Once Upon a Tee Time

After returning to Leisureville and dropping off his wife, Jingles picked up his three golf partners. With their flight departing in the morning, the visit to Super Puttz represented a farewell get-together for The Foursome.

Even from a distance, Jingles saw activity at the mini-golf complex. Multiple spotlights shot beams upward into the night, illuminating a banner that seemed to hang from the stars. Drawing closer, he realized the sign was suspended between two helium balloons. SEE JINGLES PUTT. 8:00 TONIGHT.

Mulligan chuckled. “Isn’t this a slick promotion? Very clever. I used to do similar stuff at my car lot.”

The parking area was full and more cars were parked illegally along the road on both sides. Because it was almost eight o’clock, Harvey volunteered to drop off the others and find a spot for the Lincoln. Jingles almost forgot to grab Pinger from the trunk.

The proprietor, Alex Levin, greeted them at the entrance. “I was getting nervous you wouldn’t make it! What was I going to tell all these people?” He pointed inside, where the course was surrounded by several hundred.

Jingles glanced at the layout, which seemed modest at best. The crowd yelled greetings and cheered his arrival. Unlike Leisureville, the spectators were a cross section of everybody, both old and young. When he waved to the group, they grew even noisier.

“Here’s my boy Barry,” Alex said, patting his son on top of the head. “He’s going to give you a run for the money.” Short and skinny, the boy wore shorts suited for someone triple his size. His high-top Lebron James sneakers looked large enough for Lebron himself. His outstanding feature was a mop of curly, black hair.

“What color ball you want to use?” Alex asked.

Jingles reached into his pocket and produced a Titleist. “Is it okay if I use what I’m used to?”

“No problem,” Alex grinned. “The only rule is that you go first on every hole. As a celebrity, you should have honors.”

“Yeah,” his son agreed. “Age before beauty.”

Mulligan whispered to Knickers, “He’s a little smartass.”

Jingles shivered in anticipation of the match, even at this odd venue, and even with a child for an opponent. He asked for directions to a bathroom so he could relieve himself and install his bubble lens.

Mulligan nudged Knickers. “No wonder this place is hurting; the course is totally bland.” He pointed to a sign: A No Frill Test of Skill. “Give me a couple carpenters for a day and I’d dress this place up. It needs ramps, windmills, tunnels, interesting stuff. No frills, no business. That’s my conclusion.”

Knickers nodded, but his ears were elsewhere. Somewhere nearby, he heard bats hitting baseballs. The bats were aluminum, not wood, but still made sweet music.

Jingles returned, now wearing sunglasses, and took his place at the first tee. He placed his ball at the center of the mat and tried to study the putt. Because half of the overhead lights were burned out or broken, it was too dark to see with the shades. He took them off and stuck them above the visor of his cap.

The mini-fairway was concrete, covered with green outdoor carpet that had seen better nights. It was frayed, worn, and covered with stains from spilled sodas and black holes from cigarette embers. Sideboards of two-by-six-inch lumber contained a narrow fairway that led to an eight-foot-square green. The distance to the cup was about twenty feet, and the only obstacles were a couple foot-long boards that stood halfway between the tee and the hole. There was six inches of clearance at the end of each board, along the sides of the fairway, and a twelve-inch opening between them, right down the center.

At first glance, the putt looked straight-in simple. Then Jingles’ eye told him, “Not so fast.” A worn path in the carpet led to the right of the cup. If he struck the ball hard enough to minimize the break, it might very well bounce off the course. He concluded that two was the best possible score. He lagged the putt to within inches of the right lip while the onlookers groaned disappointment. Tapping in for the deuce, Jingles seemed imperfectly human.

Once Jingles stepped aside, five red and white clad cheerleaders stepped to the forefront. About 14-years old, they wore pleated skirts and sweatshirts emblazoned with an “M” and the snarling face of a big cat, probably a mountain lion. They held pom poms high, hopping and waving in synchrony. “Barry, Barry, he’s our man! Let’s give Barry a great big hand!” They yelled the verse a second time, dropped the pom poms, and started clapping in rhythm.

Jingles saw the crowd clap along and realized he was clapping too. He was back in high school again. The cheerleaders were cute as hell.

Barry thought so too. He wore a smile as big as his shorts and shoes. When the girls finished their routine, he dropped his blue ball at the far left of the tee. He putted around the obstacles, not between them as Jingles had. His ball bounced off the sideboard and angled toward the hole, missing to the left before striking the backboard and ricocheting back into the cup. A double bank shot!

The cheerleaders sparkled again. “Putt it in, putt it in, right in!”

Jingles moved to the second tee, now aware of why he was the designated first putter. The kid had secrets he wasn’t going to share.

“Nice work,” Jingles said to his young opponent. “That was impressive. You must play here a lot.”

Barry answered without eye contact. He was staring at the girls with the pom poms. “I play like ten rounds a day after school. You’re total meat.”

