuality it’s because I try to keep things in perspective, long term. People tend to make things a big deal no matter how trivial, easy going me was now having trouble keeping myself out of depression.

I would say that since ‘04/’05 I vowed to myself to be happy, if I wasn’t, make it so. I was not happy, powerless against self-gratifying change. Golf had been my life for the past 4 to 5 years. First starting when I worked as a gold pro on a cruise ship out of New Orleans, making trips to Mexico every four days or 5 days. My current mind frame was negative and my life on a treadmill. In order to understand this life, low point, I’m going to rewind my story to the point where I re-found my passion for golf. The reason I’m in South Florida to begin with, to play golf.

++++++++++++++++++++++

aRiSKocrat the Pursuit

CHAPTER 19

I’ve heard that it takes 10,000 hours of experience to become an expert at something. 10,000 hours, whether that’s actually true or not, I really don’t give a shit. To compare all the time I have dedicated to the game of golf it serves its purpose. Hypothetically let’s say, I would play just New England’s summer months when I wasn’t in school. June, July, and August. 90 days we will call it, 2,160 hours, take 12 hours of those 90 days, that is 1,080 hours. From lets say 10 summers of roughly 1,080 hours of golf that equals about 10,800 hours If my math is off, who gives a shit what the fuck ever, I’m an expert by this rule by the age of 17, the end of high school, having played competitively since the age of 7 without a single golf lesson. 30 now but either way the 13 years after high school I played more golf than ever before. My best guess is that in addition to the already established 10k hours, I have put in over 60k hours since college, making me an expert 6 times over by the time I ended my twenties.

Getting back home from college I owed my parents some help with the house because of the devil I became while I was getting “an education” 2 miles from the Atlantic Ocean in sunny South Florida. I spent that summer and fall fucking around, smoking weed, drinking in between working on our outside deck, re-shingling the roof and yard work. By that winter I started going stir crazy in my parents house, leaving every weekend to Boston, NYC, or visit my sister at school. A friend of mine from town went to golf school instead of college. Landing him a job as a pro on cruise ships. He recommended me for a job with the company that outsourced pros. We were in CT, the company was in South Florida, so I went back and forth with one of the managers, I guess you would call him, with emails and phone calls the result was a job opportunity. The interview was, flying down to play golf with this guy to prove I could actually play, let alone teach. I knew it was in the bag when I agreed to it. Shit, this was going to be crazy. All this time and money on college and I become a golf pro on a cruise ship, ha.

I packed my clubs and some clothes and stayed at my buddy P’s place in Pompano Beach, and went to play this dude for a job. After a hole or two he admits it was a waste of time to check me out. I got the job, but he just wanted to get out of the office for the afternoon, so we played as the sun fell to the west. After 9 holes he tells me that I’m a good fit for the job, I will have a lot of fun but they have to wait until there is an opening on one of the ships. These pros just kind of hop around the world by switching ship routes at the end of mostly everyone’s standard 6 month long contracts.

CHAPTER 20

Ship life, it’s called and I had never even been on a cruise ship before, a 12 to 14 story Titanic like vessel, 3 football fields or more in length, where people vacation on the high seas. What am I getting myself into? I was fucking pumped, just waiting for that call to get me out of my hometown. March rolls in and I get an abrupt, very last minute schedule to leave in a couple days, fly to Ft. Lauderdale, then chill out for a night before my connecting flight to where ever my new floating home would be. So fast, so crazy, very nerve racking but this was going to be an experience of a lifetime and I wasn’t going to miss it.

I had like two days to get my shit together before I was out the door. Working part time at the local liquor store stocking booze and also working part time at the town wellness center making sure nobody got hurt and cleaning all the fitness equipment. I quit that shit so fast, sorry, got a job on a cruise ship, peace! I’ve had million different jobs and I loved quitting all of them, but this time, it was great telling them why.

Packing strictly essentials: clothes, golf clubs, guitar, plus what they needed, a suit and some formal attire, I squeezed it all into (minus the clubs and guitar) 3 bags My carry on backpack filled with everything I would need if all was lost, my garment bag with foldable shirts and pants, a camping pack, the big one that covers your entire back and head. I laid everything out I wanted to the last night when I stuffed as much of my shit in everything possible, then playing games of substitution and subtraction. Within 48 hours, I quit my jobs and packed a fresh start into 3 bags and got on a plane leaving my worried parents at home. Relishing the feeling of my decision to just go do it, I went through LaGuardia Airport bag check and security not even looking back. Prior to this, the biggest move I made was to the dorms on campus in college and that decision was planned well before I ever landed in Palm Beach Airport. I loved golf, if you love what you do, you will never feel like you have never worked a day in your life. That’s what I wanted, the good life, Che Beune Vita!

I nervously paced around the airport terminal my guitar in hand, hours early due to my excitement. So nervous, catching eyes of random girls and thinking, she would think I was super fucking cool if she knew what I was doing at the airport. It was so new to me, not only get back into golf but to be living on a cruise ship. Doing this completely on my own basically going against everyone’s advice, for me, just me, no on else. I knew what was expected of me, but in the broader sense, I had no fucking clue what I was doing.

After boarding and settling into my seat I started going over the situation more seriously in my head. I couldn’t smoke weed because I was to be tested when I got my cruise mandated physical. I had little money, I had no idea where I was going yet and I had no real notion of what living in a floating hotel was going to be like. This was going be fucking nuts!

What kind of plan could you devise from the unknown, if you don’t know what to expect there is no way to anticipate anything. I sat back listening to music thinking about golf. The sport that I fell back on was the one thing that I did for myself that has brought nothing but good things to me. Playing golf was my way to escape the cookie cutter expectations of a college graduate, I’m just not that dude. I don’t think I’m capable of living my life in a monotonous routine. The usual progression that is the status quo, get a job, work forever, get a girl, marry her, knock her up, and have a kid. That sounds bland and simplistic the way I just put it but ultimately that’s what I assumed to be expected of me. The journey toward my destiny is going to define me and not a job title or salary. I wanted to live life and experience the thrills of rolling the dice. This is how I wanted to live my life, spontaneously embarking on adventures that might lead to something better.

CHAPTER 21

Couple hours later I arrived in Ft. Lauderdale, bags in hand scanning the crowd for the dude that I played with for my interview. He finds me, helps with my shit and we are heading straight to the cruise ship medical clinic to get my physical. Nervous as shit, I am allowed to smoke a cigarette and get some food before my appointment. I remember it looking like the first level of Pac-man, the waiting patients being the ghosts in the middle waiting for their chance to make there way around the maze of furniture to an examination room. The waiting room was in the middle of two nurse stations with rooms around the outside. No bedside manner or polite demeanor, straight faces and bad posture filled the room. I have been around plenty of doctors for me to see the scene at this place it didn’t seem at all like the real deal. Even for a confused non-career oriented college graduate I thought to myself, the doctors who worked at this place must have gotten bad grades through Medical school to deserve this clinical nightmare.

Getting called after waiting patiently was a relief, being on step closer to exiting this creepy little medical facility. The nurse goes through the typical routine. The doctor goes through his checklist, you know, “cough.” Moving right along, they submit my blood work and urine, and we are close to wrapping this physical up. I start actually feeling a bit comfortable with the doctor and decide to ask him about my wrist in which I had broken years earlier, never quite fixed, and still bothering me from time to time.

“I broke my wrist awhile back, can you take a look at it for me?” I asked politely. Now, the reason for this inquiry was because I was not under the impression that I was going to play golf the rest of my life and just wanted to be sure it wasn’t going to be a lingering problem. The doctor replies with a rude sarcastic tone, “Are you sure you want me to look at your wrist, it’s probably not a good idea considering your going to be a golf pro, right?” I kept my mouth shut as he walked away thinking, fuck you! Dick! If you don’t look at it in the first place, how the fuck, are you going to assume it would be detrimental to teaching golf? Really? Stupid fucking doctor passing judgment on a patient, get me the fuck out of here. I walk out to meet my ride all smiles because I just got cleared to embark on my intended journey.

Now we had time to kill, basically because this guy had no place to put me. We stopped at their “headquarters” in Sunrise, FL where they would give me paper work to fill out, got a quick tour of the office, equipment breakdown and then off to play 9 before sunset. Putting my golf shoes on it felt like some sort of pre-game montage. I pictured myself getting ready for a tournament. Everything felt good, the shoes on my feet, the glove on my hand and a club in my hand on the first tee. I was beginning to feel like this was my true calling.

CHAPTER 22

I have heard that, the chances of an amateur or aspiring tour pro is close to 1 and a million. Players that shoot par or better are within the top 1% in the world. This little facts or sort of facts are to show that to be in the top level of competition you have either be one in a million or good enough to play within that 1% or less, .5%. After the last 9 holes I would play in the states before boarding the cruise, I believed it to be my chance to make it to the big show. I was told that I was staying the night at the pro house that was company owned or rented in the area, West Lauderdale. There were a couple other pros living there and someone was going to drive me to the airport at 5 a.m. to catch my 6 a.m. flight to New Orleans and my new port of call.

We arrive, to find there was no one home so, the dude waited impatiently with me, checking his phone every 30 seconds. It got dark and dude had enough and left me alone to wait. Luckily the pros that lived there showed up half cocked from happy hour, introduced themselves, ordered me some food and then said they were going out, most likely be back to drive me to the airport. Uh, what? Most likely, what the fuck is that? Are you going to get me there on time or should I make other arrangements? “You’re good dude, don’t worry” is what I got as a reply.

I stayed up by myself in an aparment I didn’t know, with people I didn’t know, so it’s safe to say I slept with one eye open. Unable to sleep out of not only excitement but worry that they were going to flake on me. You know the typical story, I’m too drunk, you drive him type slurred verbal battle. I hear them step in at around 4 a.m., immediately sitting up for them to notice I was up and ready, dude says that other dude is driving me, but he’s going to bed. Now I’m up, anxious and nervous about the possibility of missing my flight. I just wait as the sun starts to rise my watch tic tocking its way to 5 a.m., then 5:30. Fuck. I’m fucked, then, sure enough, “OK, let’s go.” Half drunk and asleep dude gives me about 10 minutes to check my bags and literally run with my guitar to my gate as my name is being called on the loudspeaker. Everyone I passed on the way to the gate connected my hustle to the name being called throughout the terminal. A bit sweaty and out of breath I’m the last asshole on the plane of course every passenger is burning a hole in me as I shuffle my shit around as I reach my seat.

Feeling a little déjà vu when I settle in with my music and magazine I look past the guy next to me in the window seat and out at Florida, thinking, Peace, I’m out.

CHAPTER 23

The flight across the Gulf of Mexico to New Orleans is like an hour and a half it felt really quick having to get back up for my luggage waiting in that place line where no one says aloud what they all are thinking. GOOOOO! Crossing the threshold where the plane ends and the gateway begins, feeling the humid warm air seeping in between the gap, felt real good. All I had to do from here was collect my shit and find the bus to the cruise terminal. What I didn’t realize that I would stick out like a sore thumb. Traveling solo amongst the families, couples and groups of vacationers I would see for the next 4 days, I could only laugh and smile to myself at my naivety, as I get more excited about being a golf pro on a cruise ship.

The bus lets out at the terminal to a view of lines and luggage. Making my way with all my bags through the maze of people making their way into different lines, I get a look at the ship and my jaw drops. Holy shit, the ship is fucking huge. I used to see them in port in Miami and Ft. Lauderdale from a distance. Up close, it’s like a skyscraper. Humbled, incredibly nervous and lost as shit someone notices my confusion and points me the right direction. Beyond the security fence was another entrance, smaller hardly any people and seemingly far away. I trek across the open area away from the crowds getting increasingly tired and annoyed from my 100 plus pounds of crap strapped to me. Finally reaching the gangway I put down all of my belongings just to show ID and put it all back on to walk and check in somewhere inside this huge boat. Feeling sheepish I follow the others ahead of me to check in and get my cabin assignment.

Walking onto the 12 story high cruise ship I became incredibly overwhelmed as I check everything out under protection of my shades. It was all crew running around, going in this door, up the stairs, it was like when you walk into a huge party standing there clueless where to make your first move. Humbled and quiet, I wait in what I think is the right line, behind a couple others with as much luggage as I. The uniformed secretary like creature behind the counter looked me up and down as she handed me my temporary keys to my staff cabin and contact information with a deviant looking smile.

Walking away slowly as I questioned whether to turn back and ask her why she gave me that face, more concerned to get my shit off my shoulders somewhere safe. Walking out into the wide hallway, I turn and look both directions to decide my next move. Looking at the doors, like ship doors, with no corners raised from the floor and in a long row down the corridor. I notice some numbers and try to match any to the room number on my little key envelope. Pick a door, any door. Fuck it, waddling myself with my small list of bags across the main hallway. Finding the right area, getting over the doorstep, into another small corridor and closing the door for some privacy, my load gets dumped off my shoulders and I release the numerous straps and handles in my hands. Finally a breather, just hoping to catch my breath and to not be seen I lean back against the wall with a feeling of accomplishment.

The cabins were packed in like you would expect, maximizing efficiency by sacrificing space. Looked like a self-storage facility, no windows, only doors the same shape and color as the next, a beige sort of khaki color walls separated only by the metal trim of the doors, and on the doors, numbers. Leaving my stuff where I dropped it I started toward the next intersecting hallway. It was longer hallway and well lit so I just followed the numbers to my new room. Finding it, I immediately turn around to grab my bags before I lose them.

Making my way through the tight cabin hallway, unlocking the door and shoveling my shit into the room with some hustle. The door shuts behind me and I stand over my nomad starter kit looking at a room with bunked beds, a dresser, TV, small desk and shower all with one step of each other. Literally, one step in any direction you would be hitting some furniture. I just smiled and shook my head in utter amazement. I was just so glad to be done traveling at the moment with everything accounted for. OK, progress. Sweaty from the trip it was time for a shower.

The “bathroom” was almost completely covered in metal, shockingly small, even after being surprised at the room size. The best way to describe it would that be you can use the toilet while being able to turn on the sink and the shower without getting up. There is no way two people could fit in that bathroom. You can turn anywhere with your arms without immediately being impeded by a bathroom fixture. Everything in the room was a step away and everything in the bathroom was in reach. Fucking tight quarters.

After almost two days in humid weather I took a long shower, washing the two flights, nine holes, and many feet of walking off and stepped out of the tiny shower ready for anything. Not knowing anything or anyone on the ship I just grabbed my guitar and climbed up to the top bunk and played. The top bunk was scary as shit. There was no ladder, 5 feet to fall and about 3ft between sheets and ceiling. Really tight quarters, I obviously had the top bunk for however long and I just pictured myself getting some bumps and bruises from top bump adventures. I squeezed myself and guitar in, shuffling around to find the position with the most freedom and played what I could while I thought about waking up and slamming my face into the ceiling as a reflex to sleeping in a bed with higher ceilings. I could only smile and laugh, realizing that this was going to be awesome and full of all new experiences.

CHAPTER 24

A couple hours into my private time I hear the door unlock and open as my new roommate shows up in sailor whites. Holy shit, people have to wear that! I thought to myself as I immediately forget his name and get reminded simultaneously by his nametag. He was from Trinidad and Tobago, accountant. Ha ha, accountants have to wear that shit! I held the laughter to myself. After our introductions he gives me the run down on some things. The cabin, the mess hall, the staff mess, all the essentials I needed. He informed me about my predecessor and the reputation of golf pros, which was good for me after hearing that they party a lot, have it easy, and the chicks working on the ship tend to love them. Sweet.

My new roommate was on break at the time, showered quickly then took me to eat lunch in the staff mess. On ships the food situation was usually at particular times separating the crew from the staff and the officers. On this size ship there were something like 1300 crewmembers, along with 3K something guests. The crew mess was a huge dining hall filled with various uniforms and ethnicities. The staff mess was much smaller, two rooms, with much better food and accommodations. They had servers, tending to dishware and restocking the many trays of food. It was undoubtedly much cooler to be staff, which I was.

Leaving me to fill his plate, my roommate would talk and say hello to mostly everyone sitting at the tables. Famished and nervous I focus on what I could fit on my plate without looking like a gluttonous fat ass spilling salad and or sauce all over the floor. Satisfied with my initial selection I pick my head up to find my roommate and notice multiple pairs of eyes on me like it was my first day in prison. We had some uniformed staff, non-uniformed ladies covered in make up who must have been the showgirls and then bright colors of the Camp Carnival babysitting group. Everyone else would take an obvious long stare at my nametag, which were required to be on you everywhere at all times. Mine said, Chris Lubrano, Golf Pro, USA. I saw spa, casino, and gym as professions on different people’s tags, quite a mixed bag to go along with many different accents and skin tones. Out of the 1300 crew members, there was a large part of the world’s countries represented in the vastly diverse cruise underground.

English speaking crew and staff members, meaning English as there native tongue, was said to be around 40 or so. Wow, as a white boy I really felt like the minority. This number included; US, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, England, Ireland, South Africa. I was like 1 or maybe 5 to 10 from the states. Craziness, this was a global party, or work environment. I felt like every fact was so exciting to hear like finding a plastic Easter eggs with candy or money inside on an Easter Sunday egg hunt.

Following my new bunkmate’s lead I sit where he does at an empty table near the entrance/exit. All the crew that are in and out of the mess hall, kind of double take me when they notice me as a fresh rookie. Then walks in a dude in golf gear, going about his lunch break, my roommate points in his direction to confirm that he was the guy I was looking for. Finally feeling a bit less awkward having a fellow golfer, American, and guide now here to explain what’s what in this heap. He spots me as he is making his way to a seat, pops a chair across from me and sits. Introductions happen, then small talk as we finish eating and leave. Soon after our exit we get into the nitty-gritty of my new position.

The looming part was the work, if you could even call it that. The Tarheel native toured me around to the equipment closet filled with bags of clubs, balls, and accessories. To the accounting office for money drops and charges and to the computer stations we used to bill lessons, golf excursions and merchandise. We stopped by the “pro shop” which was only two display cabinets with hats, shirts, and aesthetic novelties and we went up to the top deck pool to check out the cage. On the pool deck! A netted practice cage stood in between the bar and the pool surrounded by beach chairs with a view of downtown New Orleans and the French Quarter. Sick! I’m all about the view when I saw the city skyline knowing we were afloat at the mouth of the mighty Mississippi River. I got seriously pumped up. Smiling so hard to the point when you have to tell yourself to stop.

CHAPTER 25

The plan was to shadow my mentor throughout the day, learning along the way. On days in port in New Orleans, dropping off and picking up new people. We had to stand in front of the golf display on the gangway deck, which was the busiest part inside this monster ship, and basically sell the golf services to the cruisers as soon as they’re getting on. We started the, 45 minute, long meet and greet by bullshitting with each under our breaths about the people just as confused as I walking up and through the ship. My mentor told me most people just ask for directions and have questions unrelated to golf. Although, when the occasional flirt made a comment in passing, made standing there like an idiot with slacks and a collared shirt on worth it.

After at least a half hour of the quintessential hospitality like introductions with lost patrons and curious cruisers, we had a little break before the safety drill, which was required prior to launch. Close to every single person had a particular duty except for me, so I chilled in my room a bit before I had to suit up for the first time in a long time. A rule for staff on the ship was that after 7 p.m. you must wear a shirt and tie in guest areas, which were about 8 of the 12 floors. The phone rings in my room, it was my fellow pro to say he was coming by soon and I was to watch him do some sort of speech or something. Being on the ship for only hours, I’ve seen mostly guest areas, still having no fucking clue where I was going.

He picks me up at my cabin and meander our way to the stage, staying in crew areas, similar to my hood with all types of people and things going on. It reminded me of college dorms but much, much less space. Girls walking around, people hanging out in bed and in the hallways, of all types of ethnicities, languages, and looks. Squeezing through unfamiliar hallways wearing my Sunday best, climbing up steep stairs through a labyrinth of crew only areas, reaching to what I was told was the crew bar, the only bar on the ship for crew only. This place was a dive bar, not late enough to turn the lights low, beaten red carpeting, booths, tables and chairs, ping pong table, small opening in the wall for the bar. Sick! I loved it already. It opened late and closed early, they didn’t allow booze to be served before 6 although you could buy anything from snacks to Red Bull. The best part, I was told, that all beers, shots, mixed drinks, or wine was a dollar! Oh boy, this could get ugly, with me, and the ever so accessible crew bar, all I could do was smile out of excitement.

The deal was while the cruise ship was preparing to leave port there was a quick introduction to goods and series available on the ship. Except it was in the theatre, on stage in front of whoever wanted to attend. So to ease the tension, the staff required that were required too make a pitch, everyone would pound a couple of beers before going out alone, on stage. This was ridiculous, I was I suppose to work with all this partying going on? Hard to believe it was possible. There was the spa, the Art Director, the Super Shopper, the Cruise Camp for the kids, the cruise director, the casino host and me, the golf pro. Thankfully I was an observer this time, watching all the people we were drinking with minutes earlier get up on stage, in front of maybe 100 people spread out amongst the theatre seats.

Each department had its own representative; the spa director promoted massages and spa packages, art director pushed paintings, super shopper explained shopping in our ports of call which were, Cozumel, Costa Maya, Playa del Carmen, the camp girls gave babysitting options, casino hostess listed games, the cruise director hosted the whole show and my department which was only me and my mentor gave a spiel on lessons and golf in port. When that was over we left to change, eat and right back to the bar for endless dollar beers. I was so tired after eating I had to lay down for a minute before meeting my wingman at the bar. Ready to go meet the neighbors I coast thru the hallways and up the stairs because the route was now in the memory bank. Close to 10 p.m. the bar is packed now, people still in work clothes, most in casual attire. Completely overwhelmed with the scene, I keep a smile and move through the mix until I find him. He takes me to the bar for a round to bring back to the table while I meet more people from more places with a step in every direction. My mentor was going to a ship in the Mediterranean at the end of this one so the other crew members gave me the impression from their small talk they were looking forward to having a new face around, making me feel more comfortable in my new surroundings.

Having just met dozens of people I drink my beer quickly surveying the situation trying to make sense of ship life. I’m handed a beer from the trombone player in the band as he passes more around, it was so cheap everyone just bought rounds, so I didn’t have to get up for quite some time. When I finally did have to break the seal I felt the boating rocking a bit from the ocean and got my first taste of the motion of the ocean. Holding my hands out as to not fall or knock into anyone, feeling a delightfully stiff buzz I escape the crowd to use the tiny bathroom. Recollecting myself with my liquid courage I went outside on the bow of the massive boat through the crew bar door leading to the ocean breeze, which hit me and waved my shirt like a flag as I looked up and out at the lights of the power plants and oil rigs in the distance. We were only just getting to the open water by way of the Mississippi River Delta. Smoking a cigarette staring at the darkness ahead contemplating my location at that moment in comparison to what I had left back home, I smiled once again.

The small adrenalin rush from my visit to the bow got me excited enough to go back inside and party. Permanently smiling as I loosen up more, starting conversations with anyone willing in order to get acquainted with the resident bar fly’s. The rest gets a little fuzzy, as anyone would suspect, but I woke up a bit hung over in my bed, which was nice. I didn’t hit my head trying to sit up ion bed. It was a good start to my first sea day, hours of travel time across the Gulf of Mexico, where the cruise ship amenities were utilized to the fullest. Our first duty on the 1st sea day was always going to be the putting contest, advertised in each room. Before 8 a.m. I wake to the phone ringing. It was my mentor making sure I was up so we could get breakfast before the ritualistic 9 a.m. putting contest.

CHAPTER 26

Clouded, on a search for coffee I find the endless coffee pot for the crew and fill up. Setting my coffee down gently to save my spot at the table I get some breakfast and we’re off. Taking the crew area route we magically pop out near the assigned meeting area for the putting contest. Noticing a group with their hands in their pockets amongst the early risers us pros find the potential golfers patiently waiting to show off their flat stick skills. My mentor takes the lead and we just run from there, setting up imaginary holes around an area with couches and tables, keeping score and making up the rules as we go. It was like second nature to me. I’ve been doing exactly this by myself for years, in hotel rooms, hallways, offices I worked in, at my parents’ house, anywhere and everywhere with a good surface. It was fun, such a simple little game for practice and participation. It lasted about an hour before our time was up and they started losing interest in the lobby, make believe golf course we created.

Chatting it up with a couple dads or husbands for a bit was kind of strange because all of the conversations ended with questions for me, the golf pro. I’d never really had so much interest from an unassuming person in my golf game or lifestyle. They appeared to be jealous of the way I was living because of my commitment to the game of golf and lifestyle. They mentioned how great it was to have such freedom to be living the dream, playing and teaching golf as a profession. Once I heard it from someone else’s mouth it really resonated with me that this was my calling and I was meant to do something great and golf was going to get me there.

Every moment I could to daze off into a daydream of me swinging a club I would, it was constant. I wanted to be able to answer questions like, what club do you play out of? Have you won any tournaments? Are you going out for the tour? Having absolutely no idea to go about any of that I still couldn’t get it out of my head. I was just itching to hit a golf ball. It couldn’t come soon enough.