Armed with a new perspective, Jingles planned his own bank shot on the second hole, a dogleg to the right. It required two caroms off the boards, but seemed straightforward. He launched his ball off the left sideboard and then the back rail, where it thumped and stopped abruptly. He settled for a second score of two.

Barry played his shot to the left side as well, but his aim was different. The blue ball bounced off three rails and dropped into the hole for another ace.

Jingles offered a high-five, saying, “You’re the man.”

The boy ignored the extended hand. “That’s dry rot where you hit the board. You need to know where the soft spots are.”

Going forward, Jingles decided to tap on the wood with Pinger, checking for softness, before he putted. Still, making up two shots would be impossible if the boy refused to miss.

“Hey, you know what you remind me of?” Barry said. “A Cyclops. I mean, you got two eyes, but you only look through the one.”

Jingles grimaced. “It’s how I aim, that’s all.”

Over the next four holes, the lens proved its potency. He aced three of them. Unfortunately, so did the kid.

Barry played as if he owned the place, which he basically did. Jingles had to admire the kid’s smooth stroke. Knowing where to aim was only half the battle. Executing the shot was pure skill. The kid had a gift. He deserved to be featured on Newswatch too.

Moving along the course, Jingles kept track of Harvey because he was a head taller than most. But where were Knickers and Mulligan? He finally saw them visiting with the cheerleaders, oblivious to the match.

A surprise greeted Jingles on the seventh tee. The girls started chanting his name! “Jingles, Jingles, he’s our man, let’s give him a great big hand!”

The crowd cheered wildly. Jingles made a routine hole-in-one.

“He’s got style, he’s got grace, Jingles made another ace!” The young ladies chanted and bounced until Barry stepped up, then fell silent.

The boy frowned and looked wistfully at the backs of his former supporters, who had walked off toward the next hole. He saw his father chase after them, shaking his arms in the air, then missed his putt badly.

Jingles finished with a score of 25, winning by two strokes. He put on his sunglasses, shook eager hands, and signed a few autographs before the somber proprietor passed him a wad of small bills.

Jingles found the cheerleading squad and handed them the cash. “Go enjoy a pizza or something. You were charming and beautiful.”

“That may have been overkill,” Mulligan told him. “Knickers gave them each a hundred to change their tune. They were only getting a week of free mini-golf from the owner.”

Harvey looked at Knickers. “That’s a lot of money.”

The old ballplayer shrugged. “I had to level the damn playing field. Going second every time gave that cocky little brat an advantage.”

Mulligan pointed to the batting cages. “Hey, Knickers. Why don’t you show us your stuff? I’ll bet you haven’t swung a bat in ages.”

“Somebody grab some quarters,” he grinned. “We’ll see what I’ve got left in the tank.”

“Forget quarters,” Harvey laughed, “you’re showing your age. It’s dollars now. I brought my grandsons here. A dollar buys about a dozen pitches.”

At the cages, Knickers found a helmet that fit and selected a piece of the artificial lumber. “Aluminum bats with rubber grips! That’s so damn wrong.”

Harvey asked, “What speed do you want? It goes from forty to eighty miles an hour.”

“Warm me up at sixty,” he answered, then stepped up to the plate.

The pitching machine made some racket, a green light flashed on, and the first pitch came flying. Knickers took a big cut and missed.

Mulligan laughed hysterically. “Oh, man! So much for a dime a pitch! That one was worth a hundred bucks!”

Ignoring his friend, Knickers shifted into a bunting stance. He tapped each of the next three pitches neatly, pushing one to the right, then two to the left.

When he began to take easy swings, contact improved with each pitch. The machine stopped and Harvey inserted another bill. Line drives started coming off the bat, one after another.

“Let’s take it up a notch,” Knickers ordered. “Seventy.” After a few foul tips, he found the sweet spot again. Son of a gun, he still had game.

“Crank it all the way up,” Mulligan suggested. “Let’s put him to the test.” Harvey served up another dollar and pressed for top speed.

The ball became a blur and left him swinging at air. “That’s why you don’t see old men in the majors,” Knickers declared. “Hitting a baseball at that level is the biggest challenge in all of sports.”

Jingles still wore the lens with the bubble. He’d never swung at high-speed pitching, but logged plenty of time with a bat in his hands. In coaching Little League for decades, he hit countless grounders to his infielders and flies to the outfield. Seen through his right eye, even the fastest pitches didn’t frighten him at all. He knew he could hit them.

As Knickers slipped out of the cage, Jingles slid in. He removed his cap and sunglasses, set them on the ground, and selected a helmet. Grabbing a bat, he took a few practice cuts before putting a dollar bill into the slot. The machine was still set for eighty.

Assuming a bunting position like Knickers, Jingles waited for the pitch. The ball met the metal barrel and rocketed straight back at the machine, knocking the bat out of his stinging hands. The damn ball was moving a lot faster than it looked!

Harvey yelled, “Turn the speed down. You’re going to get hurt.”

Jingles stepped back and watched the next pitch buzz by.

“When you bunt, you move the bat back as the ball arrives, like you’re catchin’ it with a glove,” Knickers offered. “I give you credit for standin’ in there.”

Jingles bunted the next eight pitches with increasing success. He fed the machine another bill and took an open batting stance at the plate.

“Watch this,” Knickers whispered to Mulligan. “He’ll never touch it.”

With a sense of the timing, Jingles started his swing early and adjusted to the ball. Crack! He popped the pitch straight up into the netting, and felt a surge of excitement. He could do this! By his final few swings, he was hitting line shots.

When he turned to face his friends, only Mulligan and Harvey remained. Both stood dumbfounded. “Where’s Knickers?” he asked.

“Long gone,” Mulligan said, shaking his head. “You were showing him up.”

“I have no idea how you did that,” Harvey gasped. “Seriously, that ball was coming in like a rocket. I can’t believe you hit it. It’s like you’re superhuman.”

“I’m behind a chain-link fence and was still scared shitless,” Mulligan added. “Plumlee my man, I don’t know what to think.”

On the way home, the Lincoln was uncomfortably quiet. Knickers slumped in the front passenger seat, looking out the side window. The other two rode in back, wondering what to make of it all. Jingles marveled at how big the baseball had looked, how it seemed to move in slow motion.

When they reached the security gate, Harvey broke the silence. “I think Jingles is blessed with abnormally great eyesight. It’s always been there, but he needed prescription contacts to bring it out.

“Think about the great Ted Williams, the best hitter of his era and maybe of all time. He was no freakish athlete or anything, but he had freak twenty-ten vision. It was a proven fact. A baseball had to look like a softball to him, and he could recognize the spin sooner than hitters with normal vision.

“That makes me wonder if exceptional eyesight is a trait of all the great golfers too. You can go on the internet and find Ben Hogan’s height and weight. But how good was his vision? Nobody talks about that ... even though it could have been the biggest part of his success. How do we know? It’s all pretty fascinating, don’t you think?”

Harvey waited for a response, but nobody else was talking. “Well, here we are at Sleepy Hollow. Enjoy all your golf, Jingles. I’m pretty sure we’ll be thinking about you all the time.”

Stepping out of the car, he added, “Jingles, if I were you, I’d get your corrected vision evaluated. I’ll bet that will explain everything. Maybe you’re the Ted Williams of golf.”

After dropping off Mulligan, Jingles parked in Knickers’ driveway and fetched the anniversary gift from the trunk. The newfangled coffee-maker had been awaiting this day on the floor of Pat’s office. He followed Knickers through his front door.

Inside, Jingles noticed something different about the decor. On reflection, he realized a collection of baseball photos had disappeared from a wall. A huge painting hung in their place. Yellow tulips. He handed the gift to Knickers and brushed by him to inspect the art.

“This is new,” Jingles said.

Knickers nodded and forced a smile. “Classy, don’t you think?”

Jingles felt relief that his friend finally spoke. Admiring the painting, he saw the name Samuels printed in the lower right corner. Ingrid Samuels! “Where did you get a Speed Bump painting? I knew she painted flowers.”

Knickers laughed. “I bought three. Harvey and Mulligan will each get one for Christmas. Your present was the dance with her.”

Jingles spun, stared at his grinning friend, and felt a lump rise in his throat. “Are you saying that Ingrid didn’t come to the dance on her own?”

Knickers yelled, “Bess! Jingles is here. He knows about Speed Bump.”

Bess trotted out of the kitchen with a smile that matched her husband’s. “Don’t tell the others yet, Jingles. Let them stay jealous a while longer.”

“Did you see the faces on those two when you danced with her?” Knickers asked. “I thought they were gonna cry.”

Bess slapped Jingles on the shoulder. “You should have seen your own face. You were gawking at her like a teenager. We have close-up photos.”

Knickers put the gift on the kitchen table and headed to the fridge. “All of Leisureville will be talkin’ about that dance for a long time.”

Jingles accepted a Sam Adams, still shaking his head. Knickers was on a roll; nothing turned out to be what it seemed. He thought of the bubble lens in his pocket. Did the prankster have something to do with that too?

He looked to Bess. “I’m sorry Pat’s so upset about the other day. She’s more serious-minded than most. Sometimes I have to laugh for both of us. She’ll get over it. She always does.”

“I love Pat,” Bess replied. “Just because my husband and I are cut from different cloth doesn’t mean we think any less of her.”

Knickers reopened the front door. “Jingles, let’s take a walk, you and me. I’d like to have a little heart-to-heart.”

The men left the house with bottles in hand, walking up quiet Fairway Lane. Knickers lived only half a block from the golf course and led Jingles in that direction. An approaching car slowed down and stopped. The occupants had recognized Jingles and congratulated him for his recent success.

When the car moved on, Knickers sipped his beer and asked, “Exactly what are they praisin’ you for? I really want to know.”