The next part of our day on sea days was lessons in the cage, if no one scheduled a lesson, you have to stand there from about 11-4, just in case as to make your presence known. We went below to grab some clubs, a demo bag to showcase the sponsoring brand name club maker, back up the elevator to the top and all the way back to the stern where the cage was. I tried to hold back my desire to just start whacking balls to remain professional and not overly eager. Within minutes of going over lesson plans and guest billing forms I was swinging a club, ready for action.

Satisfying my fix, exhaling on completion, I felt a calmness come over me as if it were a drug pumping through my veins. Finally noticing my surroundings as my partner took a turn, there were girls in bikinis 20ft away, the bright sun and blue water so bright and inviting I had to lean against the railing, the only fixture separating me from the 12 story drop to the ship’s wake below. The water seemed so far beneath me in comparison to the vast horizon hypnotizing me until the other pro snapped me out of it. Spending the full 6 hours out in the sun people watching, talking shop and getting social advice about ship life. Typical guy talk, which girls are available, who is with who, the promiscuous ones and the fun ones that will spend all night at the bar keeping up with you. My education was only to last 4 days so I tried to get as much out of him as possible.

Locking up the cage for the day and retiring to my cabin for a bit I keep close eye on my watch counting down to the sunset. Still in my golf clothes or uniform, I pin on my nametag and head to the pool deck before dinner. Standing near the edge surveying the gorgeous view of the Gulf, all I can see is ocean, the sun slowly dropping off the edge of the earth, it was amazing. Staying until the sun was gone, appreciating my surroundings to the fullest I return to the crew deck for dinner. Sitting with some people I had met the night before, with some new acquaintances mixed in, we talk about what we were going to do that evening. On the ship were various bars, but only one club with a dance floor. The rules were that in order to get into the club, all crew or staff had to be in formal attire, dudes in suits and chicks all dolled up. So for my mentor’s last cruise on that ship, we organized a formal night out.

CHAPTER 26

After a shower and such, I suited up to meet the new gang at the crew bar for a little pre-game. The showgirls are looking good as they file in together, dressed to impress, likely to stir up some trouble with single cruisers that we were inevitably going to see. The crew and the guests were not to get involved on any level or it would result in immediate termination, very strict rules enforced by the ex-Indian military outfit working security. The crew was always watched for such violations, leaving no room for possible situations arising from fraternization. But there are always exceptions, wink wink.

Walking in amongst the group of girls to an empty cruise ship dance foor, all eyes were on us, so glad I was nicely buzzed from the crew bar to curb the awkwardness. The DJ who everyone knows because he was like all of us crew members starts playing unspoken requests knowing what most of the group wants to hear. What a place this was, a traveling party where there was a line between the crew and the guests who actually pay to be on the ship. Different levels of life and reality, my new colleagues lived their lives around people vacationing. The concept is almost confusing, there was a majority finding a serene escape from their lives by vacationing on a cruise, yet underneath was a small city of people living their lives aboard a ship that never stops cruising. It’s like they learned to adapt to the thousand new people every week that boarded the massive boat while still living in the moment and taking advantage of every opportunity or situation. It was inspiring.

Drinking beers in sheer content as I get to know everyone I could or at least the girls that would talk to me. I begin to understand more about ship life with every conversation about privacy, relationship, socializing, and the balance between work and play within the confines of a cruise ship. The lights brighten to symbolize time is up and we exit in smaller groups and pairs than we started with. Paying attention to who is was with whom as to make sure I don’t step on any toes in the very near future. Humbly retiring to my cabin, getting comfortable and passing out drunk for the second night in a row. Waking up without feeling the motion of the ocean, we had arrived in Cozumel, my first day in Mexico, ever. 5:30 a.m., hung over, remembering I was playing golf today, the excitement pushes me to focus without cups of coffee.

CHAPTER 27

Bag, shoes, and smokes, I’m out the door to meet the other pro at the gangway at 6 a.m. ready to roll. The cruisers pool produced no golfers for the Cozumel Country Club golf excursion for 200 bucks a person, so we went by ourselves which is what I wanted anyway, despite losing out on some money making. Being the first ones off the ship we catch a cab to take us a mile to the golf course tucked in an old pineapple grove close to the small runway they called an airport. The town was just starting to wake up as we drove through. Small shops, bars, and restaurants packed into a small strip of waterfront real estate seemingly developed by cruise corporations for the use of its visiting tourists.

Arriving at the clubhouse my mentor brings me in the pro shop to meet the head honcho, pick up a glove and some balls before we hit the range. Lacing up my golf shoes I start to fall into my routine almost immediately, pulling clubs from my bag and walking toward the grass driving range. Knocking the metal basket over to spill golf balls in my practice spot my expression changes, as my competitive focus comes over me. Hearing becomes muffled; my eyes scan the open area for targets, hands relaxed but muscles tightened. I beat my club head on the dry ground as to test the turf’s depth and hardness, swinging my club around my body and brushing the blades of grass with each swing. It felt so natural being one of two people warming up in the hot sun feeling the sweat start to build on my forehead under my hat. Anxious to play this course for the first time but ignoring the fact of out location for a minute, I quickly run through 30 balls or so before I prepare to tee off. Climbing into the golf cart we drive to the 1st tee box, climb out, eyes straight ahead to focusing on the hole in front of me. Whack! The club hits the ball as the tee flips through the air landing a couple feet in front of me, we were playing now. The round went quicker than I wanted, I could have stayed out all day but we had a curfew and wanted to explore the Mexican town.

Back in sandals we take our clubs back to the ship turn back around to use up the last hours before departure to drink while wondering through shops, settling down with the showgirls at an outdoor bar overlooking the ocean and docked ship. Over talk of everyone’s day due to my curiousness of what the crew does in port at Cozumel. A six pack and several cigarettes later I was walking back on the ship smiling ear to ear thinking about my day and how lucky I felt to be able to experience such a unique opportunity. There can’t be that many pros that are willing and able to commit to this job and ship life. I was one of few that could share the same story and I felt privileged to do so.

The second day of training was over, food and a shower sent me straight to bed for a quick time out before we hit the crew bar again that night. Repeating the previous 2 nights I met the other pro there, witnessing some teary-eyed talk of his departure and thought to myself that I would make some really good friends while I’m here. Living, working and playing with such people will probably yield some close relationships, closer than you would think in such a short amount of time. We drank beer after beer again, inhibitions dropping, leading to more sinful conversations.

Thus far the girls I had an eye for were as follows, a couple Australian dancers, a couple Canadian dancers, well, maybe 3 or 4 English girls. Sounds like Noah and the Ark but with some hot chicks instead of the animals. To me it seems to be a better way to re-procreate the world. They all had different qualities I was attracted to but they all possessed a free spirit impulsiveness to experience life in the world, which was incredible. Paired with sexy accents that made them even hotter. The Aussie’s were the first to jump on the bandwagon after drinking and discussing life, family, friends, and dreams. It was incredible hearing about life in Australia, New Zealand, and England, while each made fun of their competing English speaking countries. The camaraderie was great between all the mixes of people all stuck with each other on the ship. Making the most of a good situation.

By the close of the bar at 2 a.m. we all left together like we have been friends forever. It was such a relief to be accepted so quickly by non-judgmental people even though no one really knew each other past a year or two, 2 days now for me and already felt at home. Sleeping through the night, not hitting my head waking up, slightly hung over we arrive at our 2nd destination, Costa Maya, a tiny little beach town about 45 minutes south of Cancun, almost visible in the distance from the ship’s deck.

My new crew reconvening in the staff mess before the gangway opened at 9 a.m. Costa Maya did not have a golf course so it was a free day for us pros as well as most of the showgirls and for the first time the spa girls, everyone called Steiner’s because they were all outsourced from beauty school in London. These Steiner chicks have a reputation among the cruise lines to be quite promiscuous, which was nice.

Waiting in line with dozens of other crew-members desperately awaiting a day off, the ropes go down and the mob starts flowing down hundreds of feet of ocean dock to a small procession of vendors only there to accommodate the vacationing cruisers. As I walked down the pier absorbing this small, almost desolate beach community, it sets in from the other pros demeanor that this was a day off to chill on the hot sand and in the warm water.

After a quick lap around the various shops and stores we separate from some of the group, my mentor takes me to his pick up area for some shuttle to the actual town. Boarding a small converted school bus decorated in Mexican designs and fabrications, we took a 5 min ride down the beach where we’re let off in the beginning of the small rustic beach town. The ocean on the left, with a sandbar that went out far about ¼ mile or more, I fell in love with this place almost immediately. Beach sand replaced paved roads bending palm trees with hanging hammocks replaced stop lights and intersections. I kicked off my flops, stuck them in my back pack as I walked barefoot by native shops and small open air restaurants, it was so authentic and secluded it seemed almost like a movie set complete with little Mexican extras.

Every couple minutes I get tidbits of facts about the town with suggestions on food and cheap drinks. In between bunches of palm trees up ahead were two small buildings that were tiny hotels with quaint tropical landscaping, on the ocean side was a small hut like spot with swings as barstools lining a wooden bar. This was fucking sweet! If only I could import some friends from back home so they could see this. Tossing bags on beach chairs, the girls strip down to reveal bikinis and 95% of their naked bodies. I could not imagine a better gig. My decision was getting better by the day. I took a B line for a bar swing pushing off from the foot rest of the homemade partition separating my feet from kicking over whatever is on the other side. Straight chilling out, all day in the ocean and the sun, smiling so much my cheeks start to hurt. That is an ache I have never complained about. Costa Maya came around every other cruise before we all left I couldn’t wait to go back.

Our time ran out and we went back on the short bus toward the dock, through the crew gangway, back to my room for a shower before dinner. The next day was a sea day as we made our way back across the Gulf to New Orleans. That night most of the group we traveled with stayed in as per an entire day of drinking in the sun, as well as saving themselves for my mentor’s last night and going away party the following evening. The morning comes, opening my eyes to notice the gentle rocking of the ship indicating we were on the move. After breakfast I meet the soon to be memory of the other pro who is hoping for some last day lessons. Walking out into the bright rays of the sun on the pool deck, taking a minute for my eyes to adjust I see the deck chairs almost filled as the cruisers try to squeeze in every hour of tanning before the completion of their short lived vacations.

Sun moving across the sky from the right to left signals the countdown to night and being hours away from being left alone in my new position. Feeling a mixture of excitement and nervousness I managed to stay complacent next to my mentor as he finished out his last sea day. Done at the cage after going over last minute details on making commission and tips we walk through the now empty pool deck riddled with empty cocktail glasses. It was the last hours of day light and it appeared that the cruisers were just as eager to get to shore as my mentor. He tells me that he needs to pack before the night started so I let him be for a while to tend to his chores. I did the same except I didn’t unpack much knowing I would be taking over his room which had 2 beds but no roommate, it was in our contracts that we have our own room. I couldn’t wait.

CHAPTER 28

The vibe of a definite departure of one of the crew’s own felt bittersweet. As I arrived in the crew bar, the crew already there to spend time with the departing golf pro, they looked at him with a disappointing expression then directed their stare to me with a sense of curiosity and adventure. The transition of golf pros was something that most of the crew had seen before, some more than others, but they took advantage of the last bit of memories to be made. I received a lot of encouragement from my man, sincerely complimenting my ability to manage the golf department in the short amount of time I had to learn. In less than 4 days I had met and connected with the appropriate people as well as understand the schedule I was to uphold. The serious work talk faded out after a couple beers as more people started showing up to celebrate his last night out and initiate me as the remaining golf pro simultaneously.

Double digit numbers on the little hand of my watch turned to single digits as the night came to a close. Separating from everyone and returning to bed gave me feelings of anxiety for the morning to come. The plan was to follow the lead of the departing pro to Harrah’s Casino within steps of the cruise terminal. The destination was the very delicious yet economical casino buffet filled with anything and everything.

Cajun to Asian cuisine stretching through numerous stations in the middle of the casino with flashing lights and sounds of the pings and dings of the never ending rows of slot machines. Filling my plate a couple times with goodies from the smorgasbord being raped by many “large” casino natives. Chock-full of buffet food I lean back against the chair with my legs stretched out to stimulate digestion, our group started to thin out as the showgirls, Steiner’s, and poker players hit their respective games. The showgirls were hilarious, managing the 5 steps to their customary slot machine. Ashtray, swiveling chair, adult beverage and lit cigarettes were their common slot amenities as the ladies line up in the row of machines. I have never been a gambling man like my father, probably for that reason. So I circled the showgirls deciphering each game making sense of slot play. Smoking cigarettes like one of the old ladies near by underneath a cloud of smoke I take advantage of cell phone service that is absent away from our port of call. Taking the chance to phone home with stories of my inaugural cruise was my chance to brag of new experiences with a complete lack of concerns for the days ahead.

Leaving the casino close to curfew saying farewell to my dude who broke me into ship life, I walked back through the terminal with some anxiety of my first cruise as the solo pro. Here we go. I was on my own now, butterflies filling my stomach like the endless buffet did. We were on a 4 day cruise schedule to Cozumel and Playa del Carmen, both ports of call had golf courses so I had two days of golf with a chance at making some money. Rushing back to my room I grab my shit to transfer into my new cabin, laying down my bags on the recently cleaned bedding I throw on my formals and head to the display case to promote, shuffling my feet standing in place my instincts start to kick in when I realize that I was all alone now in this endeavor. A fresh population of new cruisers await in line at the gangway peering inside to get a glimpse of their new accommodations. 45 minutes quickly passes with the short conversations with curious guests of whom I was and what I did on ship, showing more interest in where the food was at than what I had to offer.

CHAPTER 29

Equipped now with a staff cabin and a pager for guests and coworker communications, I unpack before my promotional speech on golf excursions in front of an unknown number of filled theatre seats. Following my predecessor’s routine I hang out in the crew bar with my cell phone and a pack of smokes waiting for a familiar face. Getting closer to show time, the department speakers pop in sitting near me at the crew bar booth smiling at my ideas for my cherry-popping commercial. Forcing me to have beers to loosen up my posture in my suit and tie we get called to duty behind the stage curtain. Fuck it, I’m going to wing it as I smile at the others. Who knew a couple beers would open me up to reveal my personality.

On deck behind the Aussie casino hostess I still had been thoughtless on what to say. Suddenly, I’m on, walking out center stage from behind the curtain holding the microphone in my sweaty hands. Surveying the crowd seated in random sections around the first level, I notice several onlookers in crew attire in the doorway that was shared with the cruise ship cluster of retail shops. Adrenalin coursing through my body, the spot lights partially blinding me and shadows of movement in the foreground. I start by smiling and pointing out it was my first day. I said something in my usual jovial yet cocky, cavalier way about being from Connecticut, asking the crowd if anyone knew where that was as I got used to the fact that I was stage trying to make a good impression. Then I paused to remember what I was supposed to be talking about and got through the important points without looking like an idiot, ending abruptly when I realized I had nothing else to say. “Ha ha ha. Wow! I’m glad that’s over”, I said to the last two waiting for their shot. I walked further away from the stage protected by the 50ft curtain as the spa director and the casino hostess congratulated me on a good first go at it, they said, “Don’t worry, you’ll have to do it plenty of times.”

Following the girls through the backstage area we go down a metal staircase to a crew area and magically in front of the crew bar. It was like the crew bar was anywhere and everywhere by the way we always ended up there via crew staircases and catwalks. As we got to know each other over several more beers it ended up to be an early night. Already near the exit door to the bow I went alone to catch us getting out to sea under a clear sky. Since the day was now officially in the books, I went over it in my head enjoying the warm breeze, hypnotized by the calmness of the ocean at night. All you could hear was the ship cutting through the waves, splashing the salty water into the air traveling by the wind high enough to reach me four or more stories above. I went to sleep feeling the gentle rocking of the boat in my new bed.

CHAPTER 30

My cabin in staff quarters assigned to the golf pro was like an upgrade. I was staff and in terms of rank it goes: officers, staff, and crew. Mostly older professionals like directors, navigators, married crewmembers and security. I had two single beds in my cabin, one that flips down above the lower one, a desk, a chair, closet, dresser drawers, and TV. Crewmembers had a random roommate, half the space and none of the privacy I had. I considered myself lucky to have these perks of the job thus sweetening the deal even more. In possession was a phone, a pager and alarm clock, good to go, necessities taken care of. The privacy was the most appealing to my libido which was questioning when the first will fall on my clean sheets. Some girl on this boat was desperate enough or can take advantage of my personal cabin. Most of the girls I would encounter had roommates so the possibility seemed inevitable.

On my first sea day of my now second cruise, was unfortunately thwarted by clouds and some rain from what I could see from the staff mess porthole. The putting contest at 9am still on as scheduled hence, the early breakfast. I arrived early to put an obvious answer to a rainy day golfer’s dilemma when, a dozen people showed up to my four putters. Slightly frazzled from shock of entertaining all these golfers, indoors, putting golf balls around couches and random gallery of non-participants. I was definitely on the spot, my first real test of my crowd control skills. Due to the inclement weather the boat was rocking a bit more than I have seen thus far so, the putting contest after 4 long holes of people sharing putters and balls was called due to the rough seas.

Relieved that I dodged that bullet I reported back to my cabin to check with someone whether the weather was going to cancel lessons as well. What I found out was the ship navigates around bad weather as best they can so I would have to be at my post just in case. I didn’t mind swinging a club as the weather passed so I hung out alone at the cage ducking the raindrops. Fully recovered from the mildly successful morning putt-off I was pretty much done for the day after 6 hours with only a few bored passengers exploring the empty pool deck. 3:58 I lock up the cage then wander through each deck, front to back to get more acquainted with each level. Stopping at all the shops and stations that were available, citing faces I recognized from the bar route hallways and such, smiling with polite eyes at anyone making eye contact.

Making my way back down to the 3rd deck to my cabin, changing clothes for dinner, I missed my mentor, finding myself being the lonely newbie with no missed phone calls or messages. Insecurely filling my plate for dinner fearful of making the wrong seat decision with the sort of uneven distribution of different departments, I sit with the showgirls whom my predecessor recommended but unfortunately my timing was off as they were finishing their plates. As they stood up to leave my selected section proved fruitful when they invited me to watch the show that night. The stage was mainly for the dance and music productions that ran at different times depending on the run and day. Satisfied enough, I sat content by myself to tend to my meal, at times looking up to peek at the rest of the room, curiously wondering when I would be able to sit with anyone else or at least someone sit with me.

CHAPTER 31

Putting on my suit to go upstairs for the night’s performance, changing now for the 3rd time that day. Taking the tourist route to the theatre, I stood in the back by the entrance rotating to see a packed house. It was the first time I had seen the seats filled and it gave me the chills, standing in view leaning against the side of the stairs to the upper deck. The band played until the show was introduced quieting the crowd of hundreds. The showgirls I knew of wore sweatpants and workout clothes, but these showgirls were in thongs and sexy costumes, my mouth was probably open the whole show, like a teenager watching the “no no” channel. I snuck out the same way I had came in wondering if the turbulence from the ocean ever made them fall because I wasn’t even close to paying any attention to their feet. Changing for the last time I chilled out for a while intentionally to make a late entrance to the crew bar. The ship started rocking more and more to the point that it was really hard to make steps to the bathroom. Shit, what the fuck do I do! I thought to myself experiencing rough seas for the first time.

Concluding that I needed something to drink to wash down whatever I needed to eat to settle my fledgling sea legs. Stepping out of my cabin became an adventure, staying close to a wall trying to gauge when to go and when to stop or how to walk with the motion of the rocking cruise liner. It’s a crazy feeling trying to walk without sea legs. It would probably be fucking awesome if I was 10, but it was about 30% cool. Your eyes stay with the floor and walls while your feet struggling to get into the rhythm because your brain skips a bit trying to make sense of the change in motor skills. I make it to the crew bar staircase near the laundry and smoking section slowly passing only a couple people instead of the usual busier foot traffic. Up the stairs with my arms favoring my unsure legs I reach the bar and with a nose down rock that threw me through the door making long steps as to not fall into something or someone. I smile out of embarrassment to the small bunch that are present in the crew bar. Resting in a booth seat against the wall next to a couple showgirls and band members, immediately asking how to deal with this.

One of the girls said drink it off. I liked her. Another said, Dramamine. Not sure on what direction I was going to take, so I tried both. I bought some Dramamine from the crew bar, put it in my pocket as I started in on my beer. I got to about ¾ down when I stopped, got up, had to walk uphill then jet into the bathroom going downhill to puke as I get the spins. Stumbling into the crew bar for the 2nd time in 30 minutes I smile and laugh which confirmed my weak stomach during rough seas as I make my way to the bartender and switch to water. Wanting my bed, I hustled through the hallways bursting in my room and straight to my bed to shut my eyes. Getting up to set my alarm for early morning golf then I just tried to relax as the bed swayed back and forth, almost like a hammock. I just said “Up…and…down” like counting sheep to fall asleep as the Dramamine kicked in.

Finally, the seas subsided as we dock in Playa del Carmen, after some coffee I walk to the excursion’s desk to check for any potential golfers. Luckily there were 2 signed up which got me seeing dollar signs with the bonus of playing the course in Playa for the first time. Hurrying to ready the rental equipment for my golfers I waited by the gangway until I could spot them panning the area in search of me. Connecting with them and explaining our travel plans then cabbing it about 15 minutes to a resort course in town, we are greeted with smiles in a very nice clubhouse. I heard from my mentor that this course would have everything included, meaning food and drink, especially the drinks. My notion was confirmed after checking in and finding our clubs among the line of parked golf carts. After a few practice putts to test the speed of the greens, we were ready to tee off. I had no clue where we were going but because I was playing tour guide I had to act like it so I started following signs really not sure if I was correct or not.

Making our way around this Mexican oasis we drink beer, eat and carelessly lose precious new golf balls. I had so much fun, it was great, every round of golf I finished, my soul was satisfied a little more each time, making me increasingly happier. Until this point in my life I had not been affected by golf this psychologically, drastically changing my state of mind within 6 days and 3 rounds I was a different person. My smile got bigger. My better qualities emerged. I felt differently about negative events and I decided to just do things that made me happy. The selfishness like this is in everyone with a comparable passion for something. I was just so amazed at my own progress everything I used to complain about wasn’t even a thought anymore. After the round we had a couple hours to kill before hopping back on the boat so we took advantage of the free alcohol at this outdoor covered bar next to the clubhouse. Shooting the shit over margaritas these guys start talking about golf and playing competitively. They point out the difficulty of my dream, because anything so competitive takes a lot of practice and dedication. Duly noted, but as of now I was just getting started with limited resources until I learned how to take it to the next level.

CHAPTER 32

A setting sun in the backdrop approaching the dock symbolized the end of this day in paradise. Time to relax once showered and fed although, that night I stayed in thinking of what my paying customers had said about my quest to play professionally. Everyone has his or her own opinion about my game, there was really no one steering me in the right direction. No one has any reason to help me I have to just go do it, learning on the fly. My plan was for the most part open ended except for the issue of climate so I decided to keep my focus south of the Mason-Dixon more months of good weather, more days to play. Simple. Right? For the time being it was simple, in short, I was stuck on this ship so, there was no other option than to enjoy every second of it.

Reaching Costa Maya by morning, my cluttered thoughts became an organized mess, blocking out negative thoughts to free myself temporarily from distractions in order to live in the present moment. This is a powerful concept I associate with golf and with life. Stepping out onto the dock with the crew I felt liberated into a carefree lifestyle with little responsibility. In this case I knew that I wanted to pursue a life of playing golf, but for the time being I knew that for the duration of my time on the ship was going to be spent having the best possible experience I can.

We headed straight to the bar then in the pool, then the pool bar to drink half naked with a hundred random other drunks. The ports were basically the only opportunity for a legal co-mingling of passengers and crew, most of the time no one could tell the difference. Eating, drinking, smoking, laughing, and chilling out was my entire day with a plethora of new friends and love interests. Play hard and play harder was now my state of mind slipping away from reality into ship life, just living in the moment. I spent the whole day getting drunk and letting loose with the crew that was there and any random cruisers I bumped into having as good of a time as I was.

Later in the afternoon, early evening when we all sat at a table for 20 or so, one of the hot English showgirls told me the nickname for passengers were “cones” because after a while you treat them like parking cones, when you have to maneuver around them everyday. Each cone you passed became less and less significant until they eventually go unnoticed. The showgirl even said that when they are up on stage they notice people they know more than thousands of different faces week to week.

The morning of the last sea day I had my coffee and breakfast to more greetings and smiles as we were heading back to New Orleans. I was at the cage by 11 a.m. for anyone willing to take a lesson or at least stop and chat. The pool and all the lounge chairs were taken as all the tourists caught sun for the last day, most drunk or too hung over to drink. I just kept my shades on and people watched all day. By the end of the day I’ve tanned up a bit and in need of a shower to get the feeling of sweat off my skin. I couldn’t resist staying to watch the sunset, passing the time looking down at the water, briefly seeing flying fish jumping out of the water. Coming into port I found to be truly one of the best views to date. The sun covering the sky and water with shades of orange and red, passing oil rigs stranded miles and miles out at sea, and watching their lights far in the distance like Christmas lights as the sunset turned to moonlight.