The odd question caught Jingles off guard. “Well, the course record, I guess. For my golf.”

“Well, I was impressed with that too ... until tonight. Now I’m mostly wonderin’ about it. I saw some things that bothered me. First, I noticed that you putted with just one eye open, your right eye. That was the first time I saw you play without them sunglasses. That didn’t sit right. And then, when you started hittin’ fastballs the same way, with only the one eye open, I knew somethin’ was off. It’s hard enough to hit high-speed pitchin’ with two eyes, damn near impossible for someone our age. Our reaction time slows down.”

Jingles understood the skepticism. “The baseball looked so big that hitting it was no real problem. I just had to time the pitches, which wasn’t that hard because they were all the same speed.”

Knickers raised his bottle. “Stop! Just stop. Why do you keep your left eye closed? Just answer me that.”

“Because it only works that way … my right one, that is.”

Knickers wagged his head. “Again, stop. I’m lookin’ at you right now and both your eyes are open. They seem to be working.”

“I’m not wearing my other right lens right now. These two are normal contacts.”

Knickers drew a deep breath. He knew there had to be more to the story. “So … the lens you putt with isn’t a normal contact lens. What is it?” The men had arrived at the clubhouse. Knickers turned down the dark eighteenth fairway, barely lit by the moon.

Jingles decided it was time to share his secret. Beginning with his trip to the optometrist, he told his friend everything. When the two finally reached the seventeenth green, they sat on Tom Klein’s Bench. Knickers hadn’t said a word.

“Well?” Jingles prodded. “It’s not like you to be so quiet. Go ahead, tell me I’m the luckiest SOB ever.”

Knickers cleared his throat. “That’s not what I’m thinkin’. I’m wonderin’ what others will think once they find out this has all been a trick.”

Jingles’ face reddened. “A trick? Is that what you think?” He cursed himself for blabbing. He should have stayed quiet, like maybe Ben Hogan did. “What about Ted Williams? You heard what Harvey said. He hit over four hundred one season. He’s in the Hall of Fame. Are we supposed to think less of what he did because he could see better than anybody else?”

Knickers shook his head. “That was different. His eyesight was natural, God-given.”

Jingles stared at the moon in frustration. “Knickers, you wear prescription glasses. Did God give you those?”

“That’s different.”

“How’s it all that different? They help you see better. Lots of people wear reading glasses that magnify. That’s all my lens does for me. It makes things bigger.”

Knickers chuckled. “Are you sayin’ we can all go to Walmart and pick one up?”

“I already explained that the lens was a manufacturing mistake. I got lucky. Should I feel guilty about that?”

“Well, that’s the million-dollar question. I think you already do. You’ve kept it a secret ’til now for a reason.”

Jingles shifted on the hard seat. “That’s not true. I told you guys the hole looked huge to me. I told Jane Friend that better vision was the reason for my success.”

Knickers laughed again. “You’re in a weird position. I get that. As your friend, I advise you to take a step back and think more about this. Come with us on the trip and we’ll all talk about it.”

A cloud obscured the three-quarter moon, further dimming the night. Jingles’ head flooded with confusion, bewilderment, disappointment, and even resentment. Why would someone he loved and respected try to spoil his dream? “I’m committed to playing golf for Phoenix City Bank. I hope you all have a wonderful time.”

Knickers pushed himself to his feet. “Should I assume you want me to keep your secret?”

Jingles deliberated for only a moment. “You can pass on what I said to Mulligan and Harvey, but keep it in The Foursome. My wife doesn’t even know all the details.”

As Jingles pulled up to the Desert Springs clubhouse Wednesday morning, he conjured up an image of Oliver Pruh. The soft voice on the phone suggested a smallish man, perhaps with a balding head and bifocals perched on his nose. Wasn’t that how a bank president was supposed to look?

The real-life Oliver stood a bulky six-four, and Jingles’ hand disappeared in his grasp. Looking up at his benefactor, he said, “I’m guessing you were a football player.”

The giant smiled. “A lot of people tried to put me in shoulder pads. I didn’t take to them well. Trust me, I run like a banker.”

“But I’ll bet you can send a golf ball into orbit.”

“I’m kind of special like that. I’m the only guy I know who can hit a ball three hundred yards sideways.”

Jingles laughed. “If you stand sideways on the tee, everything should work out then!”

The bank president reminded him of someone. Then it hit. “Little House on the Prairie.” The Michael Landon show. Oliver was that former football player who played the friend with the easy-going, soft-spoken manner. Merlin Olsen. Merlin Olsen without the beard. What was the name of his character on the show? He’d have to ask Lucy.

Oliver introduced Bo Smolinski, a rangy man in his forties. The Desert Springs pro would be playing with them.

Bo appraised Jingles warily, like a Homeland Security guard eyeing a passenger in a baggy overcoat. “I read about you in this morning’s Sun,” he said. “You’re quite the sensation. Rags to riches in a week.”

Jingles wondered if he was referring to the $20,000. Had Mr. Pruh told him about the contract? Then he remembered that his shirt and slacks were brand new, still showing the creases. “Oh, my wife picked out the new outfit for television.”

Bo assumed the old guy was joking around and extended a fist. Jingles returned the gesture, feeling good about his playing partners.

A single cameraman from WAZA sat lazily in a cart, ready for the day’s unusual assignment. Until Saturday, he had never filmed on a golf course. Today figured to be a snap; there was no big crowd to get in the way. Looking forward to a relaxing day in the country, he lit a smoke. Out of thin air, a man appeared and handed him an ashtray. With Desert Springs scripted on the side, it would make a great souvenir.

When the threesome stepped to the first tee, a couple dozen club members gathered to watch. Herman Winston, the owner of Eagle Optics, stood among the group.

Herman had taken the day off to watch his new hero in action. Without even knowing it, this Jingles was turning his company into a gold mine. On Monday morning, Herman got a call from an optometrist named Sturrock, the doctor who performed Jingles’ eye exam. He reported a surge in requests for contact lenses after a Newswatch feature over the weekend. By the end of the day, other optometrists started shifting their orders to Eagle Optics after talking with Sturrock. The flow of new business increased even more on Tuesday. A sports feature in the Sun specifically mentioned the company. Jingles Plumlee was a godsend.

As Jingles addressed his ball, music began to play from Herman’s cell phone. The other spectators glared at him and Jingles stepped back from his ball. Herman shrugged an apology and distanced himself from the tee. “What is it, Martha?” he asked in a whisper. “I told you no calls.”

“I apologize if I’m wrong, Mr. Winston, but I thought you’d want to know this. I took a call from Karl Zimmer. He says he’ll be exercising his option. Fifteen million will be deposited to our account on December first.” Herman dropped his phone. The miracles just kept on coming.

Jingles put his drive in the middle of the fairway, some sixty yards behind the others. His Titleist settled into a deep divot, the only imperfection in an otherwise immaculate fairway. That’s the nature of the game, he thought, the way the ball bounces.

Not wanting to be viewed as a whiner, he didn’t ask for relief. Playing from the poor lie, his 170-yard approach fell short of the green by twenty yards. He chipped to ten feet and took his medicine, a par. Smolinski took honors with a birdie and shot Jingles a self-satisfied smirk.

Ray Plumlee had spent a lifetime ignoring such looks. But now he was Jingles and feeling his oats. “Bo, I’m used to playing for a little something to help keep things interesting. How about a buck a hole? You’ve already got one in the bank.”

Smolinski grinned. What was the old fart thinking? There was a big difference between dallying around with old hackers at Leisureville and playing on a real course like Desert Springs. This was his domain. “Name your poison,” Bo said, glancing at Oliver for approval.

The banker nodded his okay and studied Jingles. Would he have to cancel the promotion plans? Frankly, he saw nothing remarkable about Plumlee’s play on the first hole. For a fleeting instant, he even considered a wager of his own. However, conservative instincts prevailed. There was confidence in the old gentleman’s limping strut. And he had dropped a ten-footer without hesitation.

At round’s end, Smolinski approached Jingles with slumped shoulders. He withdrew his wallet, pulled out a five and a one, and handed them over. “What size do you wear?” he asked the guest. “I’m going to give you a Desert Springs polo shirt and jacket. You owned this course and your clothing ought to say so. Your sixty-four beat my personal best by two shots.”

Oliver had been patting himself on the back all afternoon. Jingles was incredible. From tee to green, his game showed impressive consistency. Hitting fourteen of eighteen greens in regulation was ample proof. But with a putter in his hands, his game became a magic act. He made the ball disappear from nearly everywhere. A fifty-footer from the fringe? Right in. A double-breaking snake from thirty feet? No problem. Steep downhill testers? Passed with flying colors. Eight-foot knee-knockers? Nothing to them.

He had inquired about Jingles’ strange habit of removing his right contact lens so frequently. The new advertising associate explained that the eye was sensitive and he avoided irritation that way.

Jane Friend awaited the golfers behind the final green. Oliver responded to her inquiring look by holding his arms high, the signal for a touchdown.

After giving Jingles a warm hug, she asked, “How did it go out there?”

“Well, I made a couple new friends. That’s always a good day.”

“And he’s going to make a few dollars,” Oliver added. “We’re going to set up for Sunland on Sunday.” Turning to Jingles, he briefly described the large retirement community.

“I loved the article in the Sun,” Jane said. “A star is rising!”

Jingles had picked up a copy of the paper at a 7-Eleven. The writer was highly complimentary, which Pat attributed to the Belgian waffles she served him. Jingles guessed that the large photo of him standing over a putt would be framed and hanging on a wall by the time he got home.

“I don’t have much time,” Jane said, motioning to her cameraman. “We’ll have to get moving.”