After eating and cleaning I had to perform my first business duties by closing out sales and sending email then get tips from the accountant lady so I could hit the crew bar. The last night of each cruise was told to be the best because everyone had a night off. Excited to have a couple bucks to spend on a good time. I hung out in my room making good on phone calls to random girls that said to do so. I probably wasn’t too slick but at least I can walk into a group instead of wander for conversation. This was a night to make an impression so I had some butterflies that subsided after 3 to 4 beers, I think, but it was a party! People of all ages from all over the world in street clothes getting hammered in this tiny low ceiling space that was a bar, complete with the sit-down Pac-man machine in the corner next to the computer room.

This was a serious party crowd of politely jockeying for a place in front of the bartender, while talking with friends from other departments, getting more requests the closer you would get to the bar. Time in this place, at this time, was drinking time, for every step of progress I would make, someone would kill what they were drinikng and need another. I didn’t mind the attention or the gesture because it was completely worth it because I sit down snuggled up between a handfull of showgirls for hours, only getting up to pee. I chatted up the spa girls for a while, in a mix of new faces and introductions. Lights get dimmer, music gets louder, everyone gets drunker and I get to witness the flirty, sexy drama between the highly intoxicated boys and girls. While I sat back and got some play by play background and gossip from a Steiner who sticks with me in the bar booth.

She then asks with batting eyelashes, “Would you like to be my model for embark tomorrow?” Uhhh, what? Yes! You don’t need to say anymore I’m in! I said in my head. But what came out was, “Model? For what?” Not identifying the obvious type of model, she says kindly, “for a spa treatment.” Confused as why she won’t say what treatment exactly I ask, “What treatment do you do?” Hoping for a full body massage, facial, foot rub, I was offered a seaweed wrap. What the fuck is a seaweed wrap? Drunk and curious I accept. I was confirmed for 2 p.m. Sick! I don’t know what is going to happen with this spa treatment but I was definitely super pumped to find out. I was quite flattered to be asked so soon, as there are limited spots and always willing participants, even for the “face for radio” Steiner from Northern England.

Witnessing the social action at the last call when dudes are trying close out the night with a little action, secret lovers timing separate exits and smaller clicks with a case of the munchies. I followed the latter. There were spa chicks, band guys and some showgirls, who were weren’t technically allowed due to mandatory weight limits, but said, fuck it! I’m hungry, which I thought was awesome. Laughing and giggling through the crew area to a rear elevator to top floor all night pizza bar we were allowed to raid. Piling on different slices on my plastic plate, hastily walking to a table to sit and pig out, I didn’t even let it cool off before eating, sacrificing the roof of my mouth to the pizza gods. It was about 3 a.m. before everyone realized that this night was over, for me it was one for the books but their impression of mediocrity gave me thoughts of the nights to come. Back in my cabin fortress, a walk into the French Quarter in the morning so to be back on time for my seaweed wrap. I passed out and awoke hung over like a motherfucker.

CHAPTER 33

New Orleans, the French Quarter was our home base so I had to take a walk around the tourist trap. Some showgirls were into the idea because of the need for particular products not offered on ships general store. We meander around the cruise terminal mall with a feeling of boredom and familiarity on our way out to the street toward the casino and buffet. Oh, twist my arm, the smell alone made me feel starving. With my belly full my stride got slower and my deadline drew nearer, I returned to the ship’s gangway full of new passengers to flash my credentials to skip the line and go up to the spa for my mysterious seaweed wrap.

The Steiner from North England is my seaweed therapist for the next 2 hours, as spa minded ladies would come into the room to see the girls demonstrate their various treatments. I was coerced into wearing fairly see through spa boxers. I call them “spoxers”, they looked like they were cut out of construction paper. Shirtless on a massage table I get coated with seaweed mud all over my body, then wrapped up like a burrito in an aluminum foil type human wrapping paper. From there, groups of women would come in and out making comments like “does he come with the wrap?” with a bourgeois chuckle, so of course I take it a step further and use my restrained finger to pitch a tent in the spot where a penis would be in relation to my visible body parts. This always got a laugh to break the awkward silence. It was room built for the therapist and the client, but these ladies would all squeeze in to take a good look at me up close making it a problem for them to back out into the hallway again.

After an hour I was told to go shower and come back, but I’m wrapped up in tin foil and sweating through the “spoxers” and the showers were at the opposite end of the long hallway of spa rooms. I penguin walked past new guests, other spa rooms and random people to an open public shower with foot traffic all around from the fitness center. Unwrapping myself and revealing my chicken legs to anyone looking, I would shower until the seaweed paste was all off and then still wet walk back down the same long hallway to more wrapping, as people stop to see where I was going in order to identify the treatment. Finally back in safe care of my new Steiner friend, she gives me a break and a bit of a massage. The 2nd wave of passengers make their way around so my next and final wrap had to go on. New oil or body paste of some kind gets spread around my seaweed smelling skin, then wrap up twice around with a heat wrap. As the curious cruisers came in and out of the room drawn to it from my spa space suit, my temperature slowly rose to hot, sweaty hot. Pushed to my limits as sweat poured down my cheeks and chin, able to catch running drops with my tongue. She loosened the knots so I could get up, feeling the slightest breeze on the way up as I feel sweat that had been collecting under my back on the bed release down my body, gross. Drenched with sweat I had to walk down the hallway one more time as everyone pointed and laughed as my foolish tin outfit was seriously undone and I wasn’t able to cover much anymore.

The hot shower was the finishing touches on my spa model debut it was not bad maybe it did me some good at least in the eyes of the Steiners. Refreshed and dressed I went to the gangway deck to promote the 4 day cruise with a Cozumel Golf Excursion. Standing one level above theatre, I finish my 45 at the golf display and walk down the spiral staircase to the theatre to watch a part of the opening show. Smiling at the stage in case one of the showgirls spotted me and smiled back. I could never tell who they were looking at from that distance, but I’d like to think they saw me grinning. I snuck out to the balcony to smoke as we slowly moved through the wide Mississippi Delta at sundown. Watching new passengers hanging off their balconies, the mangroves moving further away, the murky brown river water turning into brackish salt water and another cruise ship returning home on course to pass each other.

Inching nearer to the oncoming member of the cruise fleet more people started to gather near the edge to greet the returning sea goers. Slowly, the enormous boats passed each other with people waving, yelling, jumping up and down. It was pretty cool, I guess it was the camaraderie or the feeling of exploring the ocean instead of flying but I was glad to be immersed now in ship life. I couldn’t stay away from the nighttime view of our surroundings. Heading back below to my cabin to relax pull out the guitar and play until something happened but nothing did that night so I rummaged through the dark staff mess. Stuffed mini cereal boxes in my cargo shorts and walked to the crew mess to fill a modest plate I took back to my room. I played until bedtime thinking of the early morning putting contest.

CHAPTER 34

The routine stayed constant, with exceptions of course, usually involving money, sex, alcohol and golf. The vibe was pretty much, be a normal responsible crew member on 5 day cruises until the last night and on short 4 day cruises it could be any night. I was around hot 18-30 international chicks all day everyday and I tried to plan an approach. It was my 3rd cruise so anything that happen too soon would get around like the game telephone, so I thought of holding out for the hottest ones that needed chivalry, mainly because of their pride and perception within the cruise community. Just keep it in your pants until someone worth it comes to you, instead of eagerly humping any girls leg, I would try to convince myself not to fuck the first girl I could.

This was harder than it sounded. My will power was in question here, but my new careless, not be confused with reckless, attitude was inevitably going to overcome any sort of self-control. That night, formal night at the dance club, on the shortest cruise run was a good time to test my sexual discipline. Shots gets passed around a little more frequently in the crew bar before we all went upstairs to shake it. I was chatting it up with this French Canadian camp cruise chick most of the time, walking with her upstairs to the club from the crew bar. She had a thick French accent over her broken English, normal for her being part of the Quebecois Canadians who refuse to conform to English. But she dug me and that accent was fucking sexy, making me think of what words and phrases I wanted to hear come out of her mouth. More comfortable in the disco this time I got lit up and very flirty with pretty much any girl who would play along. The lights go on and I stare down the French Canadian with my best fuck me eyes. She catches the drift and makes her way to me as the crowd shuffles out the doors. We get into the elevator together with some other crew members, almost the cliché, me leaning against the back of the elevator, her on the opposite side glancing it at each other smiling. Thinking that this was go time I tried to stay cool until we reached my cabin.

Nervously opening the door to reveal my bed(s), she walks into my pitch-black room the only light was from the hallway seeping in onto the floor. She had on a black dress with some shit on the top half, sexy heels and the body to match. Not the model type everyone assumes you mean when you say that but a hot curvy no cottage cheese body. Her tits were probably C/D and they were in complete symmetry with her torso, down to her lovely little butt, long brown hair streaming down from a pretty face, rounded and cut, easily a 7 on anyone’s scale, ok 6/7. Apparently the Quebecois don’t worry about the American pleasantries of rolling around while undressing, she just let the straps of her dress fall over the edge of her shoulders and straight on my floor. She looks back at me on her way to the bed undoing her strapless bra, then to her extremely small g-string before I even locked the door. Maybe it was because I stood there like a dummy with my mouth wide open for the amount of seconds it took for her to get naked. Intimidated by this very open sexual predator, I swallowed hard, doubting whether my manhood could handle this naked French girl or is it French naked girl. Fuck it, literally.

Without going into the super sexy details, I pumped and sweated on this chick. It was longer than 2 minutes but the one memorable moment was when I finished. Knowing proper birth control, I pulled out and neatly aimed at her stomach. She got up fairly quickly as to my mess and was pissed, in her French accent she said, “Why didn’t you just cum in me? I’ve been on the pill since I was like 11!” Uh, what!? Fuck. Panic, at least for the next so many minutes it took her to get cleaned and dressed. She was not mad, it was actually almost funny to me, making her clean up, so we ended up smiling about it moments after, but I expected her to want to stay and snuggle or some shit, she just left. I was baffled enough to forget about what just freaked me out. I guess everyone had their own bed close by so there was no need for a sleepover and awkward morning walk of shame.

This opened my eyes to the idea of casual ship life sex, there were couple of course but they were also the sluts, like the French Canadian one I just had. This was something unfamiliar to me, even after going to college everyone immersed in ship life was that close, in proximity and socially to where it was the norm. That’s all I could imagine the next morning, what was going to happen next, how many other girls on my list were conditioned to ship life like this? Is this chick going to be a repeat offender? It was so intriguing to me being a horny, 22 year old dude fishing with dynamite. It was like those inspirational commercials with inspirational elevator music, old actor spokesman telling the target audience that “the possibilities are endless,” except referring to banging foreign chicks on a cruise ship.

The downside to this was that gossip was spread fast, so you either needed to be very sneaky and some people know your business or everyone knows, even the non-English speaking ones that you’ll never meet. So my conquest came with insecurity that other girls on my list may find my actions with the French Canadian to be a mark on my record. By the next night, it was known, not only because it was written on my face but, because everyone heard. I got looks of disappointment from only girls, who ended by showing their cards by acting bitchy toward me, and quiet praise and smiles from other dudes who were proud I popped my cherry. At the same time they kind of shook their heads after a pat on the back because they knew that I didn’t hold out for the “hot, popular” ones. “Whatever dude,” I would say out of pride. Mingling and flirting with other girls it didn’t seem all too bad after the initial happenings, with help from some alcohol and dim lighting. Everything was cool as the breeze and I woke up in Cozumel, loving life, ship life and golf.

CHAPTER 35

Tired, sun beaten and a little drunk I hit the sheets after dinner watching the cruise ship move channel. Going into the proceeding movie repeat, my phone rings and it’s the French Canadian, now a repeat offender, as she booty calls me from a phone just outside the crew bar. Wanting an invite she asked me to come up to meet her, I denied and returned the favor by asking her down to mine. She accepted, ha! Game on. 5 minutes later, knock, knock and there she was, looking good, walking in towards the bed without a hello, what service, this was great, adulterers in Vegas don’t get it like this. Not much longer after she arrived, she was naked, so I didn’t resist this succubus for an instant and of course did not “finish” in her. I couldn’t do it. I took the short verbal lashing complete with French curse words, which was pretty sexy even after I was done. Again, she left like it was nothing. I felt used but it was cool. Fuck it I’m not getting into a relationship with some girl that requires a passport to visit. The last day came quick as I stood at the cage staring off into the distance as a break from people watching. I closed out the cruise, collected my tips, relaxing for a while before dinner then out to catch the end of the sunset before checking out the showgirls. I made it a point to be noticed by all of them by showing my support standing in the back whispering comments to crew dudes stopping in sporadically.

After the show I had to get out of formal attire and into my party clothes for another packed first night at the crew bar as we float away from New Orleans. This time it was packed to the brim with crew, crazier than I had seen thus far. There were people everywhere, playing ping-pong, foosball, and dancing it was awesome. Loud and boisterous English people to Thai people were all enjoying their drinking time. I even saw the wrinkled old accountant lady. It was so much fun to party in the crew bar with all these different people sharing different stories and jovial conversations. I felt more at home, more confident and happier every time I had a night at the bar, seeing and connecting with people I would see in the hallways or working their respective positions. Stepping out for a cigarette to notice branching off couples in the dark, trying to recognize them due to my curiousness. I chilled anyway as I smoked, just feeling the ocean breeze checking to see if the stars were out that night then opening the door to a loud bar preciously muffled by the heavy ship door. Walking into the madness of groups huddled around each other because of the lack of personal space, I spot my little French Can girl on the dance floor.

Shuffling in and around all the people keeping my eye on my booty call shaking her stuff with her friends, I finally get to her spot and try to move around as if I can dance, getting closer and closer for some hot bumping and grinding. Retreating after I realize how hot it was in there, I wasn’t trying to sweat so I found a spot amongst the showgirls who could have been playing the jealousy card when they saw me dancing with her. Getting lots of attention in my spot in the middle of the hot showgirls while photos are flashing like a strobe light. Half blinded I turned my head away from the lights and ended up face to face with one of the showgirls, tall, dark hair, hot showgirl! We start to talk flirtatiously and she winds up telling me that she can’t fuck with me because her friend, another English showgirl, has already called me. I was like, “What?” so what? Why can’t I choose for myself?” She held firm by calling her friend over for introductions even though we had already met, just never talked. She had short reddish hair, about earlobe length, nose ring, big puffy lips with a sort of pale English complexion with cute little freckles. Her dancer body covered in sweats from after show, still in makeup and huge fake eyelashes. Smiling the whole way over she sits tight up against as I see the French Can girl exit the bar with a small group. OK then, green means go, so I went.

Close and cozy with my new showgirl I realized I found her accent addicting, she spoke eloquently but bluntly, she was loud, dramatically fun and exciting. We hit it off and she came back to my room with a smile, it seemed so easy, the lack of chivalrous chatter confused me but whatever. I could tell that this one wanted the foreplay as she inspects my room asking questions about my stuff or relating to it. She grabs my guitar tucked at the foot of my bed between the bed frame and the wall. Asking me to play and then, typically asks if I can teach her, something I heard a lot as the golf pro. I play the only like 3 songs I know at the time just finishing my 4th lesson before I left for the cruise. Not long into the short licks I tried to play, the guitar was put back and the light was off, the only light from the TV playing the same movie as earlier. We start making out and heavy petting each other, near missing naughty parts with the tips of my fingers as the sexual tension got intense. Clothes come off initiating the hot steaming sex scene. We changed positions several times since my stamina had increased as well as my blood alcohol level, but it was awesome and I didn’t even finish so we laid together naked snuggled up as I caught my breath.

CHAPTER 36

As we were gently gliding our fingertips all over each other I get to her fingers and on her finger was a little ring. What the fuck! So I asked, “Is this what I think it is?” and she say, “Yes, but… its nothing for you to worry about, trust me.” Uh, what? Now that I knew I really didn’t care, she told me after the fact and she obviously likes me, so whatever. Almost expecting her to leave, she didn’t, she stayed, now I was a bit confused. Maybe its different cultures or perhaps she was a bit crazy and less realistic as the French Can chick. We woke up together and she smiled after a kiss goodbye. I thought this girl might be trouble but I was basically forced to get with her because apparently I was her property. She obviously scared the other English showgirls into funneling me to her. We all planned on going out in New Orleans when we got into port with her and some of the other showgirls so I took this chance to hang with the chicks I stared at on stage. We walked around the French quarter all day only stopping for lunch and supplies until my day of showgirl bonding was inevitably cut short by my scheduled massage at the Spa.

Getting to the spa minutes before start time I change quickly into the stupid shorts for what I thought was something different from before but, seaweed wrap it was. Exiting the changing room in literally nothing but paper thin, cloth boxers I run into some cones who were surprised to see me dart into a room. My Steiner got everything ready and started mudding me up with seaweed paste, wrapping me up in a tin foil sleeping bag to baste just in time for the new passengers to walk in, almost not recognizing me from the hallway. We made it through the first wave of tourists so we chilled and I got a legit head rub for a while before I had to shower and get rewrapped. The 2nd part was the worst because it would make sweat like a motherfucker, pouring out everywhere to the point where my Steiner had to pat my head n face with a towel. I was required to last the whole time in case of latecomers. It was brutal toward the end a shower never felt so good after an hour in a heat wrap resembling the tin foil square street vendors wrap hot dogs in. Showering a second time minutes later and then heading up to my display area to begin another cruise to Mexico.

Without much of a problem from the now obsessed English girl I was able to do whatever, whenever, and whoever at my leisure. As the day goes heading due south again, it ended up to be the weekend of MILFs and bachelorette parties. One hot day I sunbathed at the cage when a group of 30/40 something’s that had somewhat sexually harassed me at my display case, taking pictures and making comments as if I were an amenity on the ship, approached me more aggressively half in the bag while drinking in bikinis. They kept pushing the newly single divorced with perky fake titties, to confirm her mid-life crisis, as if I could do anything about it. If I so much as touched a cone they would fire me on the spot so it was impossible or nearly impossible to do. They questioned me on sex on the ship curious to know if they have seen a crew girl I slept with, the details interested some as the happily married one’s left upon graphic conversation of sexual encounters. Two stayed, the fake tittied divorcee and a brunette with a sexy raspy voice, I gave them my room and pager number with tentative plans to get drinks later that afternoon or early evening.

Several hours later my phone rang, confused as to who I was speaking with I realized that it was the brunette saying that her friend wasn’t going to make it but she was meeting me for sunset cocktails regardless. In a bar lounge toward the stern we met up for drinks sitting by the window in lounge chairs chatting it up. I learn about her a bit, family, work and shit, we talk about me on the cruise and ship life. Then after the conversation turned flirtatious she uncrosses her legs in her little black dress to reveal her panty less crotch and manicured vagina. “Do I intimidate you?” She asks in her raspy voice that tickled my fancy. Looking at her and then back down at her no-no spot, I say, “Uh, no. I can handle more than you think” trying desperately to act like a man and not a fresh college graduate with a boner. I couldn’t help smiling as I look around to see if anyone noticed what went down, after I tell her the issue with crew and cone fraternization, the mood died slowly into talk of the night’s plans. She seemed determined to see me but the problem was it would be a security red flag if we weren’t with our respective groups so I tried to set up a night in the club to mask sexual motives. I knew it would never happen with security and showgirl eyes on me, besides the risk of getting fired so I wasn’t 100% I would make good on our plans.

Relaxing on my bed I wonder about any ensuing trouble from situations like that one because I was not ready to go home yet and it was a risky move. Trying to hide out in my cabin not being put on the spot to do something, of course my phone blows up along with my pager. Everyone I had call me wanted to go party that night and I felt like I had to juggle plans as to appease everyone but in actuality I wanted to do nothing at all in fear of seeing the MILFs and what my drunk self would do if I were propositioned. I wanted to avoid upstairs at all costs by dressing down and hanging in the crew bar with some showgirls and Steiners. My attached pager vibrating furiously as it got later and later, I had to call back the MILFs and explain to them that it wasn’t going to happen. Meanwhile, hanging out with my showgirl who obviously expected the inevitable sleepover. It happened as I anticipated and we woke up together in New Orleans and hit the casino for the buffet.

CHAPTER 37

The majority of the cruises through the Gulf of Mexico had great weather and with the ship steering clear of storm clouds we didn’t get much rain. The scenario that never crossed my mind was weather moving in as we were in port tied up with all the passengers scattered about Cozumel Island. It happened, after golf my golfers and I went to Carlos n Charlie’s, a huge bar for tourists right across the street from the dock. As we get hammered while talking and staring at slutty chicks dancing on stage, it pours rain, instantly creating small floods as big puddles started connecting with each other. Close to seeing double we all stumble back to the ship, a mix of a huge golf group I took out, along with random chicks. The crew had gotten very used to drunks so they developed a system to make sure everyone was taken care of. Legal age in the US is 21, in Mexico there was none, so between underage kids and seasoned drunks, the crew use to line up wheelchairs from the infirmary outside the gangway to wheel the impaired back on the boat, most of the time followed by their pissed off embarrassed parents.

The group dwindled down upon arrival on board to learn shortly after, that due to weather we were forced to stay overnight in Cozumel. We never stayed overnight like some cruise runs, so this was a shock to everyone. Everyone on the boat, including crew was running around the hallways preparing for a very rare night out on the town. My excitement was only due to the change in atmosphere after hearing the news, but all the people I knew were frantically getting ready and making plans so I just let it play out until we actually got off the ship. Finding the only clean outfit worthy of wearing I met up with everyone at the gangway and we were out. At sunset we usually were packing up to leave but this time we went for beers before dinner at this Mexican-Italian place on the strip. Being up since 6 a.m. drinking, being in the sun, and not being able to nap a little, dinner plus food coma put me out. I was so tired walking around Cozumel stopping at random places that would have otherwise been abandoned if the ship had left as per usual. Me just being the devil I am craved a bag of cocaine to help me through the night. We stopped at a little rustic Mexican, extremely sketchy restaurant to get dessert while I inquired about drugs. I just so happened to procure some of Mexico’s finest with my broken Spanglish. After a solid 45 minutes, some of the girls were getting nervous and antsy to leave, so we sent some on their way, waited a bit longer and ended up with some drugs.

Accompanied by two showgirls on our way to some huge nightclub that everyone would be at waiting for us. It was crazy, no rules, no problems, just cheap drinks and the entire crew in a social setting other than the crew bar. Loud music made it so I was yelling at everyone to make sure I was heard in conversation. You know those times when you’re like “What!?” “Blah, blah, blah” “What!?” “Oh yeah, yeah.” When most of what is said never gets fully comprehended. We all got wasted. Leaving with a group of girls we all walk straight to the water to find a long wood pier for smaller boats, the girls started taking off their clothes as they walked to the end yelling, “skinny dipping!” Haha, oh shit! I didn’t lose all my clothes, kept my drawers on to avoid shrinkage or loss of ego but we all went in 98% naked treading unknown depths of water just off the dock. I couldn’t believe my situation, I knew this was a great night already and it wasn’t over. I just smiled in amazement once again.

My boxers soaked with salt water, making my shorts wet around my belt and crotch I walked with the girls to a bar by the water where we got worse than drunk. By the time the sun was barely coming up I went with a couple girls to the hammocks set up between palm trees on the water’s edge bedded with sand overlooking the ship and the early morning ocean. It was truly awesome. I had a warm beer my hand swaying in the warm tropical morning ocean breeze with an incredible view. We stayed until the sun became too bright to handle after partying for 24 hours, so we took the walk back to the ship and our cabins. My body shut off like the light in my room. I slept in complete darkness only getting up to pee for literally 24 hours. The entire next day I was supposed to be teaching at the cage I slept, until I woke up in New Orleans entirely discombobulated. What the fuck, I kept thinking as I look at my pager finding many missed pages from higher ups. “Holy shit.” I said to substantiate my suspicion I had slept through a whole day. Wow, what a night that was, I had never slept for so long in my life, it was record breaking and most likely got me into a little trouble.

It took the whole crew the entire next cruise to recover from the overnight in Cozumel, no one did much of anything the halls remained quiet for now. During this time I did my job and just hung out with the English showgirl for 4 days of a cruise only to party again on the last night. By this time my tolerance to alcohol was through the roof, I had been drinking and partying more than ever and it wasn’t go to stop until it was over. Reconvening in the crew bar we all got together again to drink and chill only this time my showgirl started to get super clingy and possessive. Noticing this over the span of the night when she would sit next to me only to engage me in witty banter and conversation. I suppose she grew more of a liking to me since we started getting together, but she still had that ring on so I foolishly assumed she would keep her distance. Naturally that night she wouldn’t be denied my bed or company and I really started to get uneasy about the affair.

CHAPTER 38

By the next cruise I would find out through a third party that her current fiancé was coming aboard and I was told to keep my distance, so I did. Approaching other girls for a new experience during the awkward cruise prior to his arrival from London. She would barely speak to me she was so afraid of the consequences, so instead of making it worse I put my efforts into new endeavors. The next cruise I didn’t see the English girl at all, which made me slightly vindictive toward her because of her transgressions and I set out to fill the void. I ended up getting booty called by an Aussie showgirl after her closer friends started hanging out in my room the days prior, so I was good, on to the next one and forget about the last one. I’m officially a man-whore by now, sexually and socially, but it was cool. I was living the dream that would make many others jealous. Despite my promiscuous actions, I was still content with the privilege of being a golf pro on a cruise ship.

The next obvious step in this progression was that the English chick’s dude left after the cruise and she immediately corners me in the crew bar right before the first show. She very timidly and sincerely apologizes for the lack of communication, as she continues to babble on showing her hand with a missing ring. “OK, it’s cook. I’m not mad or anything.” It’s not like I didn’t know already and we weren’t “together,” having had that super serious relationship talk about being in an exclusive relationship. She was already a cheater to someone that was under the assumption that they were future Mr. and Mrs. My perception of marriage or engagement has always been of a hopeless romantic. Where you find your soul mate and hold true to the vows agreed to from the institution of marriage, but I had already been exposed to the vast grey area, and ship life was very grey. When she finished and left to go shake her stuff faking a smile on stage, I thought for a second to confirm that I really didn’t give a shit. I was definitely not on this cruise to get a girlfriend, so fuck it.

Shortly after the show finished I get a knock on the door. My room was dark and I asked who it was on the steps to the door. Opening the door to her, she busted in without asking so I locked up and got back to my bed. This was the point where I knew that this girl was fucking nuts. I heard nothing but flattering things for a little bit when all I was asking myself was why she was telling me all this shit. Who the fuck knows, when it comes to women in terms of their irrational thought process. Since I was never hurt from our inception and it was pretty much all about sex, she was there, so we went to pound town then dreamland. The next morning she was incredibly annoying for absolutely no reason and I just wanted her to leave. This happened every time after, driving me fucking crazy. I would guess that my change in attitude was due to my loss of respect for this girl basically I had done something I was not aware of and her reaction to that toward me was a bit much. Typical soap opera storyline, one person gets distant while other tries to get closer. Ship life meant that unless your contract was over or you got fired you were in it with everyone else without anywhere to hide.

The ensuing trip to Mexico I tried to be nice but separate myself a bit from any assumption that we were more seriously involved now that this dude came and went. I stayed in playing the guitar instead of drinking at the crew bar for a couple days but one night before a golf excursion in Cozumel and a 6 a.m. alarm, my phone rings. I didn’t answer because it was late but it rang again and again. Oh, shit this can’t be good, it’s got to be her and probably drunk as shit. Fuck. The phone remains silent for about 5 minutes until a knock at my door, shit, another knock. Creeped out I didn’t get up or move in order to disguise myself as sleeping, but it got louder and louder, the crazy showgirl actually starting to shout my name in a corridor full of higher ranking staff members. Fuck! I had to answer it to stop the attention-grabbing spectacle outside my cabin. I opened the door putting my foot at the base to create a doorstop, opening it just enough to see her and tell he to shut the fuck up. She went to the opposite direction and pushed as I tried to whisper to her that it was not a good night for a sleepover because of early morning golf. The loony-toon then pushed using all her weight and I just couldn’t believe what was happening so I released as she fell through the doorway into my room.

Dude, what the fuck? She was highly intoxicated and it took me awhile to get a word out as I get back under my covers, now plus one. She desperately apologizes for her fucking bizarre actions with justifications of her attraction to me coupled with hours of drinking booze. Ok. Ok. Fine, whatever, she wasn’t leaving without a fight so I proclaimed bedtime immediately after I banged her out to shut her up. Almost sleeping with one eye open, I really began to worry about this one. She woke up and left with me as I went to play with some paying passengers, they were on time to witness her leave my side and the look she gave me in very wrinkled revealing clothes. As boys do I get praise and comments like, “You dog! She was hot! You banging that?” they asked in an envious tone. I of course took credit but shook my head stating, “She’s crazy” to play it off to the golf dudes without letting the story out so soon after her departure. Later in that day several drinks deep she comes up in conversation and I tell them what had happened. By the end of the story their expressions did not resemble anything sympathetic, they didn’t feel sorry for me in the slightest for my new female related problems telling me “Fuck anything you can. I’m married and trust me, I wish I was you and had your problems.” Speaking at a hint toward the bigger picture, relating their lives in comparison to the perception of mine.

They could find no reason for me to complain about my predicament, so I was convinced easily that the gig I had going was much better than the alternative. My golfers reminded me of my youth and ability to live freely from jobs that they hated to support responsibilities that limited their freedom, mainly wife and kids. As we played and talked more they admitted to me that they felt like they wouldn’t have the guts to do what I was doing, they never had a talent like mine to develop and pursue. They were regular dudes who followed a southern cookie cutter lifestyle, unaware of other possibilities.

Everyone wishes they could do something unrealistic in theory, like be rock star, athlete, painter, following their dreams, some actually try and fail, some succeed but never without failing first. More and more people were telling me to do it, be on the PGA tour doing something you love for a shit ton of money. I never cared about the money. I always dreamed of going putt for putt with Tiger Woods at Augusta, not about any paycheck. I know that it’s in me so strongly that it drives me to pursue such a great challenge. The fact that random naïve people believe in you and support such a risky adventure was so encouraging that my determination to play golf the rest of my life became undoubtedly certain. There was no question that this was the life I wanted to lead, the life of a pro, nothing but green grass and fresh air.

CHAPTER 39

Upon return to the ship I called a number on my missed pages list. It was the cruise hotel director, basically the big boss. He was Australian and we had met because of the Aussie showgirls and a monthly department meeting I attended the previous cruise. Confused as to why he then invited me up for a meeting I panicked thinking of something that I had done wrong the entire walk up to his office. I sit across from him in a lavish royal looking office that mirrored the cruise deck décor. We talk about golf, some good things he has heard about me already, even going to watch me do my promotion on stage, making the point that he liked me. But, he had also heard about last night because some director complained about the noise the silly showgirl was making outside my door. Shit. We had a semi-informal conversation about my relationship with this girl and after hearing my side of the incident he agreed that I was not at fault but he told me to stay away from her, not even talk to her. Fuck, this nutcase just got me in trouble resulting in an adolescent punishment to end it.

Embarrassed to be in such a predicament I agreed to the director’s requests to sever ties with the English showgirl. That’s two down, not on purpose but this was ship life, it was kind of cool to get a talking to because some hot girl is obsessed with you a little too much. From then on it was just weird. I never thought it was possible to completely avoid someone that hangs out with you and all your friends all the time, but it was. We just didn’t talk, at all, and everyone around us knew what had happened and the reason for the silent treatment. We would all sit at the same table and be the only people not involving the other in any sort of conversation, all because she caused a domestic disturbance. Fuck it, that frees me up to explore other options, the Steiners. So I begged for something other than a seaweed wrap this go around but my loyalty to my current spa girl prevailed for the time being. She appreciated my semi-torture by seaweed so I got more of massage than usual and I used that time to fill her in on the showgirl drama, knowing how many pairs of ears would hear soon after embark day duties.

Fueling the spread of gossip amongst the spa, I started getting visits from other Steiners who put their model on hold to stand over me getting all the juicy details. I loved the attention from the girls when they heard the news of my mandated availability. Out of maybe a dozen chicks 8 were hot, well kept, fun but somewhat below showgirls on the totem pole because of the London Steiner reputation of being party girls and sluts. I just thought it was on profession alone but it was fact now, showgirls were drama and Steiners were sluts. So I tried to use my American accent in the way I heard theirs. Chicks from the states go bat shit crazy over foreign accents, so I heard it be true of mine as well, being one of maybe 6 US natives. Each new night at the crew bar focused on flirting with the spa girls because now even though I was forbidden to fraternize with my now ex-showgirl, the other showgirls admitted to me that if they hooked up with me, their friend, my “ex” would freak out on them and more drama would possibly ensue as a result. The next couple cruises I would get facials, back rubs, and such, like a reward for being on the market and dishing out more flirtation attention. Even the spa director from Kansas that I knew was worried about me disturbing her hen house.

Fortunately for me and unfortunately for the director I did rustle some feathers for a while to the point when I wasn’t allowed to talk to them during any work hours. This also meant a strangely needed break from weekly spa treatments. For multiple cruises I just partied around had fun with the showgirls one night, the Steiners the next, with a random Canadian thrown in the mix. Che buene Vita, the good life. But one day I didn’t scrounge up any golfers to play the course at Playa Del Carmen so I hit the little beach town with the ladies. We had my now forbidden ex-English girl, another cute more petite blonde English showgirl, Aussie girls, and a couple spa girls and some band guys in the destructively awesome group of crewmembers. Starting the debauchery early with bloody marys and shots at the first place we saw after a short cab ride from the slightly guarded, dirt and gravel tourist yard sale that was our port.

CHAPTER 40

It was a beautiful hot sunny day as always and we ran into everyone else at some point, it was like everywhere we went someone knew somebody and because we were all crew, everything was cool. The “cones” as we called them even blended into the scene to appear as if our group in time would just lose some and gain some, branching off individually and smaller bunches, constantly drawn back to each other like opposing magnets. But by the end of the day a big group of us were obliterated from gluttonous alcohol consumption and too much sun that made it back around sunset to the makeshift cruise port and dock. It looked almost built out and filled in, as it was a very short dock, like 20 feet, boat or dock bumpers keeping the ship from hitting the shoreline. Usually everyone met up at this temporary bar bookending small stands selling necklaces and shit. It was covered with a large dirty yellow tarp, picnic benches doubled up in two sections with a crude bar in front of numerous coolers in the middle. That day we were too drunk to stop so we went to my room with beers and a bottle of vodka. Fuck, why not?

Sitting all around my room, even flipping the second bed down we grabbed a deck of cards and played shithead, a game like asshole but different. Drinking very little and starting to slow down I felt the need to spice it up a bit, so between 4 girls and a dancer dude, who was not quite into girls if you catch my drift, we played high-low which is the easiest game invented and loved because of its instant gratification. Flip a card after the gambler picks higher or lower than the previous card, simple. It graduated from loser takes a drink to shot of vodka, then after almost all of the bottle it turned into dare or dare. Each small dare grew into more risky boys vs. girls type requests. I would tell the girls to lose articles of clothing, then do silly tasks like, leg splits on my bed, they were dancers so they could do it, or smell the other ones butt, ha. Always careful of the repercussions I chose my dares as to provoke more sexual activity between the girls and I while I avoided any dude on dude scenarios.

When I packed for the trip initially I put in a 4 pack of disposable cameras. I passed out 2 to some girls earlier that month, one in my golf bag and one in my room. Needless to say I used it at opportune times like this one, mid panty and bra splits full of faces of surprise. I must have used up most of the pictures on that camera, until it got taken higher on the sexual scale. Prior to this moment I had a couple threesomes during college facilitated by several pills of ecstasy but even those were a little intimidating or overwhelming. Once things started happening, lots of touching, some kisses, mostly the ex-showgirl and I, who hadn’t been with each other in a while. It was clear she was there for me so I was getting busy with my red flagged showgirl, the showdude snuck out, leaving the other 3 girls to themselves, 3 on the bottom, one on top then, two on the top, then none on the top. It wasn’t as crazy as it sounds, I ended up really only having sex with my English stalker as to her possessiveness. But it was fun, most of time it was like a see saw battle, I want, no I don’t want it, hard to get type shit but most likely shy or nervousness. Either way I had some pictures to prove it or use for sexual blackmail.

After that record breaking 24 hours in Playa Del Carmen, things were a little awkward the next couple cruises. Not only was my English girl more determined to have a secret relationship, as it was still forbidden, but I was real popular for some reason at that time. In between sneaking into my room late at night and portraying our separation in public areas, I had my heads full. Every time we were in the crew bar together, we acted disinterested in each other to the point where other girls weren’t afraid of any jealous drama, so I was free to go after any girl that was interested. Without a doubt I always got a phone call when I was in my room in case of a possible midnight rendezvous. On nights I had laid low she would sneak in and sneak out as best as she could without being seen by security cameras. Then on nights where I was in the crew bar, I would end up with a Steiner or showgirl in my bed for the night for some late night fun, obviously this was difficult to keep up and extremely volatile.

The balancing act was only because of the possible trouble that the ex-showgirl posed if she were to have a meltdown on me or got me in trouble with the powers that be. Ship life was definitely unique to say the least considering most of the girls I was with knew about each other, it was fun and no drama ever came from anyone other than my original drama queen. Over many cruises that seemed to never get old I maintained multiple relationships with these girls, I was just friends with a handful, others just sex, but either way we were all like family, very close knit and inclusive.

CHAPTER 41

The casino staff booked different excursions for the crew separate from ones offered on the ship. On this trip they rented a bus to transport 30+ people to travel by boat to a small island near the coast of Cancun. We packed in for an hour or so ride to the marina to catch out charter. The spirited crew we had on board that day was most of the usual suspects with some casino crew added to the mix. The ride to the destination is always more exciting. Feeling anxious, happy, and full of energy we all peered out the large coach bus windows at the Mexican countryside and city of Cancun, not the tourist/spring break peninsula of hotels, but the dirty light brown city. Full of discharged American made cars from the 70s, open air markets covered in flies and even a small coliseum look-a-like for Mexican bullfights. The party bus stopped at a corner store in town so that we could all stop and stock up on all the dirt-cheap Mexican beer they had available. Emptying out standing coolers of stock while watching money being exchanged in the 15 minutes of commerce this small Mexican bodega was raped and pillaged while turned a profit. It was like a Viking raid of a peaceful town, leaving nothing but silence in our wake behind us as the bus spouted a black cloud into the air.

The cases of breakfast beers became empties and the party began as the tinted unwashed windows started to show the ocean through breaks in the buildings and palm trees as we got closer to our launch spot. Like ants traveling in a semi-perfect line to their hill we followed the ones in front to our party vessel. Gathering below the overlooking crew, stopping to rest our arms carrying necessities before boarding one at a time each stretching one leg to secure footing on the gently rocking boat. Situating ourselves in seats around the boat before we embarked on the choppy, less smooth ride of the 40 ft boat in comparison to our titanic sized cruiser. Clothes come off, sunglasses go on to soak up and shield the warming rays of the sun as everyone starts to jockey from prime real estate on the bow and lounge area for the trek across the channel with the strip of hotels and resorts of the spring break mecca of Cancun in the distance.

The boat on the move, fighting some wind and waves did not phase the behavior of anyone because of our fully developed sea legs. The ocean has always touched my senses in way like nothing else has it was great partying with friends centered in a 360-degree view without a care or worry in the world. 45 minutes later, the water shallows as it became like glass revealing the ocean floor spotted with tiny coral reefs. Slowing, approaching the wooden island like dock stretching a couple hundred feet over the beautiful sandbar to the hot dry sand of the beach. Without hesitation some just jumped into the 80-degree water as if they were little kids desperately trying to impress a disinterested parent with cannon balls into a pool. Next to the dock was a cage in the water reaching a couple feet above the tide. Curious as I walked down the dock I peeked into the enclosed space to see a fucking shark. Nurse shark, but a shark none the less, it long tail and fins make waves and small splashes as it swam around its confinement. Holy shit, that cool as I was informed it was for petting. Shark petting zoo on a populated island, it was crazy.

When my feet hit the sand it felt so good, deep and heavy getting hotter with every step further away from the water. Setting up coolers of beers from the boat, we crack one and all cheers, scattered around the small beach raising our cans of beer into the air to celebrate our official arrival. All there was on shore was an open-air cement bright colored yet long faded restaurant and bar, the only other structures that occupied the beach were a couple disconnected Tiki huts. Total seclusion from the city and across channels of ocean on the cusp of the Yucatan, this could never get old, if anyone ever complained about the state of being in paradise, they would be taking it for granted. I promised myself that moment on the beach that I was on the pursuit of happiness no matter what the cost. My happiness as I knew it would consist of golf, the sun, the ocean and traveling. After everyone settles on the bus, the majority passed out, but I as well as some other stayed up to talk or chill out on the way back. Back on the boat in time for departure, the cruise continued and ship life resumed in stellar fashion.

CHAPTER 42

The next trip to Cozumel I lacked golfers due to the fact that Cozumel country club needed a break from me. I went with the art dealer and two of the finest Steiners the spa had to offer to tour the island in a topless jeep rented from a place at the port’s entrance. The art guy knew his way around, contrary to my knowledge of the golf course and bars, so we set out with a tour guide. Driving down the coast not saying too much to each other because of the wind and motor. I just looked at all the barren space that was featured on my left covered in vegetation and the sparse entrances of small resorts on the ocean behind a wall of palm trees and mangroves. The girls in the back with wind pressed shirts to show body lines and boobies, hair tangled in itself and blowing in the draft, it couldn’t be better, smiling as this journey has made me so many times.

Approaching our destination, it was described as a restaurant with a view, but the steep inclined walkway made me think it was just a place on a cliff bare of culinary essentials, like electricity. Reaching the top covered in thick palm trees and large sections of rock in the shadows. Walking into an actual functioning location on top of a huge cliff, complete with a bar, tables under and outside of a monstrous Tiki Hut. Attached to the ceiling, every beam or pole above 6 ft like bats in cave were hundreds of pairs of bras and panties. Glorious panties, of all shapes, color, and sizes were written on, dated with party notes of people and places from where they came from. Then underneath were countless overlapping pictures and small articles permanently stuck to any flat surface available. It was amazing so much history of good times and parties. Wandering toward the edge, which still had set tables nearer to the vertical drop and the view was incredible. The beach was not in view unless you looked down the coast so the ocean and the horizon against the edge of the cliff was unreal. It lacked the glare of the sun off the water or the need to look away it was all blue, crystal clear calm water reaching differently shaded blue of the day’s sky without a single cloud in the sky.

Eating lunch and sipping on ice cold beers under the protection of the panty hut for a couple hours was a good start to the day. Taking in one last look at the panoramic view I turned and walked back to the jeep. The next spot we stopped at was at an elbow like protrusion of the island with the coast taking an unusual left turn, it was like a corner and there was another beach club bar except this one was not nice or had a single customer other than us, so we acted like tourists, just lackadaisically strolling around with our heads on a slow swivel until someone mentioned leaving.

Driving through the island instead of around it, we saw the real town, behind the mask of tourism. It looked so depressing it humbled me to the notion of what these quality of life for the natives were like in comparison to how I was living. Then unexpectedly, the overcast turns into a torrential downpour on our convertible jeep, ducking for cover of the large soaking tropical rain we maneuvered through the short storm to laugh off the incident, as some were wetter than others. The sun breaks through the clouds shortly after to create rainbows from the passing storm. Coming up upon a rest area with a couple cars parked in a dirt sandy lot in between the beach and the road. Impulsively stopping to check it out we discover that it was a small beach or lagoon with large boulders in shallow waters created small pools of water that looked like fish tanks at an aquarium. Prepared with trunks and goggles but no towel, I started looking for cool fish and small habitats to jump into or watch its residents. Looking for shells, laying them on the nearby rock in a pile to sift through, the Steiners got involved with the shell hunt and we laid out in patches of clouds hanging out, chatting and comparing our finds throwing the less attractive ones back. Losing daylight and time we were forced to leave in order to return the car and grab some beers at the spot, procrastinating to the last minute before getting back on the ship.

On the short ride the director noticed that the puddles left from the rain create quite a big splash, in range of the girls in back. Playing around he drives through the fresh puddles a couple times getting the girls wet enough to beg him to stop while laughing hysterically. As we get into the beginning of town he inadvertently sprays onto a not so crowded sidewalk within the port area. Seconds after we hear a siren, scaring the ever living shit out of everyone, knowing what kind of trouble this could be for us. Very displeased with our actions the Mexican cop speaks to us in Spanish with an aggressive tone, replying with the excuse of being ship crew, pointing at the cruise ship in view. The girls immediately started crying trying to plead with the cop to let us go as he kept us there in suspense. The sobbing girls in wet t shirts finally got to him like a nagging wife and lets us go with a warning just in time for us to return the car and make it back on the boat. We were very close to spending some time in a Mexican Police station cell.

CHAPTER 42

Me being me, might have lost one of my 9 lives that day, but I have gotten luckier than that previous times thinking to myself how many I have left, just in case. I reflected on everything that had happened since I stepped onto this ship. My brain was cut up in a pie chart with the largest piece being golf, then fun, the rest split into cake slivers consisting of girls, family, friends, money, the future and consequences. The latter was proven soon enough as the English girl was acting crazy, trying to continue our broken relationship on a more consistent basis. The resistance I gave for good reason was obviously not received will when she noticed my attention was elsewhere. One night she got stupid drunk and came to my door again, loud obnoxiously demanding to be let in. Screaming ensued after I fearfully remained quiet trapped in my room. I had only one option, I had to call security or I would become a guilty party to the powers that be as well. I called, they came, I had to explain but I had no other choice and I felt so bad about it, but I was backed into a corner or cabin.

The domestic disturbance was definitely a topic of interest amongst the grape vine its seriousness was felt by our whole crew for the rest of the cruise anticipating some sort of action from upstairs. The combination of drama, booze and the limelight made it harder for me to enjoy my position and ship life. There have been “crazy couple” incidents on the ship before, it wasn’t surprising to me that it happened, but I was disappointed that it involved me. My gut was telling me that all this was going to catch up with me somehow, sometime soon. Sure enough I received an email from the guy that trained me saying he was coming on the ship for a cruise to check up on me and about this crazy bitch ruining my time. This was not good. I had been independent and free of any supervision for months now having him aboard wasn’t conducive to my schedule, professionally or personally. He went through my daily routine, checking paperwork, inventory, sales, and critiquing particular parts despite my improper administrative training. Fear was all I felt that I was going to get “the 6 clock knock” which was security waking you up to tell you that you were done and to pack up and go home.

The cruise moved slowly, trying to lay low and be on my best behavior. The last night of the cruise came but the crew bar was not at its usual capacity. After a couple beers I went to sleep in hopes that the dude here to check up on me would leave as promised so I could regain my independence. Knock, knock. I awoke looking at the clock, 6 a.m., my heart dropped and started beating faster and faster as I opened the door to a security officer I was friendly with and my dude that hired me. I knew it, shit. They didn’t need to say anything, but their long faces and apologies just confirmed their sympathy. No explanations needed as I closed the door in anger to look at my room and survey my inevitable task of packing all my shit. Since arrival months ago I had added a few new items, after piling up tightly packed, full and heavy bags of my shit my hear consisted of. My camping pack, golf bag, garment bag, backpack, 2 guitars inside cases and anything I could fit in my pockets. Having to leave some things behind, I left to knock on doors of girls and friends I wanted to inform of my demise in order to say goodbye.

The flight was scheduled for me around noon so I had time to hang out at the casino to warn them I’m coming home, that day. The crew gathered with me for drinks and to say goodbye at our usual buffet spot when a couple became a few more to drink away my anger of abrupt dismissal. Leaving everyone with contact info and personal goodbyes, I grabbed all my shit on my tired sort of drunk shoulders and searched for a cab to the airport. The ride to the airport transformed my perception of the 6 o’clock knock. It was sad to leave ship life but while I was immersed in it I discovered something much more important, my passion for golf and my goal to be a pro and try to make it. I would never be able to accomplish anything on a cruise ship the challenge ahead of me was on land not at sea or in Mexico. All good things come to an end, for me that meant a new beginning. It was time to put thought into action, use everything that inspired me as motivation to initiate my dream and pursuit.

Fuck it, it was over, the only option was to go home to CT to regroup. I had experienced so many new things there was no way I could ever possibly regret my time on the cruise ship. Arriving at the airport for my flight home, I was surprised to be told that I had missed my flight. Shit. Making desperate phone called to my contracted company to rebook me on another one, they comply and I was saved. Checking in the airline company refuses to accommodate all my bags. I couldn’t even pay for it, they explained that my 5 bags had to become 4 due to policy, no exceptions. Motherfucker, every bag was so full that it was difficult to zipper up, where was I going to put the shit from the 5th bag? Which bag? Shit. This was a serious dilemma. Angrily opening up bags for the big decision I start moved important items first into my golf travel bag. Sacrificing the pile of clothes in my garment bag because of my unwillingness to leave a guitar, especially the one I had just bought in New Orleans. In the end, I got most of my space-saving clothes and my deflated garment bag into my golf bag, leaving the rest behind, whatever, it was just clothes.

Rerouting me to Dallas from New Orleans, then to Newark, scheduled to arrive late night because of a punishing layover. By 1 AM I had landed in Jersey, parents asleep they had to call a car service for my 1.5 hour drive north back home, only it wasn’t a car, a limo driver holds a sign with my name on it, apparently that’s all they had available, which was awesome. Exhaling in relief that my travels for the day were soon to be over. I fantasized about golf, the future and smoking some weed, a luxury I couldn’t enjoy for the last several months. It felt good to be home.

What the cruise and ship life taught me influenced my decisions to ultimately end up in Miami on my pursuit of happiness, playing golf. The transformation that I had been through since I accepted the job as the golf pro was what changed my life by helping me let go of personal demons I have left affect me. When I played golf before my time on the on the ship, even prior to college, I would put so much pressure on myself to play well, I would frequently let my emotions get the best of me. It was as if I measured my self worth by a scorecard and a trophy, getting easily discouraged by any criticism. I was thinking too far ahead of myself, playing for a score rather than just playing, rusting my natural ability and not being patient or mature enough to accept both favorable and unfavorable results.