She talked to Jingles about his round and sudden stardom, then recorded the pro’s observations about the talented visitor. Oliver announced the bank’s new affiliation with the senior golfer and discussed the golf exhibitions that would begin on Sunday.

After Jane rushed off, Oliver invited Jingles and his wife to dinner at his home the next night. He promised to grill steaks and serve up Newswatch for dessert. There would also be a contract to sign and a check for half of the amount in advance. He gave directions to his house before hustling off to work on plans for the Sunland match.

On Thursday morning, the Plumlees readied themselves for a visit to Sunland and a trip around the golf course. Pat took a call from the front gate. “A Larry Weinstein is here to see you. Should I let him in?”

Pat thought of a huge billboard she often passed: Larry Weinstein Cadillac. “Go ahead. And thank you, Charlie.”

“Here’s another surprise,” she said to her husband. “Larry Weinstein wants to visit. He’s on his way through the gate.”

“That name’s familiar. Where do I know it from?”

“Well, for starters, his picture is on a giant sign at the Lawson intersection. You’ve probably seen it a thousand times.” Her husband’s expression was blank. “How about all the late-night television commercials? Larry Weinstein Cadillac?”

The lights came on for Jingles. “Yeah, the ‘howdy’ guy!”

“And here he is,” Pat said, pointing out the window. “Live and in person.”

The Plumlees walked outside to meet their guest, who was talking as soon as he opened the door of a shining blue Cadillac convertible. “Jingles Plumlee! There you are! What a pleasure to meet you.”

Jingles shook hands with a man dressed up like a Halloween cowboy. He sported a white hat, bolo tie, giant belt buckle, and pointy boots – everything but spurs and ivory-handled pistols. Larry looked larger than life, just like on the billboard.

“Can we go inside?” he asked, already striding toward the front door. “I have a great opportunity for you, the deal of a lifetime.” The Plumlees followed him into their house.

“How would you like to drive any Cadillac you choose? An entire year for free. No charge at all, partner. Even the one outside, if you have a hankerin’!”

Jingles checked out the car in the driveway. He had never driven a convertible. In Alaska, even the bed of his pickup was covered with a shell. The thought of a windy drive under the sun gave him goosebumps.

Pat scrutinized the visitor. Should she take him seriously? Why was he dressed like that?

“Let me put you in a fifteen-second commercial for Larry Weinstein Cadillac, and I’ll put you in the sweetest drive you ever experienced. It’s that easy. That’s all there is to it. It won’t take an hour. We’ll film right here on one of the greens at Leisureville. Picture this: You’ll make a long putt … that’s a snap for you, Jingles, am I right? Then you’ll turn to the camera and say, ’Your day goes better when you drive to the course in a Larry Weinstein Cadillac. That’s it! Done! And you will be driving a Weinstein Cadillac.”

Jingles stared at the salesman. He never heard anyone say so much without taking a breath.

The offer grabbed Pat’s full attention. Her Lincoln lost some luster after Knickers messed with it. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” she asked.

“Can I get you a Cadillac?” he asked in return. “I’ll have a camera guy here tomorrow. Your husband will be on the tube by next week, four times a night between ten o’clock and midnight. The best of cars for the best of golfers! I’ve never made an offer like this before!”

When Larry paused for air, Jingles said, “I’m going to be playing lots of golf the next few weeks, so we could use a second car. My wife would look great in one like that.” He pointed out the window.

Larry looked at Pat. “You can come with me right now, Mrs. Plumlee. I have hundreds to choose from. Let’s seal the deal!”

Jingles grinned at his wife, nodding approval. He would have done a TV commercial for free.

She addressed the cowboy. “We’re on our way to Sunland Golf Course right now. My husband needs to practice. Why don’t I come by tomorrow morning?”

“Of course,” he said. “No problem. One of my dealerships is less than four miles from here. You’ve seen the lot on Flagstone Road, right?”

She had. “What time would be convenient?”

“Ten o’clock will work. Can I set a time to film? How about four tomorrow afternoon?”

Jingles nodded. “I guess we could use the first green then. Not many golfers start that late.”

Larry clapped his hands. “It’s a deal then. I’ll have the contract ready for you to sign in the morning.”

“One question,” Jingles said. “I don’t have to wear a cowboy hat, do I?”

On Thursday evening, an hour before Newswatch, Pat stood on the terrace of the home behind the third green at Desert Springs. She looked upon the same winding swimming pool, the same bridge, the same shaded lawn that she admired two days earlier. Small world. The estate belonged to Oliver Pruh.

Jingles watched their host season steaks on the grill. Pat had agreed that Oliver was a dead ringer for Jonathan Garvey, Charles Ingalls’ TV neighbor. His home, however, was no little house on a prairie. It was a little mansion on a fairway.

“This is a big house for just one person,” Pat said to Oliver.

“I never set foot in seventy percent of it,” he replied. “It’s all about keeping up appearances for my job. I could live in a cottage.”

And I do live in a cottage, at least compared to this, Pat said to herself.