The remote isolation of the cruise ship, carefree ship life and golf contributed to a more positive attitude adjustment, I learned to let go and just let things happen. Believing in myself more from the attention and praise of others made me feel that with my potential I could accomplish my dreams. Living in the moment and not looking back, golf became fun again. I played without any pressures or fear, trusting my instincts and using my imagination to create opportunities, accepting any fate for what it is, always progressing and moving forward. Its a game of constant improvement. The experience would prove to prepare me with the mental strength and will to recover from the worst time in my life.

CHAPTER 43

Just to be out of the hospital and back at my place on the beach was unbelievable. I had spent over a week wishing I could be released, now I was, and I appreciated the freedom from doctors, nurses, IVs, needles and tests. The reminders of my time at the hospital were of course my painful broken rib, the countless needle holes in my arms and stomach and the adhesive from the surgical tape that wouldn’t wash off my forearms. In constant view, my shrunken forearms were evidence for all to see and assume medical attention. The motel functioned as per usual including the gossip that still lingered from my first visit.

I needed to stay busy as much as I could, it was important for me to eat and take it easy. I knew that every day starting now was important, the more I pushed the limits of my limiting injury that had no recourse for rehab the longer it could last, so I couldn’t do much of anything for the next 2 weeks as the doctor prescribed. The overcast sky kept me inside popping pills, pillows up together for enough cushion to lay back against my wall with the TV miles away but remote in my hand. From my bed I could hear people talking outside of my room, recognizing most of the voices, matching them up with their shadows as to feel involved in the activities. As I lay there in the same position regardless of discomfort I would sneak out every couple hours when I heard silence to smoke a cigarette, fearing I would see someone I didn’t want to see.

The combination of all the negative energy that surrounded my condition kept circling in my head. Every topic I thought of seemed to not have explanation or end insight. This brought my depression to a higher level every time the lazy susan of thoughts turned to the front of my head. Months of preparation in the gym, on the golf course, on the practice range and the schedule I wished I could keep. Just my luck, when I thought my break was near and my life would change for the better, it got worse, typical. At least 6 months to heal my rib, 6 months of my life, gone, 6 months of waiting for it to begin again.

The job I had at the Biltmore was to supplement my golf expenses. I could play and practice for free which was a necessary piece to the puzzle, the cost of golf was too high for me not to work at a course that didn’t allow for unlimited employee use. The cost of practice alone, in range balls, which was a staple to developing my game, would be over $50 a day. Greens fees to play every day I practiced would run close to the same, give or take depending on the day, time of year and quality of golf course. Total thus far per month, roughly $2500. Equipment, essential to the former, was a running tally with the amount of each. Golf gloves, $14, golf balls per box, $50 and there was no ceiling on the amount one could spend on attire and clubs. The cheapest club would be close to $100 and possibly the same for shoes or an outfit. In the golf industry it was basically a prerequisite to work for free golf, sacrificing a more stable income for the privilege to play.

The phone call to my director was inevitable but my reluctance to do so was because of my job description required manual labor and physical ability wasn’t up to par. I made the call, explaining some of what had happened and the result, which was 2 weeks of no work of doctor’s recommendations. Surprisingly he and the rest of the staff were very accommodating to my unique problem. Their sympathy even spawned a small collection of daily tips from other coworkers to help with some of the cost of living, not much but a kind gesture. Support from all the people that knew me at the Biltmore and admired my impossible dream gave me more hope that I would survive.

The day passed slowly, only elapsing by when I could take my painkillers, I grew increasingly worried about my living arrangement. Losing the majority of the month of March to the hospital, not able to work, my bank account was tapped out, meaning I could not afford rent. Days away from the beginning of April, I had no idea how I would come up with $800 by then. The visit from my buddy in the hospital, insinuated their disbelief in my story and their unwillingness to cut me any slack. Anyway I tried to add it up confirmed that there was no way to beg, borrow, or steal enough in my condition to make it happen. They were going to have to accept the inevitable, which I knew was not going to be easy for them, considering they were convinced I was lying.

CHAPTER 44

Due to my recent bout with “fresh” salads and prepared food, I could not fathom eating something that wasn’t securely sealed or rapped, my meals consisted of small portions of crackers, trail mix and protein bars. The weight I lost was severe and my appetite, as well as my digestive system was in shambles. What now? Wash whatever I could manage to chew and swallow down with a painkiller, then back to bed to chill, digest and feel the pill kick in. I tried to eat enough to increase my appetite slowly without making my sore stomach hurt. The last 2 weeks I had probably only slept about 20 hours, total, that’s 20 hours out of 250+ possible hours in which sleeping and being awake didn’t matter. This was brought about by numerous nights in pain, so much so that it kept me from dreams in between nurse visits and vitals. 2 weeks of extreme discomfort, where my dislocated rib only allowed me to sleep on my back, with no delineation from it at all. 14 days of no food or appetite, days of stomach pain and the repulsion of actual meals my body holding itself together by a thread.

My pain curbed by handfuls of percocets while my stomach and soul, were appeased by the fairly frequent flow of weed thru the motel. Every couple of hours there was at least a chance to burn one with someone that was around. It broke up my day for however long I stayed high for, keeping me getting the munchies on the regular to settle my curdled stomach. Having absolutely nothing to do, smoking like a rasta was the only activity option in between TV and the beach, so I just kept burning as much as the charity lasted. I was so fucking bored by the late afternoon. For someone like me with an indefinite amount of energy, doing nothing was something I would have to adapt to. I had to really be tired or exhausted for me to waste away a day on the couch or bed watching 12 straight hours of TV, but I had been on this schedule for a couple weeks and despite the change in scenery I realized it was unfortunately the same.

Regardless of the task, chore or necessity, each movement needed to be relearned. Something as basic as a shower required serious reconfiguring, what used to come easy on the washing totem pole, now required more effort.

Walking was not really a problem as long as the surface was flat with any slight step or curb my rib would radiate enough pain to stop me mid-step. Stairs became an issue, mostly going down because of my child-like steps, you know, having one foot fall to the step making you head bob or any part that could jiggle would jiggle. Walking up was less stressful but much slower, one step at a time to my usual two at a time made my steps seem much shorter and more frequent and exhausting. Unable to use my arms on the railing to pull my body up because of risk of extreme pain, enough to probably force an awkward fall backward, any strict or precise move could have caused me to give up to excruciating pain. Due to this, change motor skills I kept to the ground floor, only having to deal with 2-5 steps at a time, the maximum I could handle without a break for rest.

Sitting down was always nerve racking, not so much getting up really but if I turned the wrong way to settle into a seat, I would be breathing like a pregnant mother at lamas class, trying to breathe away the pain and discomfort. The lower the seat, the more cautiously I proceeded. I couldn’t use much of my arms or shoulders, so you can imagine trying to park your rear end without the aide of your hands up to your shoulders, no turn signals or reverse beep to warn nearby traffic. Even when I was seated, the contour of the seat changed the way in which I sat positioning my little butt to support my upper body comfortably. If I sat too long in any position my rib would stiffen up then throb with constant pain. I tired throughout the day to stretch my shoulders back to loosen the center of my chest, but it hurt too much, every time I attempt to correct my hospital bed posture.

My arms were patched with outlines of hospital tape, stuck like a pincushion and now were like crutches. I started to learn how they affected my chest pain. My right arm was still aching from all the drawn blood and IVs so every time I used my hands, it sent sharp shooting pains up and down my forearm to my elbow. I asked the nurse before I left how long it would hurt, and in a typical response, I heard, “It will go away.” Really? Thanks, for being specific and thorough regarding one of my two arms. It was like she said, “Its cool, you have two.” So I needed to relearn, without favoring anything else that was cause for concern. Putting any strain on either arm caused significant pain in my chest, as well as lifting my arms too high for anything. My elbows resting on tables or arm rests were a problem I noticed when sitting in my chair at the table, left arm resting as body slightly learned in that direction. Initially it felt good to rest my weak body, secretly the pain in my chest built up to surprise me with a surge in the center of my chest that made wince, retracting my arm closer to my body as I fought the intense hurt with heavy breathing. The differenced between having a broken leg and having a dislocated rib was a leg could be properly immobilize, and more importantly you knew when it was going to hurt, with my chest the surprise alone from its usual constant ache to a rush of pain was unbearable, almost like a sudden panic attack.

CHAPTER 45

Dinner was approaching as the sun started to set through the clouds. I took a walk before it got too dark fearing my limited movements could cause a problem if I happened to miss a step in the dark. I know that this event had changed my life forever when I realized that I started to think differently, always cautious of the pain and in constant fear of it. Cigarette in hand, no shoes or flops, I walked to take a look at the waves before it got dark enough to only spot the ones breaking, the white wash spreading up onto the sand only to recede and disappear. This time I didn’t get the soft feel of the sand to my feet, rejecting the idea because bending down to clean the sand off was too much of a chore for me to want to deal with. Walking back I could only focus on the pain I was in and the relief awaiting me in my drawer of pills.

With a sense of urgency, and possibly addiction, I went straight for the painkillers after opening my door. Standing silent and motionless as to hear them echo in my empty stomach, I stood thinking that my first full day of recovery was ending soon. I ate one of each small packaged, non-threatening snacks as my dinner with some tea to keep my stomach settled while I prepared my bed for the night. Having placed all necessary items within reach from my fabricated pillow chair on my bed. If I was down, getting up was a challenge I did not wish for, even if I had to pee, I would try to wait it out until the last second. As the same as the hospital gurney, my resting or sleeping position was always on my back, every so often my body urging my brain to move to a more comfortable position. Imagine being in bed and not able to move around or jostle positions until reaching a satisfying spot of comfort. Normally, there is a moment prior to movement in bed when, you know your are not comfortable, your braining sending messages to your muscles, then the split second of frustration that pushes you to reposition, finally reaching comfort. Well, I had to veto that decision every time, trying to suppress the urge to move, while dealing with the pain and the annoyance depriving my body of comfort.

CHAPTER 46

10 minutes into TV time and moments away from the percocets distributing medicine through my body, there was a knock at the door. Fuck. “This better be good.” I said once on my feet. Unlocking the door revealing Carie, most likely stopping in before heading home. She came bearing gifts, a blunt, couldn’t have been better timing as the pain killers kicked in, feeling the rush of drugs in my body making it easier to deal with. All the smiles I used to give out so often were non-existent now, my mood had yet to produce a smile.

We sat together at the table, smoking weed while she rambled on about her brothers, the motel and random gossip. I listen to almost none of it, as per my occupation on cloud 9. She clamored around a bit, checking everything out, seemingly investigating my place, then left with the roach still burning. Again I reconfigured my bedtime operation, smoked a cigarette and then laid back watching TV for hours. I couldn’t sleep, watching the clock above the TV turn to midnight then 2 am. I had no sort of sleeping schedule. I was just up all night, all the time, it was about that time again as the pain started keeping me awake instead of the TV. Unable to piece together how I would sleep into a normal schedule, with only a couple hours into my pain pills the pain would reach normalcy and I haven’t learned to deal with the pain enough to sleep. I knew then that it could be months before I would sleep like I used too. This was my life for an indefinite amount of time. 48 hours of Recovery complete, as I watched the clock hit 6 am.

Wishing that I was waking up, instead of just being awake, I made coffee, turned on sports center, which was the only show that I looked forward to but it still repeated all morning like everything else I had been watching. Eating pain pills and a protein bar with my coffee, sitting in the chair still trying to go over what I was going to do for the months of recovery. Go hard or go home? I was fragile, because of this, my body was #1 priority for me and all my decisions were based around it. Do I stay and recover at the motel? Do I move closer to work? Go home? After my previous day, my mind kept changing about my options because of how I felt physically and the question of how long until I could play again? Golf was my meal ticket I needed it to survive or my reasons for being in South Florida would be meaningless. The build-up and let down of my hopes and dreams, would only be confirming failure of my quest upon arrival home. I can never accept failure, in anything I’m passionate about and I remember that being the moment I stopped thinking, going back up north was an option.

Sipping coffee for about an hour, I smoked a cigarette in reflection of a decision made, to not quit, to finish what I started. I didn’t know how, but I knew that I can survive almost anything, after last week’s near death experience, I wasn’t going to let this stop me from going after my dream. I was just going to take it one day at a time each day was one day closer to playing golf. Motivating myself to the point of anger, like the parts when the hulk’s eyes turn green before he unleashes his rage. These emotions are not going to get the best of me, or my situation, my patience will be truly tested in the coming months while my rib healed. I had to focus on golf and preparation without having the ability to do so physically, this was part of the mental game, my will.

Treating each day the same as the last, inching closer to playing with every sunset, inching closer to playing with every sunset, I was determined to beat this and return to life. Picturing the situation like a puzzle, fitting individual pieces into their proper places. Living in the moment was to keep focused on the piece at hand and not getting distracted by the questionable end. My buddy that donated this metaphor told me, “Treat like a puzzle, once you think you’re done and step back, you realize its just a bigger piece to a bigger puzzle.” This juicy tid-bit of advice I will never forget. Life is a game of constant improvement, as is golf. There are successes and failures but survival depends on the ability to adapt. For the duration of my recovery I had to piece my life back together, making sure all the corners and edges matched flush.

I’m not sure what day of the week it was but there was action around the motel. Small construction projects, clean up and just a lot of residents out and about. Spending most of the day indoors listening and watching shadows pass by the window through the curtain. Keeping to myself all morning with no attempt to do anymore than smoke on my doorsteps, I received no visitors, just casual “What’s up? How you feeling?” I started to get the feeling that something was up, even being so drained and loopy, I felt a storm brewing at the motel. Obviously my rent was in question from the brothers having sent their sister to do recon work on my place. As far as I was willing to look, the conversation on rent was inevitable the evil brotherhood conspired against me because they were the ones that started the rumors that I was a fucking drug addict. Guys I had known for years told everyone that it was because I was addicted to pills, the hospital visit and my diagnosis a ruse to cover it up. What? Fucking. Really? They controlled the people around them by manipulating them into slave labor to support their crooked finances left from their father’s inheritance. I know these guys their conviction would result in, smoking weed with each other, coming up with schemes to squeeze every penny out of people in an arrogant ignorant manner as if they were mafia bosses.

CHAPTER 47

Swallowing percocets I prepare for a mid-day shower, slowly chewing the last bite of a protein bar, I search for some clean clothes. I was so skinny I felt it, nothing fit like it did 2 weeks ago and any snug shirt made it worse. Searching to find a fit that made me feel thicker or normal looking. With deliberate steps I got under the hot water and just stayed under the showerhead until the water got cold, not wash anything other than my face because it was the easiest to reach. I pondered what the brothers would do, anyway you sliced it there was no money for rent until I can go back to work, in 2 weeks. They were going to have to wait, if not I had to pay rent somewhere else, no possible way short of winning the lotto that I could afford both. 30 minutes later I was dressed and ready, going with the long sleeve t-shirt over a t-shirt to hide my recent wounds. The insecurity that I had was because of my slightly visible bones sticking out of different places when I had my shirt off in front of the mirror, it upset me every time. I tried not to look.

Restlessly pacing around the minimal floor space, I thought of how to kill some time by doing anything other than being alone. The closest escape from boredom was my sweet neighbors, who I heard through the wall making a ruckus. Walking the grueling 10 feet, I knock my buddy’s sis opens the door as everyone gets quiet. Entering I find a nice comfy spot on the small couch as my body gets tired from standing. A blunt burning gets passed around as I meet my neighbor chick’s friend from out of town, fake titties and ok face made her a 7, but I enjoyed the view nonetheless. After I was nice and high to add to my dose of barbiturates, I sunk into my seat as an observer and just listened to their gossip. They talked and talked and talked. When finished my buddy’s sis started chatting with me in an investigative tone, trying to pry into my future plans. Avoiding serious facts, I just danced around each subject until she stopped. Frustrated with my lack of useful information, I could sense that she knew something that I didn’t. She left to tend to the motel and I left the other two to retire to hibernate in my cave, as the short excursion made me tired.

Lying on my bed, on a pillow pile, the TV goes on, I sigh with relief and reach for my guitar, positioning it in the most comfortable cautious place under my arm, I try to play a little but the pressure necessary and ambidextrous coordination made my rib hurt immediately. Placing the guitar down gently I found one more thing that I loved but had to wait to play until I recovered. Wasting the remaining hours of the day in bed chilling out watching TV until dinner and the sunset. Another one for the books as the sky and a small unsatisfying meal hit my belly with more drugs and tea.

I didn’t bat an eye until after 2 am, still unable to sleep until the last rerun switched to infomercials. From 2 am to 6 am I couldn’t toss and turn, so I shut off and turned the TV on when I became frustrated unable to doze off for even an hour. Probably a little early for my morning antibiotic, too many pills and percocets, I was in pain so I started an hour or so early wandering if I was going to regret it come 11 am. Talking to my parents about my decisions and rent concerns, they still worried about me as the tone of their voices expressed. Bored quickly this new day, I took a long hot shower and straightened up as much as possible before the motel started to wake up. Not knowing the day of the week I just counted down the days until I could go back to work again, still questioning my effectiveness in normal golf course duties.

11 days to go, 7 horse pills of antibiotics, and about 30 pounds to gain before I could reach a small portion of normalcy. The morning was quiet and dragged on very slowly, the motel traffic was light like the calm before the storm. Mid-morning, my buddy’s sister stopped in to smoke a blunt meanwhile quizzing me about rent. I told her straight up I didn’t and couldn’t have it until I went back to work, not pleased she left to report to her brothers, who most likely sent her instead of asking themselves. Shortly after I get a call from my buddy, the oldest brother, asking the same questions just to get the same answers as his sister. Shit was going down, soon. I knew they were devising a plan, and because I refused to work for them they were extra bitter, most likely an ultimatum was coming. Later that evening after pills and dinner, he called me again to tell me that I had to have rent, and once again I explained how fucked I was, until I could get to work again. The brothers’ disbelief in my diagnosis probably meant the result of non-payment would be drastic.

Thinking of the consequences kept me up all night, not like I could sleep anyway. It made me want to double dose myself in the middle of the night to get at least 4 hours of sleep. Again my tired, semi-bloodshot, swollen eyes were open for the sunrise, another insomniac like morning glued to ESPN. Bored with sports center reruns, I ventured out to the beach with a cup of coffee to try to enjoy the beautiful cloudless day upon return I catch the brothers between buildings on their way somewhere to do something. They looked at me with smug expressions as to insinuate their theory of my physical state. My buddy asks if I would be around for a minute to chat. I sarcastically replied, “Where else could I go?” Seriously, I could not drive, work, had a dislocated rib and still recovering from near death by E. coli. Frustrated and annoyed at his request, I was ready for the conversation and any bullshit he could dish out. This was ridiculous, they didn’t believe a word of what happened, especially my financial crisis, assuming I would frantically make phone calls to borrow money out of fear of being kicked out or even worse locked out. I would not, my anger toward them was immense, no matter how fucking stupid they were, they should be smart enough to figure out my options, considering how few of them I had.

I peaked in my neighbors place to find the girls again. I walk in to hit the end of a blunt that reluctantly came my way. Carie leaves abruptly after telling me her brother was coming to talk to me, so I awaited the inevitable. Standing on the highest out three steps he comes around the corner to a stop, with an aggressive tone he asks again if I would have rent by the next day. Restating my case with, “No, it’s not possible, until I get to the Biltmore and start work again,” in a very blunt manner. Rebutting my statement with “I’m going to lock you out tomorrow if you don’t pay rent.” Confused if he had heard me the first 9 times I said, “Really? It’s gonna be like that?” He says in short, “Yup.” So I had to figure something out by tomorrow. Calling my folks to spread the news, I stressed my need for money or options to a living situation. I needed a bed or my recovery would be more difficult, not to mention more painful. What was I to do?

A half a dozen percocets later it was the day of reckoning, a decision had to be made as to where I would sleep and how I would get there with all my shit. Up as early as usual I text my buddy across the courtyard with my dilemma, the most accommodating of all my friends he told me to bring my shit in his place for the time being. Shortly after his approval I opened his unlocked door to survey the place for room for out of his way to dump my belongings. Stressed, angry and in serious pain I took my stuff in bags and periodically to his apartment, making sure to take everything I needed before my next schedule pill appointment in order to minimize the pain of carrying something over a pound. Sweaty, tired, angry and in a world of hurt, I got as comfortable as possible on the couch waiting for the pain killers to save me from a worse afternoon than my horrible morning. A couple hours into my stay, the door echoes a knock, my buddy stands in the doorway to tell me that I could not stay at the motel at all. Wow, fuck you dude I thought shutting the door in his face to call my host to confirm. He tells me that the brothers won’t allow it and he couldn’t do anything because he worked for them. Fuck me!

Adam texts me with an invitation to stay at his ex’s with T for a night or two. Taking the opportunity immediately I packed my car and drove to the girls’ place in a severe amount of pain, afraid of any accident or instance where I would get hurt even more from the seat belt covering my wounded sternum. Luckily my friend T was off that day and able to help me into the apartment with an overnight bag of necessities to shower and relax. My life was packing in my car in a space close to the building heating up in the hot sun. My buddy just made me homeless with a dislocated rib, medical bill and no other option. What a cruel motherfucker to do that to a friend. He decided to not only end our battered friendship forego any money I owed him during the month of hell I so recently went through. I would pay rent somewhere but I knew now it wasn’t going to be at the motel, dude fucked me, so fuck him, see ya.

Homeless, broke, tired and days away from returning to work I spent the rest of the day venting my anger and hatred to what had just occurred. I was in total shock, what was I to do? My diminished options left me no choice other than to reach out to friends from the Biltmore for a spot on a couch so I could be closer to work. My broken down car and body were not going to be able to withstand a 45 minute commute, along with the daily allowance for gas in order to get there. I had to fly further south and away from the brothers and our circle of friends. After several calls my coworker accepted the responsibility of putting me up until I got on my feet. He lived in Coral Gables minutes from work in a small converted house of U of Miami grad students. My new plan was to leave the following day to meet him after his shift ended at the golf course. Adding an air mattress the girls let me borrow to the pile of shit in my car, I cautiously migrated to Miami days after being released from the hospital.

CHAPTER 47

The sun disappearing in the west I drove down I-95 leaving the motel and all the drama behind. Arriving at my buddy’s place I take the air mattress and necessity bag inside to a very meager, not well constructed living quarters with a cleared spot on the cold, hard tile floor, fuck, this was not good for my chest. I was appreciative and lucky to have such support from my dude who coincidentally was the one collecting for my recovery fund, donating tips to help me survive. That evening we hung out, smoked weed, watched a movie and went over the arrangement because of his lack of space and now privacy, the deal was he allowed a week for me to find another place and I complied with his request. So I would begin my search the next day to minimize any friction.

Keeping to my schedule of medication I swallow them with water and test my bedding. I was used to back support from pillows from which there was no such thing. It was extremely painful to lay flat as the air mattress quickly displaced air awkwardly positioning my body for bedtime. Despite the discomfort I actually slept through the night to awake well before my new roomies at 6 am. Struggling to get up, my chest felt as if it had a knot tightly secured between my ribs radiantly an extraordinary amount of pain. Rattling the pill bottle a bit I frantically take a couple along with my stomach meds and anti-biotic. I slowly and quietly stand to sneak outside not to wake my gracious roommate. Rubbing my matted head out of utter frustration I stretched as much as I could during my AM smoke, dreaming of coffee. My coffee fix needed satisfaction so I left the door unlocked to venture out in search of my morning cup of coffee.

Walking gingerly through the Miami city blocks I reach Coral Way a main road with a Starbucks in view. In line with unassuming patrons, I thought about how rare my current condition was amongst the people carrying on with their normal lives, what a fucking predicament I was in. Everyone around me had no idea how lucky they had it as the personal storm cloud hovered overhead on this beautiful sunny south Florida day. Sweating through my coffee in the slow walk back I grabbed a paper to peruse the classifieds for any apartments in the area. Circling possible ads to call I set the paper down for phone calls after my dude woke up and left for work still thinking of how I would manage to afford rent and a security deposit. Up shit’s creek without a paddle, how was I going to make this happen? I had to be able to find my own place with no money and a broken rib in a week’s time with only an air mattress as furniture and nothing else but clothes, guitar, and golf clubs. I would say this was a bit of a pickle.

Enough money to last me a week or so with more on the way from my concerned, helpless parents, I tried to eat well and be patient, it’s difficult to explain but, my reality was almost like I didn’t even care, not because I was financially stable or had a literally care free attitude. I was so fucked at this point it literally didn’t matter. There were very little options, so I had to just leave it up to fate to decide. A Buddhist sort of calmness as the world kept turning and destined to unfold in time. Fuck it. Even if I wanted to get another job or start work earlier, my chest and body couldn’t take it. I was so beat up that no on would believe I was even able to work, not so much as to answer a phone. For the next 5 days I hung out in this dude’s shitty place doing nothing, absolutely nothing.

By the eve of my welcome back to work, sorry about your E. coli, you look awful day I had only 2 pills of E. coli antibiotic left out of 10 and about 500 bucks in the bank from my parents. I had to make another 500 or more dollars to be able to get in some studio or rented room and out of my buddy’s place. I hoped someone would be sympathetic to my situation and give me a much needed break from the nightmare month I just had. Over a joint, I assumed my buddy, growing tired of his lack of privacy with me, basically that I would be out as soon as I could. This me feel guilty as a month before I almost died he, himself slept in his car as he was in between places and paychecks. He knew what it was like to have to resort to that, so he let me stay until I could find another place to crash. We could relate to each other more than most, we weren’t best friends but shared something similar. He was a starving artist himself as a studio tech/producer of music and his dream was a lot like mine, fake it till you make it. We were both dreamers with the odds against us in very competitive industries.