Jingles broached a sour subject. “I’m afraid my report on Sunland isn’t so good.”

Oliver turned from the smoking mesquite. “What do you mean?”

“They aerated and sanded the greens within the last week or two. You ever tried putting on a parking lot? A ball won’t roll in a straight line.”

Oliver’s heart rate jumped. He assumed the course would be comparable to Leisureville; he hadn’t even checked it out. The homeowner association never mentioned any ongoing maintenance. Poor greens would hurt Jingles’ score, minimizing the value of the exhibition. “What I can do to help? Do you want the course shut down until Sunday? They could soak the greens with lots of water and roll them a few times.”

Jingles shook his head. “Hundreds of people will be playing that course over the next couple days. I wouldn’t take that away from them.”

How ridiculous, Oliver thought. Sunland would close the course in a second if he threatened cancellation. It was the right business decision. He was about to tell Jingles that very thing, but held back. “Would it help if they watered the greens more than usual between now and Sunday?”

“Lots of water would help the most. Maybe they could really saturate them the next few nights. To be honest, you spoiled me with your course.”

And he spoiled me, Oliver thought. Jingles’ ability to perform on Sunday had been the least of his worries. He pulled out his cell and called Sunland.

When the steaks were cooked to a perfect medium, they dined outside. For an entire hour, the Plumlees talked about their family life in detail, not a word about golf. All their children still lived in Alaska, the greatest state of all. They talked of fishing adventures, whales leaping in the bay near their old home, and even moose grazing in their yard. The time flew by.

Oliver realized they were different than most people he knew, not a pretentious bone in their bodies. They spoke from the heart without a moment’s hesitation. Being around Jingles was a breath of fresh air.

They tuned into Newswatch in Oliver’s library. None of them spoke during the the show’s final five minutes. The Jingles segment began with an aerial view of the Desert Springs layout, with Jane doing a voice-over. “This is the scenic Desert Springs Country Club, peaceful and relaxed. It’s twenty miles away from Jingles Plumlee’s home course in Leisureville, and a world away from the frenzy you saw on Newswatch on Saturday night. Jingles visited Desert Springs yesterday to test his game on one of the area’s top venues. He played in front of only a handful of club members and a Newswatch camera.”

The screen showed Jingles leaving a twelve-foot putt an inch short. “Did the seventy-two-year-old have problems on this golfing day? Yesirree. On that putt, he looked like you or me!” Jingles remembered the mistake on the eleventh. The bubble lens told him what to do, but his hands didn’t always pay close enough attention.

The next lowlight showed Jingles blasting from a sand trap. “Did he find his way into trouble? Yes, he did!

“But did he play an amazing round of golf? Yes, he did that too.” The entire television screen became a giant scorecard. “Add ’em all up and the score is sixty-four, just two strokes shy of a course record!”

For the next twenty seconds Jingles made putts from all angles and distances. “You are watching every single one of his putts, all twenty-three of them. Eighteen makes and all of five misses! You can watch them all online by going to Newswatch dot com and clicking on Jingles.”

In front of Oliver’s TV, Jingles winced at a few of the misses. In truth, he had felt a little off his game, a little distracted. Had Knickers told the others the story of his lens yet? What did they think?

Jane appeared beside the club pro. “This is Bo Smolinski, the teaching professional here at Desert Springs. He witnessed all of Jingles’ shots yesterday. Bo, you had read about Jingles Plumlee. You heard all the talk. Now that you’ve played with him, what did you think?”

Bo showed some polish and smiled right into the camera. “You hear it said all the time, ‘putting is half of the game.’ If you ever doubted that, watch Jingles play. He’s a surgeon on the greens. His putter is his scalpel and he sliced up this course like very few have ever done. We’ve had dozens of professionals and top amateurs play here at Desert Springs, people forty or fifty years younger, and he could play with any of them. If he ever needs a caddy for the Champions Tour, he can just call me.”

Jane addressed Jingles next. “You just heard Bo. Do you think the Champions Tour is in your future?”

Jingles avoided the camera, looking at the lovely broadcaster instead. “Unless my birth certificate is wrong, and my mirror says it’s not, that’s not going to happen. I’m just happy to be playing so well and making new friends.”

Jane asked, “Are you aware that there’s been a stampede to optometrists this week? Every golfer wants contact lenses because of your story.”

“No, I haven’t heard that, but it makes sense for anybody. I had no idea how poor my vision was. Since I got contacts, I feel like a new person. I’d like everyone to see as well as I do.”

Listening to himself, Jingles cringed. Yesterday, his words left a bad taste on his tongue. Tonight, they burned his ears. Nobody else would benefit quite like he did, but what was he supposed to say? Besides, his overall vision had improved tremendously. Could he help people by motivating them to get their eyes checked? He’d like to think so.

“Well, you can schedule me for an eye appointment right now,” Jane said. “My game needs all the help it can get.”