Having opposite schedules he was up 5:30 am while I waited until 1 pm for my appearance at work for the first time in a month, a full month, gone because of a fucking salad. Having a limited supply of painkillers I wrestled with when and how many do I take? Will I be in pain during or more so after work. I haven’t even been on my feet for more than an hour and I had to last about 7 in the sun doing work, not crazy labor but, a little effort and lots of walking. I chose to split my snack of two pills and take one before and just see how it went from there. I was nervous and high and extremely insecure about the physical consequences of going back to work as well as the repercussions of not making my hourly and tips. Not to mention all of the reactions and comments about the weight I lost. It was nerve racking but necessary because I wasn’t giving up on anything.

The Biltmore was a short drive from my buddy’s through the Gables covered by overhanging banyan and fichus trees. The Gables are filled with Spanish style rowed houses hidden by palm trees and fences in a humid tropical botanical garden like aesthetic. Pulling up to the hotel parking lot with each slow bump hurting my rib I park turning the car off to sit in silence to prepare for my first shift back. Deeply inhaling and exhaling I open the door and start my walk to the clubhouse and shack. Peeking through the gaps in the hedges to the first hole to see how busy it was and who was working I spot my new temporary roommate racing me to the clock out station attached to the cart barn. The look I got from him showed annoyed exhaustion then relief that I was actually out of his place for the first time in a week and he could be alone. My concentration was elsewhere so my guilt didn’t last very long as we quickly talk about meeting at his place later. Knowing I had to give some face time to the director I walked into the pro shop to everyone’s amazement. Jaws dropped and sympathetic welcome backs soon followed as they crowded me for details, looking me up and down noticing the difference in appearance from only 4 weeks since last seeing me. During and after my story gets told, and coworkers commented, “Holy shit” at least a couple times each in the short version of my story. In utter shock and amazement of what I had just been through, they all shook their heads offering their support, as they left to continue the workday.

Stepping out of the air-conditioned pro shop and into the hot humid air, I walked to my post to be greeted by the outside staff members, regulars and grounds crew along the way. The majority of them thought I, either quit, got fired or moved away. They had no idea what I actually was doing for the past several weeks of my absence. Grabbing the attention of random golfers and guests with my story I was telling for the second time to people who knew me at the shack next to the first tee. It sounded so sad and tragic, the small chance of getting that sick from E. coli from a salad was usually something you would hear on the news as a warning, not usually someone you know. I’m not sure I heard of anyone I’ve ever told, say to me that, they had E. coli or someone they knew, it was like an urban myth. Everyone made me feel good with the support and sympathy. They knew me as a cheery talkative dude who was always in good spirits being on a golf course. They saw how deflated and discouraged I was to be dealing with such unusual circumstances.

CHAPTER 48

Throughout the pm shift I didn’t do much as they picked up the slack from my handicapped body. It was good to get back to work with such positive attitudes to contrast the horrid motel brotherhood. I felt at home. During my breaks I used the shop computer to search craig’slist for places and phone numbers, except most of the rentals in my small place range were in Spanish so I initially steered clear of any language barrier living situation. Useless without money to put down I had to be able to talk to someone to explain my situation and my solution to lack of funding. Still on a treadmill I let it go for the time being and got back to work, telling my friends more details of the motel and hospital experience. Closing out my first day back with a sense of accomplishment that a week after nearly dying I was back at work despite a dislocated rib.

My appetite started to come back a little more each day and to show my appreciation to my buddy putting me up, I bought him dinner with tip money. We went to this Irish pub owned by a member of the Biltmore, good food and atmosphere, we say and looked over the menu at the end of the bar. A dark hair, turned skinned cute bartender makes her way down the long wood bar to the corner where we sat. Very friendly and accommodating she brought me water and my wingman a beer then asked what we wished to order. Providing a disclaimer about my recent hatred for anything green, I explain that I didn’t want to even see lettuce on the burger I wanted or I would send it back. Expressing the fact that I was not a finicky customer but just a fair warning our food arrives and of course, its got lettuce on it, shit, so I had to immediately refuse as she takes care of it. 5 minutes after I actually finished a full meal, I felt my stomach stretching out, not being used to all that food, it hurt, for weeks it was sore, especially after that burger. In serious painful food coma we just watched a movie on my buddy’s laptop placed on a chair so we could both see from our beds. Dropping my night’s painkillers I laid awake for hours to fall asleep around 2:30 am.

The sun shining through ceiling level windows got me at 6 am to pain, noticing my ass touching the tile floor due to loss of air in the portable mattress. The foot of the mattress bloated with the air that should have been protecting my upper half from the cold hard floor. This was fucking bullshit my current living/sleeping arrangement was going to force me into taking more painkillers. I went from a bed, to a couch, to another couch to a tile floor, the regression of comfort was not fun, but I had no choice. Nearing 8 am I shuffle threw my cases for my antibiotics excited to swallow the last one, saving my liver that has been working overtime, most likely not in very good shape. The doc said in the ER that the amount of Advil I took before my 2nd visit to contain my fever was the start as my enzyme levels were very high, so by now it was probably fucked up. Awake, uncomfortably in pain laying on the useless air mattress waiting a bit longer to get up in order to not wake up the roommate, who was definitely not a morning person, just watching the clock tic.

The next shift at work helped and hurt as much as the first. Being initiated back into somewhat of a routine, staying busy with work and the apartment search. It stayed fairly consistent for the next 5 days as I saved my tip money and building up my paycheck. By the end of the week my buddy was started to feel suffocated having me there and mentioned his request for finding a place sooner than later. I appreciated his help and honesty so I got serious about getting out, commissioning my buddy in the pro shop to translate and explain my situation to non-English speaking landlords. Looking for a room or converted garage my surrogate and I hit the road for anything for rent and a small list of numbers to call. After a day of searching with no results, I assured my buddy that I would be there another night or two only. The next day I found a number off craig’slist, called and arranged a visit after work, for affirmation of my unusual story I made sure to bring my Spanish translator for a reference to cosign my promise to pay off a security deposit.

We pulled up to the quintessential Florida 1-storey house in a row of repetitive architectural design that from an airplane window looked like square leaves attached to a network of concrete branches, suburban city grids. The homeowner was a big tittied, large Spanish chick, but her girlfriend showed me the place, insinuating why her rent was so cheap with sexual lesbian innuendoes. This would be a new experience if they allow me to move into their awfully constructed garage studio. I maroon colored concrete garage floor, a shower curtain for a bathroom door and a disconnected sink, stove unit near two stairs that led to the door to the kitchen that was not included with the deal. There was a bed dresser, night table and desk that would enough furniture to cover my needs. The bed, bathroom and window air conditioner was all I needed. So I waited for the not so cute lesbian couple to make a decision.

Anticipating the entire next morning, I impatiently called for answer so I could celebrate or look elsewhere, leaving a message the suspense grew while I check my phone for a response every 5 minutes. A couple hours later I got news of my new place and the conditions involving my payment of rent and deposit. Agreeing to everything, I was grateful and relieved to have a place to live that night. My move was not difficult because all my shit was already packed in my car, so I just drove over and periodically unpacked as I organized the dark dungeon like studio. The only window occupied by the air conditioner cooling off the hot musky room, this was my new recovery room.

Once cool, dry from sweat and settled in for the most part I laid on my new bed without any sheets took my percocets, finally able to relax. I spent the next day, doing laundry out back and cleaning my new spot. No work, chores kept me busy until about lunchtime when the boredom set in. Having a little bit of weed to go with my pain killers I laid down and watched 3 movies that was my movie collection in a row, with no internet to speak of. The painful knot in my chest started to bother me more when I was still, having only sharp excruciating shots of pain while up and about. Frequently surprising me when in mid reach, turn, pull or carry, completely unpredictable pain.

CHAPTER 49

The days passed as my stash of pills diminished, taking less effect on the constant injury. My days routinely became filled with work, going out to eat, taking pain killers (when necessary now), smoking weed and watching the same 3 movies over and over and over again, Incrementally my sleep increased with the addition of work and heavy meals, but still not passing out before midnight. Broke as shit, in debt to the lesbian landlords, I had very little money, so my budget was always prioritized according to rent and gas, nothing else, including food. I glutinously ate from the gross lunch buffet at work to supplement breakfast and lunch. This sucked, I was insanely bored, bitter and lonely, every single day/hour/minute at my cave.

At the golf course was inspiration and motivational torture, watching golf being played made me miss it more and more every day. I felt for some reason this happened to me and if this was life, then fate decided to ignite my burning desire to play while I recovered. I would have to curtain my excitement knowing any discussion about my game would lead to explaining my inability to play. Without displaying my skill on the course, talk was just talk without proof. For the majority of my time paying golf for a living, anyone that ever asked what I did, never seem to completely believe I could do it. I didn’t seem the type apparently. But seeing me play or practice took away any doubt of any person who questioned my ability. Golf, my swing, was my meal ticket and no matter how long I had to suffer through this ordeal, I was going to prove everyone wrong.

The pain from my busted rib cage was exactly what I head from acquaintances and the doctors. It was a lasting painful injury that would take a long, undisclosed amount of time to fully heal. Given the location it was more on the severe side of the diagnostic spectrum. Every day it hurt the same, sometimes worse than others but relentless for about a month or so, the beginning portion of the 6 months projected. I figured that at such a slow rate I would neglect to notice bigger steps in progress as it faded away, making me forget how badly it hurt. In a way, I didn’t want to forget the pain when I was in the ER, that reminder of what not to take for granted in the present moment and further.

Every morning it hurt to wake up, wanting these days to go by quickly, wishing I could just fast-forward through this part. My painkillers ran out way too soon, but I dealt with it anyway, no escape, just more time. I had to come back better, stronger and smarter than I was before I went into the hospital. By my calculations I might catch the tail end of the season that took months to prepare for, but in order to do so I had to practice and play immediately upon full recovery. I was like a horse at the gate waiting to be unleashed into competition. I promised myself that I would be 100% certain my body and rib could handle the physical demands of a rushed, intensely motivated schedule, before I could be free of injury.

Time slowly passed, growing a minor sense of hatred toward what happened to me and all the variables involved affecting the future. I just could never wrap my head around why this had to happen to me. I watched as these players who thought they were legit “players,” in the pro sense of the word, finish 18 with a swagger. I wanted nothing more in life than to wipe that fucking smile off their face by beating them straight up. A sense of humility came about from days of being teased by the golf course. No matter how much I wanted to blurt out thoughts in my head, I remained calm, collected and unassuming. I was just going to have show everyone who I was, anyone. “show them who you are” became my tag line. I wrote it in red permanent marker on all my mirrors, eventually shortening to just “show ‘em.” Every day I woke up with aching pain and read that to gather strength.

Being admitted to the hospital and seeing my neighbors in worse condition than myself and the results of my broken rib were major factors in my state of consciousness. Throughout my ordeal, sometimes got the best of me, as they had in the past, but now I recognized that it was mostly a waste of energy to get excited over exaggerated circumstances. The helpless battle to recovery taught me to use less emotion in times that are wisely deemed unnecessary. Every single day I had to work on getting through humbleness, less emotion, a quintessential life lesson.

By humbling my desire to play golf when I knew it was not physically possible, it helped me accept the situation a bit more every time I was tested. My story defied belief, been a nightmare thus far, but the worst was over and with patience and humility I wanted to make a comeback that would be a story in itself. The hopeless romantic in me pictured instant success in golf despite the dramatic tale of adversity in a bout with illness and injury, the sympathetic underdog story. I realized that my dreams would hold more validity to me if not said. Now a couple months in to my projected 6 month time frame, I saw very little progress, my body and health felt better, but my rib was the same, constant. With faint remnants still of my tape marks on both forearms, my right arm still occasionally hurting from time to time. The worst was over and only getting better, so the next benchmark was the tape on my arm disappearing or waking up without being in real pain.

CHAPTER 50

The spring was warm and filled with beautiful days that only enjoyed working or relaxing unable to do much at all. I settled up with the lesbians on every within 6 weeks or so and their 650 a month room was not worth that or the annoyance of their personalities and trashy attitudes. Like my rib, I had to deal with them. My diet consisted of work food, packaged food and dinners out, no salad. Every night out of hunger and boredom I would go out with a buddy or by myself to eat. The distractions from this routine were the social scene and drinking alcohol, which I haven’t even thought of yet. Knowing a lot of people in the area because of working at the Biltmore, made it easy to spot me outside the golf course. The connection led to many offers to drink and my willpower was running thin so at a regular’s Irish pub I say and had my first beer, a month or so off my medication, a Guinness. I held it to one like a good boy for weeks until I discovered Jada Coles, owned by my buddy who worked in the pro shop and his twin brother.

Dark, smoky, pool table and a small stage was the bar that my buddy started with pure luck. Apparently he went to Vegas with 10K, lost it in two days, came back, twin won the lottery and that was how Jada Coles was created. Everyone from the Biltmore and mutual friends and acquaintances went there on the regular because of my buddy the owner. I had no cable so the opportunity to watch sports was another perk of the bar because of my comfort level there. Sometimes drinking a bit too much led to some embarrassing situations, but it didn’t surprise me at all. I was filling a void, noticeably emotionally withdrawn without my golf fix. The desire to play was also causing some latent anger and severe frustration. Constant reminders of what I should have been doing were the conversations that sucked because it would force me to explain the whole E. coli story. It was crazy, but not that cool, so I started shortening my speech to not include any details of my true intentions. By the end of my bar run at Jada’s it was about 3 months, nearly there, hopefully halfway to recovery.

The middle point was tough because I could see and almost feel the end, growing restless in my piece of shit place, dying to get back out there. Feeling better during the day, once my chest and shoulders warmed up and stretched out, I got enough confidence in my healing ability to try and do a push up. I was at work, in the heat of the sun and knelt down to get my palms flat on the pavement to support my legs and torso. Now in push up position with my supervisor watching I let my weight go towards the ground, as my face got closer and closer to the point of no return, I tried to stop my progress with my muscles, but there was a split second when my brain told my arms to let go because of the inevitable pain. It hurt, it really hurt, after getting to my feet I decided that I was not ready for a push up yet. So from then on, doing just one push up was a recovery goal, maybe if I can do one meant I could practice a little, hopefully ahead of schedule.

I had to know my limitations and I had to test them from time to time in order to gauge progress. Stretching, lifting, lunging, whatever motion I started doing more of, I had to calibrate my body to better of worse activities for my chest. Everyday at work I would stretch my body out until it started to hurt. I feared my lack of range of motion would make my healing rib tighten up, forever changed. There is a noticeable bump left where the dislocation of my rib occurred to touch it is gross. No one wants to touch it, or if they do the immediately grossed out. I touch it constantly, my permanent reminder, every day for the rest of my life. One day while I stretched on my bed as I was waking up, I pushed my chest out as my shoulders rolled back and, pop! My rib popped like a knuckle, but louder with gross grinding sounds. It hurt like a motherfucker, just having sound effects to do along with the pain made it worse. Throbbing hard now, feeling things move around as the pain increased while I got in the shower before work. Soon after my shower as I dressed myself the pain seemed to go away, feeling relieved I tested my rib against the commute to the Biltmore, but upon arrival I concluded my rib probably needed it, being out of place forever and all. Phew! Scary moment there but ok, progress.

The immobility I was forced to commit too, made my chest tighten as it slowly healed crookedly in the middle of my chest. From now months of only being able to sleep on my back must have helped in the process as well, but when it popped, it started getting better, faster. I still was not able to sleep on my side or stomach because of the pain. I thought of it like a step on a ladder, if one step was loose on either side, you could spot and feel a weakness in the usual reliable tool. My rib was not fit for normal use yet, but I waited a day or so after the nasty grinding sounds I remember so vividly hearing it popped, to test my limits some more, glutton for punishment. At work in the cart barn there are support bars within reach, so I figured maybe I am able do a pull up, pushups will have to wait.

I slowly reached up for the edge of the beam making sure nothing hurt my rib. Cautiously applying pressure with my hands and forearms. I hung for a moment to check for pain, the only discomfort was from my right arm because of all the needles. Fuck it. I went for one, nice and slow, surprisingly I did it, all the way up I still had some life in my body I thought, reaching my tippy-toes to the floor to secure my descent. Collecting myself and checking over my body to confirm it was a success to find that my arm was the only part that reverberated any pain, my chest, definitely still sore but for once hurt less than my arm. It had been like 3 fucking months of weird aching pain from numerous veins in my arm, all because of the insane amount of times I was punctured with needles. It was like my veins were sucked dry of precious blood flow, any time I exerted energy with my hand it would send sharp shooting pain up and down my arm, like a wire feeding electricity to flickering lights. Despite this pain, I though it necessary to reclaim my arm by doing normal moves to force compliance to heal. Nothing was worse than my rib, so this was not going to faze me.

The cart barn was underneath the clubhouse so every time I had to fetch a cart I would do a pull up, there were 100 golf carts that went out and back in to be parked under their electric chargers. It took about a week to notice a difference in my extremely sore and weak body, it was a start but again showed me that there was still a lot of time left to go. Still having not touched a club, my increase confidence tempted me to try, the problem was the pressure and painful position of having my hands together, as well as rotating or twisting my torso. Grabbing a club out of the lost and found bag in the shack, I set up feeling the weight of the club head hovering over the pavement, the worn grip, smooth in places of its lost owners fingers. Giving the club a little waggle to ready myself I slowly start my backswing turning my hips shoulders slightly, the club got to about hip high before the weight of the club felt heavier as the pain grew from full to sharp. That was as far as I was willing to take it. I attempted a more subtle putting stroke. I could putt but not for very long so I put the club back expressing aloud “Not yet.” Almost 4 months have gone by and I still wasn’t close to making a full swing.

CHAPTER 51

My stay at the lesbians’ house was getting increasingly worse, as their friendliness was non-existent and mutual respect was faint at best. I would come home to a party, parked up street and noise, to the extent of inescapable torture. I was paying way too much for this place, it wasn’t worth it but I had little choice as I continued to break even. It was about June, the beginning of the hot Miami summer, no snowbirds, and a much emptier golf course. I wanted so badly to take advantage of long, sunny summer days with little resistance from golf traffic. I was not happy, my living situation was not pleasing, I couldn’t do anything I loved and spent a lot of time alone and bored out of my fucking mind. It’s really hard to keep from depression when put in a situation like this one, the lonely nights start wear on you as I noticed daily. This was harder to control then the physical pain it tested my patience like nothing else. Lying in the same position on my bed every night to dealing with a boring routine of work and rest my anxiety grew, frustrated with my slow process of healing my rib.

The summer was brutal. I missed out on another 2 months on the sideline. By my calculations my 6 month mark was after my birthday in August so when I turned 29 years old. The first month of my last year in the twenties was when I started my comeback. It was too fitting , I could not think of a better time than a new year and new beginning. Without cable and access to my annual birthday shark week festival, I spent a week drinking at Jada’s glued to Shark Week episodes as to continue tradition. I used this week to finalize my 6 months of recovery determined to start practicing again. Half a year was a long time to wait and I wasn’t 100% yet, more like 75%. My chest still a bother but only when I tried to go beyond my limits it would hurt for hours after. I wasn’t in pain all day anymore, it was sore at night after work days, so I attempted to hit some ball in the late afternoon of my next day off. Nervous and fearful of any consequences of putting the club to grass and scooping out a divot.

With only a couple irons and my putter I hit the range and practice green making baby steps. Trying to putt first I dropped some balls 5 ft away from a hole and set up to check for any pain. I wished hard for the success of my first day attempting to practice. Gripping my putter and setting it millimeters from the golf ball, my hand seemed scared to start my stroke feeling weak and uncomfortable. Staring down at the golf ball in front of the head of my flat stick, I looked at the hole, back down to the ball at my feet, then again, calming my mind as the background noise faded to silence. I started the putter back, releasing it towards my target, remembering the feeling of the golf ball against the face of my putter, the subtle sound of the collision transferring energy to the engineered dimples of the ball. Rolling in perfect harmony with the contours of the shaven grass to the hole, stopping short of falling the 4 in to the bottom on the cup. Near miss but it put a smile on my face to be able to putt, so after a few more my excitement made me curious to try and swing a few.

Forcing my fingers into a dry, wrinkled golf glove and velcroeing it securely on to my left hand I grabbed my sand wedge then knocking the plastic green basket of yellow and black striped practice balls onto the practice tee, spilling out and rolling to rest. Starting the pendulum of the golf swing to ease into an actual shot. I knowing keep it to a half swing to avoid pain, gently brushes the tops of the blades of grass. Perfectly placing my first ball on a pristine patch of turf I line up to a short flag 30 yards out, placing the club head behind the bell, then with my right foot first, stepping into my stance. Once set, I pick up the club as I shuffle my body and arms, remembering the next step. Drawing the club back, turning my hips and shoulders I coil my swing and follow through executing a golf shot. Quick, short and anti-climactic it landed well short, so I rolled another into position.

Golf meant repetition, so I hit a dozen in a row before stopping for a quick break to start again moments later. The force of the connection out into the grass causing resistance which then reverberated from the club, to my hands, up my arms and to my chest. I was going to quit while I was ahead, careful not to push it too far my first time on the range. The sun setting cooling the humid air signaled that the time was up, walking silenced back to my car, reviewing my session in my head, unaware of anything else. I drove home without even realizing to turn on some tunes because of the post practice trance I was in. Playing golf in pursuit of my dream made me happy with a sense of purpose that affected my state of mind.

My thoughts focused on my swings and a new practice scheduled, consisting mainly of putting as to favor my chest. Putting is the most difficult aspect of the game and the most important, so the opportunity to practice putting first was a sign from the golf gods. Music consuming my brain through my headphones I zoned out on the practice green as I randomly moved around putting 2 balls at each hole with a little plastic flag. Losing myself, unaware of anything around me, no voices, sounds or looks, sometimes having to stop and stretch to snap out of it. Listening to songs, picking out inspirational lyrics or songs that I could relate to my struggle, motivating me further. An hour would pass as it were nothing. My re-immersion underway, I missed it so much that it was like a honeymoon phase in the beginning of a relationship or reuniting with a previous love, my putter.

After a couple weeks of logging hours on the putting green, I became anxious to play, so I attempted the range again. With an abbreviated swing I would get through maybe a half a bucket before the pain would creep on me, halting my range session. In light of my inability to practice my swing fully, tempted me to not waste the few swings my healing body allowed. I opted for practical use of my limited golf game and took my time on the course hitting a variety of short shots. So far I stuck to shorter shots in respect of my still broken rib which only allowed for me to play 9 holes or less before I had to quit because of the pain. I wanted to play so badly that I withstood the pain upon each connection of club and ball. I decided then not to waste my diminished endurance, instead of hitting the range, my time was better spent on the golf course practicing until my rib allowed for me to practice as I should. My limitations created a schedule of work on my short game and 9 holes about once per practice day. Ok, progress.

The following weeks adjusting to a busier schedule was just what I needed, staying focused on the task at hand, progressing into more and more physical training. I would get tired easy so I slept more, which was instrumental to recovering. I think it was a combination of everything that helped me sleep at night, my state of mind was healing and I started to notice how much I needed sleep. My days were: practice/work, eating and sleeping. The more I worked, the more I slept and the better I felt. Daily pull-ups and short swings on the course was still the only bullet points I could check off my list, unable to do a push-up meant no gym yet. The fact that playing a little would leave me in pain, I still didn’t want to push my luck. Tagging along with other pros or friends for a couple holes was always a good test for my limited game. I was going to play well right away, it was the only way to get back on track, but my rib would stop me before 9 holes, frustrating the shit out of me.

The disappointment in my lack of strength to finish a round of golf motivated me to try to do push-ups again and therefore get back in the gym and regain my strength. I didn’t want to wait anymore. I was in my place after work, bored, restless and constantly looking in the mirror at my note to self. Kneeling slowly onto my small area rug with my hands on my legs, I took a deep breath in hopes that this would not be a failed attempt. Stretching my arms out securing my hands in position on the cold cement floor next to my bed. I went for it slowly, getting down to where my elbows reached 45-degrees. It hurt to push, but I didn’t collapse on my face again, so that’s good. I couldn’t finish the push-up because of pain from the low point before I had to push and towards the top as my arms desperately tried to straighten out. It hurt, no doubt about that, but it wasn’t going to depress me this time. Fuck it, I’ll just work around it, avoid anything related to my chest, except for golf swings.

The next day I had to work early so my schedule finished with the gym, my first trip to that part of the hotel in almost 7 months, and it wasn’t far from the clubhouse. Done at 1 pm, I took my time getting set up to practice, contemplating how much I would be hurting later that night after straining myself. No range, just some practice putts and light swings. I got excited to be near the end of my long journey to recovery, feeling that my patience has paid off. After everything that I had been through and all the pain I endured, it was near its end, just another piece in the puzzle.

A light practice day finished with a beautiful sunset signaling that it was time to get in the gym, I have to show them who I am, now more than ever. I procrastinated in the parking lot, lackadaisically getting into my gym clothes behind my open car door. Once ready, I looked up and walked to the gym next to the lavishly lit pool of the Biltmore. Entering nervously because of my long break between visits and my now lack of muscle, the insecurity built as people I knew stopped in shock of my presence to talk to me. I didn’t even get past the front desk without a quick explanation on where I have been, as the reactions continued to be the same as the prior 7 months. All I could do was smile and shrug my shoulders. Re-familiarizing myself with the location of everything, I kept to the machines like all the old people and mommies did, avoiding free weights, etc, knowing that I could not handle anything else. Experimenting with all of the weight lifting machines I found that I could work out more than I thought, but not for very long as the pain hinted to stop. A successful day, not a complete success but it made my initial comeback official.

The next step was to be able to make full swings, braving the pain at contact with my longer clubs in order to push myself through this part. I sacrificed power and distance for complete golf swings at about 75% effort level. If I had to start over, I was going to do it right, not making the same mistakes as before with better practice and preparation. I was pacing around the gym for close to a week before I felt really ready to play and practice a full swing. Waiting though days of putting and planning til me next day off to put my body to the test of a full day. The patience I had to learn over the last 8 months or so was something I developed into a virtue refined to carry into my future in golf and life. It was really hard to be so close to 100% and hold back my desire to play better than ever before and wait, alone and bored, with pent up rage against non-believers of my pursuit. I would get myself so worked up in my stupid little apartment that I would clench fists, tightening my expression and scream behind my teeth flexing all the muscles I could.

The adversity that I would have to overcome to compete in anything before the end of the season was a lot in very little time. My misfortune was great. I had come a long way but it wasn’t over. I had to play at a high level one month into fall in order ot make the trip to a nationwide qualifying event, not a waste of time and money. The day came to put in a full day, waking up early, getting coffee, laying out my clothes, readying my golf bag and mentally preparing for any result of this long awaited milestone. In my head it could go either way I thought, either it did more bad than good or just the first hurdle. Firing up the exploder that boasted more rust and a couple more leaks, my trusty car was my company on the way to the golf course.

Humbly walking onto the golf course, music blasting in my ears, focused on my task, I loaded up a golf cart with my supplies. I decided to start with putting and slowly work up to a full swing. Hours went by as my music playlists started repeating and I got suddenly famished so I took a break for lunch and relief of air conditioning on a hot Miami day. I ate a turkey sandwich while the sweat dried and my body cooled down then I started out again. Grabbing a bucket of balls I did not want to hot many to save my chest for a full round of golf still to play. I grab a heavier iron to loosen up my back and chest as I hover over my oasis of good grass among yards of divots. Taking bigger swings each time I reached a full swing and repeated a dozen or more times until I was comfortable. I was scared to hot range balls because of the continuous stress it caused in my chest, but I had to let go of it and swing freely like I have done so many times before. Using only maybe 20 balls out of my bucket I swung at everyone convincing myself it wouldn’t hurt. Once I felt somewhat confident I set out for my first legitimate practice round.

All I wanted was to relax and take my time playing golf while listening to music and refocusing my energy on my game. A small group of onlookers in view of the first tee watched as I put my ball down then stepping back, slowly swinging my driver as the peanut gallery began to quiet down enough to hear the wooshing sound of my club hitting through the air. I settled in, stepped to the ball and swung as the ball took off over the upper left side of the tree line bordering the parking lot on the right, a good line but it disappeared over the slight bend in the first 200 yards of the par 5, first hole. I felt my body release all the tension and first tee nerves as my club fell into my left hand, eyes never leaving the flight of the ball. Picking up my broken tee, only to toss it into the rough next to the cart path. Waving goodbye as I put my iPod on, I was finally able to enjoy a round by myself and smiled about my return to serenity.

After every hole I finished I got more and more motivated to overcome my injuries, getting better and stronger, mentally and physically, wasting no time to go all in. By the time I reached 18 I was no doubt in pain, reminding me that it was till there, rubbing the bump in the middle of my chest. I didn’t care about the pain. I knew it would retreat by morning and it could only get better now. Every day I would be either working or practicing. I kept mostly to my short game and the golf course, still not convinced my rib could handle hundreds of swings on the range. I just played and played, not taking any swing made for granted, feeling lucky to be able to still play the game I loved. Before the E. coli incident I never realized completely how fortunate I was to even have the ability to play such a privileged game. So every time since, I have swing with more of a purpose, enjoying each motion to ball contact, the feeling the sound, the flight, failures, and successes. That’s why I try not to take such gifts for granted still to this day because apparently, all good things come to an end.

CHAPTER 51

Since I started my journey in the golf world I had always done it without serious sponsorship, commitment from anyone, 500 here, 200 there, I got $1000 once, but still not enough for me to plan too far ahead, relying on winning enough money to continue on. In order to enter into tournaments, there is most likely an entry fee, plus the cost of travel, equipment, meals and so on, so the cost adds up fast, I have done it on my own dime. Basically financing my own dream in any way I can is the only option I had. Sponsorship is the way the majority either makes it or breaks it, an individual/private or corporate sponsorship subsidizes your cost to play and live, for marketing/advertising purposes of their own. Doing it by yourself is not easy because life is fluid, ever changing and unexpected, one day you have the funds to compete, the next you lose it all to new brakes and an oil change. I had been subtly soliciting myself to anyone interested in donating money to my cause and now more than ever I had to press for answers with a proposal and my passion and belief that I can do it. I always said if ever I had the money to do what I wanted in golf, I have it in me to do great things.

There were many people that have said during my recovery, that they would sponsor me on some level. My problem was asking for it. By this point I needed to save money, so I needed to get out of the lesbians’ house into something cheaper. Literally, after decided to move the night before, I found a place 2 blocks away driving on my way to work. I called immediately, parking in front of the driveway, blocking the sign in order to protect my find. I made an appointment for after work close to 7 pm. The advertised rent was $575, versus $650 that I was paying, so it was already an upgrade from my current dungeon studio. I spent the day praying that it would be still available when I got off work. Finally finishing up the closing shift at dusk, I sped over to my hood to see my potential new digs.

In Miami, there are tons of renovated houses and garages that accommodated a single person. The one I was currently in was piss poor compared to the new place that I saw when I walked into a carpeted furnished studio, with cable and a TV! The house was owned by a single middle-aged latin woman who was willing to let me live there. I had a chance. All I needed to do was somehow get enough for the security deposit, until my deposit from the lesbians was in my hand. Total I needed was $1150, I had 700 something. This was my life now, hustling for money to live, not because I was a piece of shit, but because I had no choice.

The next practice day I get paired up with some regulars I knew who lived off the 12th hole of the Biltmore. They were neighbors, both fathers and overall successful guys . Having played with them before, they knew who I was and what I was doing working part-time at a golf course. Mentioning sponsorship in passing, I build up the courage to ask by the back nine. I tell him that I needed more out of the lesbian pad to save money for tournaments in case I don’t get sponsored at all. All he says is, “OK, so what do you need to get this place?” in his thick Latin American accent. I reply, “$675, the amount of my security deposit that I’ll get in 30 days or so, but I can pay you back before then most likely.” It was a done deal after that. He tells me to pick it up at his house later, so I immediately call my new landlord and tell her that she has a new renter and I would drop off the money in cash before 8 that night. Incredible, just like that I improved my situation with a little help from the people who knew me. Luck was on my side this time.

Finishing my morning practice round with my guys, I met up with a golf buddy everyone at the Biltmore called Frenchy. Introduced to me by the guy who is spotting me the money to get my new place. Obviously French, he was a golfer just basically using up his tourist visa for the last time, working off the books promoting night clubs and selling truffles shipped from his home in Leon. I had maybe played with him a couple times in the very beginning of my comeback tour, introduced him to my golf crew, and got him an invite to a shanty tournament for a friend of mine’s foundation at Doral. So that’s where we went, straight to Doral to meet our foursome and try to bring home some goodies.

Arriving at the Doral Resort valet and bag drop, we managed to find our way to registration and check in. At check for these type of events, there were typically an initial goodie bag filled with little marketing gifts like tees, divot tools, golf shirts, sun screen, small snacks or water, raffle tickets, whatever. This time because our golfing buddy happened to be a famous athlete, we got upgraded door prizes. Hands full of free shit we walk through the clubhouse, past the pro shop where a coworker’s girlfriend worked and to our cart assignment, clubs already strapped into the back with our names on bag tags. Our weekly foursome minus our buddy the headliner was, Mel, the previous foundation president, Omar, Frenchy, and I, one person always rotating in and out, as it was that day. In a four man scramble format the shotgun blasts and the hundred plus fleet of golf carts disperse onto different holes of 3 out of the 4 at Doral.

The first 4 holes we survive under par, the format being the best of 4 shots, every shot. The clouds start to darken as I smell a faint metallic scent and feel a drop in temperature. It’s going to pour, seconds after thinking that, big fat raindrops fall awaiting a downpour of heavy summer rain. Quickly finishing the hole as the siren sounds, indicating possible lightning, we drive to the next holes tent with food and alcohol. Pretty girls in all white outfits preparing wings and stiff drinks for the few groups taking refuge from the short thunderstorm under the safety of the tent. The rain just kept pouring down, puddling up most of the golf course. After about 30 minutes of rain and equal time causing trouble under the tent by taking shots with every one, we were now, to say the least, warmed up.

The break in daylight settled the thick humid air and soon built back up as the sun reappeared and we left the shelter of the beverage tent. Continuing on with our round keeping on pace to have a chance to win, we reach our next set of sponsored tents, chalk full of temptresses and treats. Being the friendly yet sexually charged group of dudes from ages 27 to 40-something, we engaged in playful conversation with the 3 hot ass girls who were shoeless in a mud puddle behind their table of health food. Minutes into flirty small talk, they reveal that they were all yoga instructors and were out here making some extra money. That comment pretty much sealed the deal for us to spend more time than usual at this tent. We sampled each item as my man Mel coaxed them out from their muddy posts to the tee box to display their yoga skills, several pictures with legs and arms in all different angles as if they were contorting into letters on us. I ended up holding a foot at shoulder level and I couldn’t figure out whom it belonged to.

Finishing the round sober and serious after several roadblocks of debauchery and minor sexual harassment, we eagled our 18th hole to finish 18 under par, worthy of a winning score. We ended up in the far corner of all 3 courses with a long drive back to the clubhouse and reception. In the distance Frenchy and I spot our buddy entertaining the sponsors and donating participants, the event being $1000 bucks per man. We stop and hang with our buddy until it was time for the scores to get in and the reception to start. The day starts to end with the sun setting an orange backdrop through the stage windows in front of banquet tables for hundreds of golfers, volunteers, and events staff. At each table a hot chick in skimpy clothing eyeing whatever celebrity, athlete or associate sitting around them, as I recognized some faces and a few names. We sit together and listen to a couple speakers about the foundation and event, our poster boy takes the stand to announce the winners. In suspense for the runner-ups, we were almost certain we won and it came time, and, of course, we won. The four guys friends with the host, who didn’t pay the $1000 bucks, won an autographed basketball as a trophy. We posed for pictures, then celebrated humbly together once off stage. What a day, now its time to pick up the rest of the money to secure my new place, then done.

Chapter 52

Half drunk and drained from the sun, Frenchy and I drove to my rent sponsor’s house at the Biltmore in victorious, silent exhaustion. The windows down his stupid beat-up grey beetle bug because of drunk driving puttering down the highway. No tunes because the radio and speakers were blown out because of he pushed the levels too high, but it didn’t matter, it was still a nice ride. Pulling into the maintenance entrance of the Biltmore’s back nine a couple houses close to Enrique’s. He’s waiting outside with a white envelope on his lawn chair watching TV at his outdoor cabana by the pool. Excited to tell him about our recent trophy win, I offer him the goodies from the bag, declining my offer with a straight face I got suddenly intimidated, before this moment I have only seen him jovial or mad because of playing bad golf. Handing me the envelope he says, “Make sure you pay me back” and I affirm my approximate date of when I get paid and I get tips or when the lesbian bitches give back my $675 security deposit. Satisfied, but serious, he knew me, and where I worked so I thanked him sincerely and left.

The next stop was my new place to complete the deal so I could tell the lesbians that I was moving at the end of July. I couldn’t wait to give them the news, this was the first good thing that had come my way in 9 months, and it was such a relief. A sigh would not cover the feeling I wished to express about moving into a better living situation, my life, my dreams, my decisions through all the shit I had overcome this year.

Answering the door with two barking dogs, I walked in with an envelope full of cash for the security deposit and August rent. I followed her to the kitchen table where a homemade lease was printed, held in place by a pen. Tanned, sweaty and a little drunk and high still I just smiled as I quickly scanned the lease and signed, leaving the open envelope on the table. She eagerly picked it up to count it in front of me but I counted it 40 times out of anxiety and was obviously sure every dollar was there. Happy to have a renter and cash she gave me a set of keys and I walk out giddy with joy. Fuck yea! Things are starting to get better and I was not going to let up.

In the car for only another couple blocks I was beyond happy and in reflection of one of my best days in a very long time. Leaving Frenchy with a back seat full of treasures I walked in my now old place with a smile because I knew that it was almost in the past and with my middle finger in the air I said to no one but myself, “Fuck you! I’m out. Peace!” I put my gear and trophy away and stripped out of my sweat soaked clothes and took a 30 minute shower and fell deep into thought as the water got cold, completely forgetting to wash my hair. I stepped out of that shower and inadvertently made eye contact with my motto in the mirror and read it to myself as my eyes focus now on my reflection. I looked at myself in the eyes and with a rapid montage of previous events I assured myself that fate had a plan for me. My easily ignitable desire to make my last 9 months of suffering worth it just got stronger. I want it to inspire others in any aspect of life to pursue their dreams or die trying.

Chapter 53

The next day at work was routine and flew by real fast as I was back out on the course practicing with Frenchy tagging along. Since I could now check the apartment off the list, my mind and mouth were onto money, tournaments and finding a sponsor. All day I was basically talking to myself, trying to work out my next move was and how to go about it. Toward the turn at nine, Frenchy mentions to me that he knew a Peruvian nanny/housekeeper for a French billionaire he played with every Sunday that needed citizenship. Fake marriages in Miami or South Florida are fairly common considering Miami’s history with immigration. This was the first time that it was actually brought up to me personally. We spent the remaining holes talking about it casually. I mostly spoke of how I would spend the money on PGA or Canadian Tour Qualifying School or mini tour entry fees, just daydreaming as usual. By the 18th green, I realize that Frenchy was dead serious about this, wishing himself to find a US citizen to marry for citizenship. I rejected the idea immediately. “Fuck that!” I said being the devil’s advocate to false marriage.

The next hour or so I spent in the gym contemplating the ridiculously illegal scenario. The crazy side of me thought it could work. I wanted nothing to do with any girl that was going to fuck up my progress, but no emotional attachment and an offer of $15K dollars was enticing. I imagined how the money could possibly bring me where I wanted to go and if I that were the case, then would the illegal marriage work as a means to an end? It seemed so far fetched. I had to convince myself that it could work, even though I was in desperate need of funds. My curiosity led me to research a fake marriage. I quizzed people close to me about any consequences, as I weighed the pros and cons in my head for the following 24 hours.

On the fence with the possible opportunity, I reached out to Frenchy to set up a meet and greet between my future ex-wife, Frenchy and I. While he was soliciting her to talk to me in person, being the sexual deviant I am, I wondered about sex, either with this mysterious immigrant nanny or anyone else in the legal duration until a green card was issued. The main question I wrestled with was, would the $15K outweigh any other legal, personal or sexual consequences to such a union? Would I be able to justify changing my life for a woman I didn’t even know, for money? The ramifications of this so-called business deal would not only create more problems, but more work and effort on my part, with no real guarantees on anything. It was illegal so, how was I to gain an advantage being the actual US citizen? The theme song from Jeopardy played endlessly in my head as I constantly went over all the possibilities.

By the end of my shift at the Biltmore, I followed my daily practice schedule, attempting to block it from thought. I was putting when I saw a knowledgeable regular I could lean on for advice, across the practice green. Walking up to him, leaving my practice balls near a hole, I removed my headphones to ask his opinion. I was like, “dude, what do you know about trading citizenship through marriage for money?” He picked his head up and looked at me in silence, seemingly juggling words to best describe his opinion on the matter. What came out was not a long-winded explanation or success stories but simply, “Not worth it, don’t do it, it will only create more problems.” Surprised by his answer and how serious he said it just confirmed my better judgment to stay out of trouble. So I spent my afternoon practice session focused on golf until Frenchy called me with a message from the Peruvian alien. She wants to meet you later, he said, with an encouraging tone, as if there was something in it for him. Now I felt this proposal was more sinister and untrustworthy but I allowed for this latin nanny to humor me later that night over a beer mediated by the Frenchman.

The day ended at the gym as per usual and I retired to the lesbians’ house to clean up and ready my questions for this chick. I walked the couple blocks to the bar to meet Frenchy to find that she was already there, drink in hand. Immediately displeased with her appearance, I sat down and ordered a beer. She was pushing 40, with a large nose that didn’t quite seem to fit her face, my first thought was maybe she should use the $15K for a nose job, exponentially improving her odds in the future for marriage. Strike one. Her barely 5ft petite middle-aged body and face would not match my taste in women, not to mention the age difference. Cynically initiating the inevitable conversation I tell her to begin her pitch.

This half-pint non-native with a thick South American accent to match began as if it was a normal occurrence, making it seem easy or common practice. No real details of the matter were mentioned until I started asking very straightforward questions pertaining to the actual process. It was explained to be a seamless act with no consequences, just legally marry and follow several steps to create the illusion that it was legitimate and 6 months later a green card would be issued, then 2 years after, the divorce and payment of the remaining half of the $15K. The ambiguity of her plan made me even more skeptical, her body language was more relaxed than the topic, making me think that this was definitely not the first time for her. So, I ask, “Have you tried this before?” She hesitates then answers, “Yes. The last time it fell through after we were married.” Which meant that her failed attempt unraveled at the most crucial point, the actual faking of a relationship.

She went on talking about the process of sharing an apartment, bank accounts, insurance and bills, and how the government periodically investigates the marriage’s validity during the waiting period prior to issuing a green card. The conditions were a serious hindrance on my life, while she was in a position of a beneficiary. She said that it would be required of us to not only share finances but to actually spend time together in order to prepare for any personal questions the immigration officer might demand answers to. This meant that she and I would share an apartment on paper, paid for by her, and her planned visits would not include sex. This I used against her, if I was willing to put up with this shit, the least this little bitch could do was fuck me, or suck my dick once a week. But, nope, which really made me more anti-illegal marriage. My role in this was to be loyal to her as if we were actually intending to spend the rest of our lives together, meaning that in the projected 6 months to 2-year span, I could not have a girlfriend or even a booty call. This was the bullet point that ruined her chances. The promised $15K just didn’t seem enough to justify losing 2 years of my life. No matter what good I could manifest with the money, the scenario did not feel to be beneficial to me on the same level as it was to her.

I started getting annoyed with this bitch’s attitude toward me, like she was doing me a favor. I felt like saying, “I don’t need your fucking money bad enough to deal with your ugly ass” but I just started playing devil’s advocate. I asked, “What happens to me if I get caught?” She replies, “Oh, nothing, I get deported.” Really? Obviously leaving some facts out of her proposal she must think I’m fucking stupid. My next question was the final test, “What about the money?” I say with a touch of attitude myself. The deal was half now, rest upon receipt of green card and legal status, $7500 each time. Then I ask if she expected me to pay for half of all the prerequisites with that $7500. She tried to shrug that one off by saying that until it was set in stone through leases etc, I wouldn’t get the money before then. Finishing my beer and the conversation, I sat there smirking a little at her until she got up and left. Frenchy and I stayed for another as he tried to convince me to follow through with this plan.

Not buying it at all, I told them both that I would have to look into it. Walking home I call my dad who knew of the strange opportunity and said, do it, now thought it to be a scam. The more I thought of it, there was no real guarantee on the money, which was the only piece of the puzzle I wanted. The shady Peruvian nanny could possibly lock me into this deal without making good on her $15K promise, so on that doubt alone, I knew I would never agree to the deal, with her controlling the entire situation and money.

Chapter 54

The following week I moved into my new place, finally freeing myself from that depressing garage studio apartment. It took 2 trips with the exploder and one with my buddy’s truck to accommodate the bed and dresser I bought from the lesbians. Doing it all on a day off I finished by nightfall with everything. Showering in my real, professionally built bathroom shower versus my old makeshift enclosed drain with beams and corners protruding from the main house. I had the privacy of an actual door instead of a curtain hiding the toilet. Outside the bathroom, my very own vanity and sink, a major upgrade from having nothing at my last place. I stocked the bathroom and neatly placed all of what I had in my toiletry bag on both sides of the sink.

The small studio was carpeted in a brownish olive color all the way into the closet, organized by wire racks where all my clothes and shoes fit perfectly. It was great. I felt incredibly satisfied with a neat and organized room, finally unpacking everything out of my car and finding a new home. I put my bed in the far corner from the door near the TV which I turned on immediately. Cable never made me happier only because it meant that I could stop having to watch the same 3 movies. It was a reunion that I though only months ago would not have been so sweet, after watching days and days of TV in the hospital and motel growing increasingly bitter toward cable programming. The only drawback was that I had no control of the central air and I like to sleep without sweating. The Miamians have thin blood where I tend to run hot and prefer it to be much cooler but the space and amenities were perfect for me and I was too happy to find any complaint.

Now that I was able to be more comfortable being at home and saving some money, I could now focus more energy on paying back my golf buddy as soon as humanly possible and get serious about what to do about golf. Knowing that I would have to wait until I either got paid back my loan, I kept my head in practicing and making tips. Everyday on a mission to keep improving, pushing through a 40 hour work and 60 hour practice schedule. My good fortune to have a better living arrangement inspired hope that my hard work and resiliency will pay of, so I committed to spending more time on the driving range despite any discomfort in my chest. At least half of my practice time I dedicated to hitting at least 200/300 range balls a day to polish my swing, making sure not to favor my chest regardless of how much it hurt. It has been 5 months since the incident. My 29th birthday a day away and I wasn’t going to let the pain hold me back anymore.

My birthday comes and I turn 29 years old. This caused many mixed emotions because all day I retrospectively dissected how life has played out. A year ago I was directing a kids’ golf camp in Westchester, NY, and now I was in recovery from a broken rib suffered by a life threatening infection of E. coli. Resenting the fact that so many people I knew around me seemed to have it easy compared to me and took it all for granted. This made me so angry and jealous. Why me? I tried answering that question, but when there is none, it just frustrated me to dream up “What if…” scenarios that depicted me more successfully accomplishing my goals and then using excuses to justify my current situation. It drove me nuts every time I thought about it. Fuck it, live in the moment what’s done is done.

All the bad experiences that I survived in these 29 years made me the person that I am today. Without the bitter, the sweet wouldn’t be as sweet, is what I would tell myself when I felt like this. There was a reason for everything, my belief in fate kept me from slipping into perpetual self-loathing/cynical or Debbie-downer negativity. I was put here for a reason and any day above ground is a good one. Remembering my two hospital roommates along with everyone else that has it worse, drive me to take advantage of every single day chipping away at achieving my goal. The first day of the last year in my 20s I went to work like any other day of the year. Finishing my shift I practiced with fire in my eyes, letting nothing distract me. I pushed through the pain of making hundreds of swings to end my birthday productively and to not feel too guilty about what I might do later that night.

Chapter 55

The anti-climactic birthday was now behind me and it was near the end of the week and pay-day. I made decent tips considering how slow the golf course was in August heat, living cheaply until I could pay off my debt. I collected about 400 out of the 575 owed so when I got my check I immediately went to the bank to deposit it, informing my lender on the way that tomorrow was the day. It felt good to knock another item off the list of things I needed to do before I could start budgeting entry fees into my meager budget. I went back to the practice range anticipating the few possible events within reach before the season’s end. I had to be ready if the chance to compete materialized on short notice. The process was simply too risky for anyone to comprehend, literally forcing all my eggs into one basket just in case of the small chance I would succeed. I didn’t get paid to practice and my paycheck was never enough to cover all my costs, so the financial dilemma I was in called for me to search for a 2nd job. The decision I faced was that I needed to either try to make more money, sacrificing time for golf or work less and make less to practice more.

The following weeks of August I continued to heal as I played and practiced. When I was working I was thinking about playing, inescapable thoughts of how and which decision would benefit me the most out of the several options that were possible. The more people I played with the more of an impression I could make exposing myself to the local players and pros could produce results in terms of sponsorship. The other side of the coin was to arrange my work schedule to maximize time vs. income, attempting to fit the pieces together where I worked less without having to sacrifice any money I needed to live.

One way was to cut back my hours at the Biltmore so I could maintain the privilege to use the facilities for free and pick up a night job as to not lose precious daylight. This had serious drawbacks that could adversely affect the health of the “exploder,” it had over 200K miles and would not be able to handle any commute not within the city limits of Coral Gables. It needed to be registered, new shocks, rotors, brakes, radiator and it just started leaking gas, not to mention the entire undercarriage was rusting away. If I pursued a job farther than walking distance from my apartment and the Biltmore, I would be forced to invest hundreds of dollars on repairs to keep reliable transportation.