For the balance of the segment, Jane interviewed Oliver about the upcoming tour of senior communities. She concluded by again referring viewers to the show’s website for the latest on the senior sensation.

Afterward, Oliver summarized a two-page contract that Jingles signed instantly. He then handed out gifts: a blue and white Phoenix City Bank cap for the golfer; and a $10,000 check for the wife. Pat zipped it safely in her purse.

When the banker walked the Plumlees to the door, Jingles said, “You made the dinner and I picked up the check. It was a great day. And tomorrow Pat starts driving a Larry Weinstein Cadillac.”

Oliver jerked to attention. “What about Larry Weinstein?”

Pat beat Jingles to the story and explained the car dealer’s proposal. Oliver nodded slowly.

Once she finished, he said, “I know Larry. We handle his banking. Would you mind if I talked to him on your behalf? I think you could get a better deal.”

“I don’t understand,” Pat chuckled. “We’re getting a new Cadillac for a whole year.”

Jingles trusted Oliver like Charles Ingalls trusted his big neighbor. “Thank you, Oliver. You are now our official agent.”

“Just don’t talk him out of it,” Pat winked.

With his guests gone, Oliver sat at his desk. He took a pen and paper from a drawer and started writing a few figures. How many additional cars could Jingles sell for Larry’s five dealerships? A hundred? Two hundred? Five hundred? Possibly a lot more. People loved the old golfer’s story. The article in the Sun made the front page. Jingles. The name itself was made for marketing.

When Oliver polled his board of directors for approval of his marketing concept, they weren’t just positive; they were excited. If Jingles maintained his game in the weeks ahead, how many other advertising opportunities might fall in his lap? Golf clubs. Golf apparel. How about the American Optometric Association? Like Jane said on the show, people were lining up for eye exams. At his advanced age, Jingles had about the most unique appeal out there. What retiree didn’t want to be like him? What golfer didn’t envy him?

Now that Oliver was putting Jingles’ talent on display, he felt a responsibility to help him make the most of it. Phoenix City Bank was in on the ground floor. Additional publicity would only add value to that relationship as well.

He found Weinstein’s home phone number. Larry himself answered on the second ring.

“Hello, Larry. Oliver from the bank here. Sorry to bother you at home.”

“Well, well. If it isn’t the man I just saw on TV a while ago. How are you, big buckaroo?”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “I’m doing well. I’m calling about your business with Jingles.”

“He told you about that, did he? I like the guy’s story … thought I’d stick my neck out and give him some local support.”

“I think you’re on top of a great idea, Larry. He’ll sell lots of cars. And in return, you want to give him a loaner for a year. Is that the idea?”

“That’s pretty much it. Full maintenance included. The wife seems real pleased.”

“What do you figure a year’s use of a car will cost you? Maybe ten thousand in depreciation? Fifteen tops?” Even less if you pawn off a demo, Oliver thought.

Larry was quiet for a change, so Oliver continued. “You’d make that back on the sale of just a few cars, wouldn’t you?”

“Pruh, you know how this business goes. You can never be sure. I’m willing to take a chance is all.”

“The bank is going to keep Jingles in the news for the next month, hopefully much longer. I’d feel better if you handed them a title tomorrow. You know, instead of a loaner. I think they’d like a convertible.”

“Hold your dad-gummed horses! You’re talking about a sixty thousand-dollar car! That dog won’t hunt.”

“Not to rain on your Escalade, Larry, but I think that dog will hunt fine for Horst over at Copper State Mercedes Benz. You see, we all want to be like Jingles. If we can’t play golf like him, we can at least drive the same car.”

“I thought bankers were supposed to look out for us customers. This feels like a stick-up!”

“It’s not a stick-up, Larry. It’s a heads-up. Jingles’ name is going to be gold. It is right now. You’re a genius to be grabbing him early.”

The car hustler laughed. “Well, I guess the Plumlees owe you one. They’ll get their new car tomorrow. You got them a deal.”

Oliver said, “We’re not done. I’d like to see professionally-produced commercials, not the home movies you’ve been running. I’ll find the right producers and they’ll call you tomorrow.”

“I feel like you’re bending me over and spanking me, Pruh. Tell you what, I want a Weinstein Cadillac sign on Jingles’ golf cart for these exhibition matches.”

What an excellent idea, Oliver thought. Leave it to Larry. “We already planned on having the bank’s sign on top of the cart,” he fibbed. “I think we could put yours on the back, right behind the golf bag.”

“Do I have to get that in writing?” Larry asked. “And how about a dozen passes to each of these matches? I called Sunland. You’ve limited attendance to residents.”

“No problem,” Oliver said. “You’ll be Jingles’ personal guest.”

“Are we done then?” Larry asked.

“That’s pretty much it,” Oliver replied. “You’ll write up a contract that runs through the end of December. That’s about sixty days. You’ll have an option to extend it for another sixty days for forty thousand in cash. After all, he’s going to owe taxes on the value of his new car.”