A second possibility is to work as a caddy at a nearby private club to make up for any loss income if and when I give up shifts and tip money at the Biltmore. In theory, caddying was the best option although the country clubs that had caddy programs and enough golfers that prefer caddies to golf carts were out of the exploder’s range. The nearby club that provided opportunities to caddies did not have a membership that supported constant work. Any decision I could make had a significant downside so it would have to be based on the lesser of two evils. Time still an issue, as was the weather as hurricane season approached the state of Florida.

Patience was paramount to my decision, the unstable variables that had a major affect on other aspects of this plan required only time. I chose to investigate further to whether or not the unreliable caddy program could yield enough money to make the 2nd option possible because that would take the exploder makeover out of the equation until it actually broke down. The reciprocal relationship between local area golf courses is typically friendly and so I reached out to a couple people that could help me find some answers. My reputation at the Biltmore made the response fairly quick and I arranged a visit with the GM and pros to discuss the potential.

While I networked my way to an offer or some sort of guarantee on the consistency of work caddying I was introduced to a new member at the Biltmore, a Canadian, whom apparently was good at business and bad at golf. On a day threatening thunderstorms, against my expert advice, he and his wife went out to play on foot. Before they started the 2nd hole, the sky opened up and rain came down in sheets accompanied by thunder and lightning. Knowing that they would become stranded in the drenching storm I took a rescue cart out to save them, quickly becoming completely wet from head to toe on the short ride down the 1st hole. Finding them huddled under a huge tree, I held onto their golf bags from the back as they drove to the safety of the clubhouse. Sincerely grateful to be back under a standing structure he gave me 5 bucks and a thank you to show his appreciation.

This gesture made him remember me everyday thereafter. As time went by I would subtly drop hints about my aspirations to play professionally and what I had just been through. His interest and disbelief of my struggle became common ground for us. He recognized how passionate I was about golf, but more so how humble I am about my golf game. Once I saw a window of opportunity to mention the importance sponsorship I took it, leaving nothing out, revealing my plans. The proposition was now public between us and he exposed his position as CEO of an Int’l Beverage Company based in Trinidad & Tobago along with his lavish, wealthy lifestyle. If he didn’t tell me, I would never have known what he is capable of but this information and his request for a formal sponsorship proposal made my mouth water. Perhaps this was the break I needed to take my game to the next level. It made me believe that E. coli and my rib was not an unlucky coincidence, but fate.

My recovery was at its near end and the timing of all of this was almost too perfect. I went at practice and training even harder than before because of the possibility of real corporate sponsorship, making my longer term goals seem to be in focus. Ironing out the detailed schedule and projected capital needed for tournament fees and travel, I sent out a rough draft to my potential sponsor. A few days later he reviewed it and sent it back for necessary corrections before he would present it to his marketing department. Ending our conversation on the matter with, “Don’t worry, they do what I want.” This moment was when I chose to risk it all.

August ending and September beginning, I had hope, real live hope that my instincts were right to stay and battle back from my long lasting injury. I felt a sense of purpose every day I woke up, the thought of making it never leaving my mind. My complete attention was on golf and preparing for what I had worked so hard for. Everything about me changed, the way I walked, spoke, smiled, and approached every golf swing I made. Distractions became less of a distraction as my mind tuned out my problems, the 100K medical debt, my car, and numerous personal issues, including my loneliness. The only thing I could think about was my game and how to improve it in a short amount of time.

Working more than 40 hour weeks for the past year almost, made me circle around the decision to work less to practice more. I know that if I ever have the privilege to play as much as I wanted to then I could be able to compete with the best of them. With sponsorship a viable possibility in the future and nearing the end of the season I made the decision to cut back my hours to about 20 a week, splitting my income in half, hoping that caddying would supplement my lack of cash flow in order to keep my head above water. This was not a guarantee by any means that I would be able to afford even rent with my minimum wage from the Biltmore. The decision was a major risk but confidence in my game and conviction in fate pushed me to make a leap of faith. By the last week in September I set a new schedule, working 3 or 4 days on the golf course, picking up caddy loops whenever it was offered. My practice and gym scheduled increased thus improving my game and strength almost immediately. I was finally doing what I wanted, hoping that it would prove to be a step in the right direction.

Chapter 56

Since I had moved down to Miami, I didn’t even take time off to visit home for Thanksgiving or Christmas and now that I was 99% recovered with more time on my hands, I was booked on a flight home for the first time in a year. Scheduled for a day or so in NYC leaving on a friday. I planned on seeing as many people as I could, splitting time between being home with my family and my buddy who witnessed my trips to the hospital months before who lived in Manhattan at his girlfriend’s place in the East Village.

Getting off the plane with only a carry on I exited the terminal to meet my father waiting at the sliding glass doors across from the parking lot at LaGuardia Airport. Driving the hour from Queens to my hometown Ridgefield, CT, it felt good to see the New York City skyline then the countryside along 684 and finally the brick house I grew up in. Even though I was back in familiar territory, my mind was still focused on golf, prematurely planning the following week’s practice schedule. Spending the night eating, playing with the puppies and smoking weed with my sister and her husband, I enjoyed the relaxation of temporarily being home. By the next morning, I was ready to head into NYC to meet up with a couple friends to hang out, catch up and party. I had a lot to talk about considering how long it had been since I had last seen anyone and the amount of shit I experienced in the mean time.

The train ride into the city was always a humbling trip for me as I blasted music staring out the window watching the landscape and aesthetic change from the manicured properties of wealthy Westchester County to dilapidated buildings along the Harlem line. The transformation from country to city was inspiring as the train gradually went underground to its last stop at Grand Central Station. The darkness of the subway tunnel, the lights flickering as my phone loses a signal thinking of the city now above me, New York larger than life metropolis of skyscrapers housing millions of people. I loved it.

The plan was to meet my buddy at his girlfriend’s when they were out of work on a warm fall Thursday. While I waited for the sun to set I met up with a good friend from college Alana in recovery from knee surgery and helped her crutch her ass over to Central Park to free herself of her tiny, stuffy Upper East Side apartment. We talked for a long time in the Park and then took the painfully slowly trek back to her apartment to tend to her knee. The afternoon passed with a movie and I said my farewell to Alana before my walk to the 6 train to take me into the East Village for the night.

Getting off at Astor Place I meandered through the East Village to my buddy’s girlfriend’s building, ring the buzzer to be let in and walked up to the 2nd floor apartment. Thankfully, he is there first and we immediately take shots of tequila over a splif that was already burning. We finally settle on the couch listening to music watching the muted Yankee game and just chill until his girlfriend I had yet to meet showed up. With a warning phone call of her arrival we awaited the door to open revealing the girlfriend for out first impressions.

Her heels gave her away before the sound of the doorknob as my buddy and I shared a look and an extended laugh knowing exactly what we were both thinking. Walking into view from the hallway entrance she was smiling big and ready for hugs and our long overdue introduction. From there it became a party montage of beers, shots and weed complete with a soundtrack until the door opens again. Marking the arrival a new participant. I hear heels on the hardwood floor as Joanna meets her before she comes in view. I get up half drunk to introduce myself and that was it.

Chapter 57

This cute dark haired girl named Jessica sat right next to me on the couch in the sexy little black dress with small flower type markings all over it, showing the majority of her leg that coincidentally was touching mine. She pleads to catch up to our level of intoxication and we take more shots of tequila. In the time it took for the alcohol to take further effect my stomach was churning away because of the absence of any food for dinner. I knew that I wouldn’t make it through the rest of the night without something formidable in my belly so we ordered a pizza to arrive not soon enough for me.

The pizza finally came and by this point I had going back and forth with this girl next to me with witty flirtatious banter. Starting with one, her asking me if I was gay and two, if I was from NJ. The two worst questions to ask when you meet anyone but my humor made it funny rather than awkward, as we all laughed it off. The door buzzer signaling food was my savior as I started seeing double, closing one eye from time to time to keep my balance and handle the room. Immediately grabbing the warm first slice and barely chewing I ate so fast, then to the next one where I took a seat on the couch next to Jessica.

As I thoroughly chew the first bite of my second slice, the conversation got more adult when I said, “you know what I would do to you?” and she almost immediately replied, “what would you do to me?” as she repositioned herself to face me on the cushion. This was a shock. I stopped chewing to swallow what I just heard come out of her mouth. Then with a devilish look I took another big bite, a couple of chews later this girl has her tongue in my mouth. I literally had a mouthful of cheesy pizza and this girl was on her knees on the couch tongue fucking me. This was crazy. I just pulled back laughing desperately trying to swallow the last bit of food before I started choking to death.

The slice still folded in my hand about mouth level making my arm tired of holding it, I wasn’t sure whether to put it down or not, debating the right move. Pizza in one hand, mmm very enticing and a very willingly open make out session in my left. Weighing them like a scale giving them equal thought. I went for the pizza who would have thought. Fortunately for me that didn’t stop Jessica, she came right in again mid chew as I say, “Geez, you must really like pizza, you can have a slice if you want.” That did it, the pizza went on the coffee table and the flavored make out began. We went at it for a while until broken up by my buddy as if we were two boxers go to their respective corners at the end of a round.

The night was near its end close to 1 am when the 3 natives realized that they all have work in about 7 hours and tried calling it a night. Jessica and I moved to the other rooms available including the bathroom to continue to drunken affair until her friend started yelling at her like a mother to go home, so we then moved to the stairway corridor near the elevators. Soon after I started lifting her dress above her hips her friend interrupts the party again. I turned to look at her and in the brief moment she snuck down the stairs and out. Fuck.

What a cock block. I wasn’t even sober enough to know what was going on but I knew I had gotten her phone number. For the rest of the night and very early morning we went back and forth with texts and drunk dials until I reached CT again to turn back around to LGA to fly back to Miami. What a night.

Only back home for a couple of days I lost no focus on what my next move would be now that things seemed to be coming together. I went back to my routine of work, practice and the gym, physically feeling more confident as the pain my chest became less evident. I also spent my downtime on the phone with pizza girl for hours each night. The combination of events gave me more confidence that showed through my attitude and progress in my golf game. I felt ready, not quite 100% but I didn’t want to miss an opportunity to compete if it were to come up.

Chapter 58

My story as well as my game had made some waves around the Miami golf community and I started getting connected with different players to play with. To compare to or against a local celebrity that was a member at the Biltmore took me under his wing and helped with the process. One day one of our regular foursome, Omar showed up to pin me against his friend who was an ex-NFL quarterback, now an aspiring golf pro like myself. We played, I beat him and he asked me to be his caddy in PGA tour qualifying school in Tampa. 4 days of golf to compete for spots in stage 1 qualifying. I accepted the offer to experience the conditions that I dreamed of facing.

The next week I had inspired excitement for the near future feeling closer to my goal. 14-hour days between work and training, loving every minute of it, living in the moment and not letting the possible future affect my decisions. I was immersed. By this time I had starting playing better than ever before, under par most of the time while establishing a long-distance relationship my newly found, hopelessly romantic crush Jessica. I focused on the positives of my situation, never taking anything for granted, happy to have recovered from the worst year of my life. The consequences of my risky decisions to not pay off were severe but my belief in fate kept the possible harsh reality from affecting my state of mind. If I couldn’t make enough money to pay rent by not being able to caddy or by playing golf I would have to look for another job with a dying car or move home. Both of my options were a major risk.

The day came to venture across the everglades to the west coast of Florida where the 4 days of pre-qualifying began. The PGA Q-school is a chance for players to play their way on the Tour, for about 10K in total for just the non-refundable chance at making the big bucks. I wasn’t quite sold on my buddy Mike’s ability to end up at the top of the leader board but I was curious to see first hand his attempt. A field of over 100 golfers fighting for about 25 spots and passage to the next round, Stage 1 in PGA qualifying, it’s a small percentage and very competitive. I was pumped, wishing I had the chance instead of supporting someone else’s.

From early morning range preparation I observed all the players and caddies ready themselves, all with hope of making predictions about the outcome of Day 1. In this game, in this event, every shot matters, mistakes cannot be made, one missed put can be the shot that takes you out of it. Mapping the course and each shot out in my head as we made our way through each hole in the 100-degree sunny weather. My boy didn’t play that well but it was a start and I thought I could do it, just give me a chance and I could make it. I just know it.

It was in the execution of every shot that was the key because you didn’t need to win to qualify just be good enough to have a chance, one bad decision could change your odds against the field. He didn’t take much of my expert advice as he struggled each round, slowly watching his chances dwindle to nothing by the last day. He was an athlete, a competitor but in those 4 days he wasn’t a golfer. The difference between us was years of experience, different visions of the game, when to take chances and when not to, being able to be creative we imagined the game being played two different ways. That’s just how it is, an individual sport that tests every human condition. I love it.

The 4 hour drive back I kept thinking how I would play in any tournament I could to see if I could do it, be the hero, make enough money to do it again. That was my shot, qualify and make the cut, secure a place on the money list to keep my head above water. My checklist was to scrounge up enough money to register in the event, pay for a caddy and travel expenses before the deadline a week prior to tee-off. My proposal to Brian was in limbo assuming to corporate process would be slow, the only chance I had was to ask people I know to pony up some cash to give me a chance to prove myself. I had no idea how I would pull this off, but I knew something had to happen.

After doing some quick research on the pro shop computer while at work, I discovered that I had 5 days to register for Nationwide Tour Event local qualifier. In total I needed 350 for the entry fee, anything after that I could handle. I asked almost everyone that could afford to donate to my cause. I got a lot of maybes and a couple of uncommitted yes’. I was at work soliciting the people I saw on a daily basis for $350 to supplement my life dream. What a request. By the end of the workday it was a public offer out of my desperation to make the deadline the end of the week. Pacing around the first tee impatiently waiting for anything to happen I spot my coworker speeding around the hedge corner toward the cart barn then stopping abruptly reaching into his pocket. He says “Zo gave me this for you to register for the tournament.” My heart stopped in shock of his relayed statement with a surprised confused look on my face. I counted it 340, holy shit I was in. Fuck yeah! Fate struck again and the stars seemed to be aligning in my favor for a change. I had a chance. A real chance to qualify for a tour event months after nearly dying from E. coli and a broken rib, it would be a great story if I could do it.

6 days to prepare for a possibly life-changing day or even week. What a crazy ride it has been. I couldn’t believe that I was doing this. This was what I have been waiting for, it didn’t happen the way I planned it but all my efforts were going to be tested in only a few days. The impulsiveness of my decision to play set in when I was approved my emotions overcoming me to the truth that is something real. My life could change in now 5 days. I don’t know if I would ready being so soon after my recovery, mentally, physically, and spiritually. It didn’t matter I was committed. I wanted to show everyone who I was and there was no backing out now. I needed to trust myself and just go play my game the same way I did any other day and hope it would be good enough to get me in to the 2nd to last Nationwide Event of the season.

Chapter 59

The qualifier was up north in Lauderdale on the next Monday, it was Tuesday I had work Thursday thru Saturday the rest of the time I would have to spend practicing. 3 days of work and 5 to prepare. I needed a caddy and a ride, unsure who to ask to carry my bag. I made some phone calls during my late afternoon 9 holes after a couple hours on the range. This was a problem because my car was still not registered, leaking gas, and questionable over 50 miles per hour. I could always carry my own bag but I needed to get there first. After no takers to my request for a ride it worried me so I went to Terry’s bar hoping to find someone to help me brainstorm. After several beers mulling over the topic, Terry walks in at his usual late time, he pours a shot of Jameson of us and I mention my dilemma as we finish the shots with a loud slam of the bottom of the glass on the wood bar. “I’ll do it,” he says casually. “Really?” I replied. “Yeah man I’d love to watch you qualify. “Sick. I secured a ride and a caddy over beers, problem solved. All I had to worry about now is my golf game.

The feeling that came over me was much more than relief, it was the faith that I had in my ability to reach my dream that made my reflection of the past year so overwhelmingly emotional. Buzzing hard out of celebration I sat at my place smoking a late night cigarette on my door steps my head falling between my shoulders staring down at my bare feet in disbelief how long and how difficult this journey has been. Life took so much time away from me that it was hard to remember what my original plan was when I moved down, one month shy of a calendar year. So far nothing had worked out as planned but the result was nearly the same. I moved at the drop of a dime to pursue golf in South Florida and even though it was interrupted with a traumatic experience, fate had brought me here for a reason, I was ready, I had to be.

Remembering all the pain I’ve felt, the rarity of my diagnosis, all the comments and responses kept repeating in my head. Using it for motivation, I practiced with a goal in sight, something I have not had yet a tournament to prepare for. Prior it had been in preparation for an unknown opportunity, maintaining a high level of skill in case something were to happen. This was crazy, finally I had a challenge in front of me. Thinking of what an unbelievable ordeal I had overcome to be here, was this my time? Was Karma going to shift in my favor? After too much time spent thinking of the chain of events gets me angry, mad even that it all happened this way. Asking why? Then convincing myself that question would be answered in time and to have patience.

Wednesday flew by and now I had to work the next morning, practicing in the afternoon, losing half of the day to my responsibility, the one resource that has made it possible to refine my game. I tried to worry about it or think my way to insanity over a Monday qualifier. I focused on being relaxed and myself. I had nothing to lose. I was given an opportunity that meant much more to me than the person who founded it. There was nothing to worry about, no need to stress over something that hasn’t happened yet.

The pressure that I put on myself normally wasn’t an issue this time. In the past I wanted golf to be the answer to a laundry list of problems that I wished to solve in life. Wanting to play the club so tightly without would squeeze the club so tightly without noticing that my left hand would hurt by the end of a round. This time I felt comfortable just going out there for myself, for what I went through to have this chance.

As Monday came closer more and more people were asking me how I was playing, if my rib hurt. I responded, “Well” every time to keep any doubt out of my mind. Having a bit of a struggle with this because my rib did still hurt at the end of the day and when I wake up, which made me conceptualize the recent dramatic transition from imprisonment from the pain to a sudden comeback. It was crazy, all I could think was, “Wow! Unfuckingbelieveable.” As I shake my head in disbelief. No matter which way I looked at it, there was no way to not recognize all the small pieces of agony ingrained in my memory. I wasn’t over it yet just something I had to fight through if I was to succeed.

Work and practice was all I thought about. Work hard and hopefully it will show when it really counts. Golf is such a methodically repetitive game, hit the ball, find it and hit it again. The routines and repetition is important subconsciously as to prepare for when your nerves give out under pressure, adrenalin pumping through veins when faced with a crucial situation. A player has to trust his routine and swing to deliver positive results. Even though it hasn’t been a long time after my recovery I would just have to trust myself and swing. It compares to the feeling on the cruise ship, giving up control to the experience, accepting reality and living in the moment. Enjoy the ride only to look back when its over, whatever happens in the end.

Friday comes and I had the closing shift at work, which meant I was practicing early making it a shorter day without the prolonged period of dusk. This would be the case the next day as well so I accepted the limited time and continued on until Sunday came. Sleepless I woke up around 7 to ready myself for the day ahead, my last practice day before my morning tee off time. The plan was to not stress, get in some practice and some play. I prepared for this and for a long time nothing the day before an event would do that could change all the hours spent in preparation.

My headphones securely inside my ears to ward off any conversation on my way back to the range that morning. My expression was blank, no movement of lips, tongue or cheek, focused only on the task at hand. Beginning to break a sweat I pause to stretch and head out, play 9 holes, cautious to not rush at all. I tried to keep attention on the future shot in front of me while piecing together a score each hole. Taking a more thorough approach to each shot, knowing the amount of times I hit comparable shots in past rounds. Each swing went through my process, nothing was routine, complete attention to the wind, grass, course design, distance, pin position, the contour of the green, analyzing everything necessary to deciding on what kind of shot to hit. Imagining the next day’s events as they play out, visualizing a battle of wits against a designed landscape amongst all elements. I felt as if this was my place in life, my destiny, the instinctual passion to play the best golf I can.

The night brought anxiety and nervous excitement, the same feeling I’ve felt before many other tournaments or during the National Anthem before the puck drops. The suspenseful build up only to be expressed through action without a word needing to be spoken. The last thought before you fall asleep to wake up to what feels like minutes later. I only thought of the journey from start to finish, the most trying time in my life will close on the same goal I started with but the story had changed. I changed, my life had changed with one dirty salad, the reason why me? Unknown but the message was clear, I can survive almost anything.

Awake before the alarm I started getting ready. I decided to wear the most comfortable golf clothes I owned, a shirt that was breathable and hung freely off my shoulders to allow no friction during my swing. Ready and anxious I call Terry to make sure he was up and on schedule. He wasn’t, so I chain smoked two cigarettes to calm down a bit. Shortly after Terry calls to confirm he was on his way and it was about that time.

I made sure to eat something for breakfast with a cup of coffee, putting some snacks for the course into my golf bag, several bottles of water, and shiny new golf balls for the day. Everything was set. I have no excuses now, not even my rib, the tools in place for me to play well on this given day. Terry pulls up to my place, gets out of his car to meet me halfway to take my golf bag and I noticed his shirt neatly tucked, sneakers laced up, when normally he looks more casually disheveled. He was nervous just as I was. This was a big day. I could just feel it, the calm before the storm.

The drive to the course felt long when it was not. I said very little, only stared out at west Miami trying to find myself in the vast suburban south Florida. Is this the chance I’ve been waiting for? I always pictured it being inevitable, the more I played, the more of an opportunity to win,. This situation was by no means perfect, but things seldom are. I visualized the first tee shot of my round, feeling my heart race, muscles tighten, focus sharpens as the ambient noise becomes silent as I stare at the small white ball delicately balanced on a tee an inch off the shortly cut grass of the tee box.

Upon an on time arrival, I had about 45 minutes to warm up on the driving range and practice green. I set up on the range, iPod blasting music carefully selected for this moment, my eyes out at possible targets as I force my fingers into my golf glove securely tightening the black Velcro tab to the back of my left hand. Keeping a relaxed demeanor I started warming up my body with some swings trying not to think of anything. Let my mind go and fall into my groove in the same way I did at the Biltmore.

A small bucket of range was enough to warm up so I moved to the putting green, the place where my nerves would be seriously tested. I gripped my putter with conviction, squeezing gently to keep my slightly shaking hands from causing the club head to wiggle. This was where my mental game would show, the months of recovery and refining my approach was what I was going to use as motivation to not let my nerves get the best of me. 15 minutes of putting then the tournament official announces the group on the tee. I was on deck, in a group of 3 close to the bottom of the tee sheet.

Making final preparations my hands started to sweat a little bit as the butterflies in my stomach kicked into high gear, rushing straight into my head. I thought to myself, there are the ones who can calm their nerves and win championships, and those who do not. I wanted to be that player on this day, just go out and do it.

Listening intently for the last player to hit their tee shot from across the putting green, I waited until they walked down the first fairway before I took a step in the same direction. Walking about 30 yards up the small inclined plateau and around the two full pine trees hiding the scorecard and rules make shift paperweights on a table in front of the starter. After a short announcement of local rules he reveals the order, placing me 2nd out of three. Hiding the massive amount of energy underneath the surface. Intently watching the one of two strangers I was paired with go through his pre-shot routine before he let one go, no do-overs, mulligans or second chances, just like everyone else, as soon as his club hit the ball the round begins. Watching the flight and direction of the ball through the air, helpless to change its course, keeping close eye to wherever it lands, accepting any fate that results. Like life, my past year, no matter what happens, the only direction was forward any consequence must be dealt with, especially ones out of your control.

The official loudly states, “Christopher Lubrano, playing out of Coral Gables, FL.” The box was mine as I reach into my pocket for my ball and tee, securing my glove in the few steps between the two placed markers. The club in my left hand I let it rest next to me as I picked my head to pick a line of approach, a specific tree in the distance as a target before my tee would puncture the grass at my feet. Using my driver to balance I bend down to choose a small spot that pleased me, with my first two fingers guiding the thin white widen tee into the ground and then gently placing the golf ball on the tiny concave tip, ready to be cast away.

Stepping back to put it all in perspective, I visualize my shot toward my target quickly as I start my pre-shot routine. There was so much the lead up to this moment that would only last a few seconds. I feel my muscles repeating the most constant part of my life, my golf swing, the only thing that remained unchanged. The relaxed couple practice swings making a soft sound as the club barely brushed the grass, everyone nearby in absolute silence. I’m ready now, my club at my side as I take a deep breath and slowly exhale as my mind falls into instinctual focus, where all the thoughts in my head momentarily froze.

They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes, the mind replays your life in a rapid recap of memories, everything that is most important to you, a moment of self-actualization. From the time I set up my ball I had seen all the places I came from to be this very spot without having to think about anything other than the shot at hand. This was my path, my dream, all beginning when my club reached the golf ball. I started my back swing keeping still, eyes staring down at my ball. The club reaches the top of my swing, my hips and shoulders start to twist in unison bring my hands around my body to the point of contact. At 125 mph, it felt like slow motion as I hear the sound of metal compressing the golf ball, sending it through the humid air, creating another memory on the pursuit of happiness.