Mister Beerbelly, Beerbelly
Or as Paul Simon further sang it, “If you’ll be my body guard, I can be your long lost pal.”1
And you are?
“Steve. Steve Betty.”
So “I can call you Betty, and Betty when you call me you can call me Al. You can call me Al.”2
Along about now you’re probably wondering what variety of body, exactly, Betty is expected to guard. I know I would be. Moreover, if I were Betty I’d want to know why on earth Al needs guarding.
Betty’s questions emerge. “Is it dangerous? Will I be catching bullets? Is it a paid position? What about the benefits package? Parental leave? Vacay? Do I get a car? A driver? A Blackberry® Do I carry a gun? If you previously employed a body guard, what, exactly, happened to him or her?”
Calm down, would you? It’s all in the contract. [Waves about fourteen pages, legal size.] Read it on your own time. No. No. Yes. Seven twenty-five. You’re the first.
“Per week?”
Per hour. Plus tips.
“Tips?”
Interior decorating, horse track, stock market. The usual.
“The first? Why now? Why the change?”
I need a body guard because Melissa. See? And now I just don’t feel safe.
“Melissa?”
You got it. See, since then I’ve been gaining weight. I laugh it off, call it my beer belly, but it isn’t just beer. It’s Ben and Jerry’s®,Edy’s®, Lays®, M&Ms®,3 Doritos®, CocaCola®, Dove Bars®, God I love Dove Bars®, you name it.
Your job is to stand in the kitchen door and prevent me from going in there, to swat food out of my hand, to tackle me if I get near the refrigerator.
“Why don’t you toss the stuff. Stop buying it?”
Like it was that easy. You know the Internet of Things?
“Sure.”
I’ve got a Smart Kitchen®. When I’m outta anything it reorders. Amazon Prime®. I don’t even know how the stuff gets in the house.
“Can’t you cancel?”
Melissa set it up and I don’t have the password.
“Melissa?”
Well right. I shoulda seen it coming. From the outset. She was too good for me. She’s classy, you know? Just like Marjorie.
“Marjorie?”
Before Melissa. Too good. Too good. And me, what am I?
“Give me a clue.”
A … [chokes up]
“An insurance agent?”
Worse … [sobs]
“A short story writer?”
Much worse … [tears run down and nose runs]
“A Dylan fan? Really?”
Much, much worse … I’m a golfer. I admit it. I can’t help myself, but there it is. A golfer with a beer belly.
“Have you looked for help?”
Oh, hell yes. I’ve tried counseling. I’ve read all the self-help books. My God! I’ve even been to Golfer’s Anonymous. Fat lot of good that did. Oh, sure, I’d stand up and admit my addiction, and swear to take it one day at a time, but you know?
“Know what?”
It’s easy to quit golfing at night, at a meeting with a bunch of other addicts. But the sun comes up and its another perfect day for the links, a light breeze, birds singing, and I’m right back at it.
“Have you tried fishing?”
Jesus! Have you been talking to Melissa? Behind my back?
“What?”
Melissa. You know, Melissa.
“No, I don’t know Melissa. Melissa who?”
My ex. She was always suggesting that. “Why don’t you go fishing?” she’d ask. “Like Freddie,” she’d say.
“Freddie?”
Don’t talk to me about Freddie.
“Okay, I’m sorry you brought him up.”
I’ve heard more about Freddie than I need to know. So don’t go there, okay? Don’t go there.
“Got it.”
Now that you’re working for me, I think you’ll need to come with me.
“Where?”
Golfing, you fool. I need you to ride in the cart with me and keep me from snacking. Make sure I’m drinking water, not diet soda pop, laying off the candy bars. You know.
“Isn’t part of golf having a good lie?”
Of course.
“I don’t believe any lie is good.”
You’ll get over that.
“You don’t expect me to golf?”
That’s up to you.
“What do you take me for?”
Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I just get really worked up when people talk to me about Freddie.
“I’m not.”
But you did. Just thirty-five seconds ago. You asked about him.
[Silence.]
I take that for a “yes.”
[Silence.]
So it’s a deal?
“Look, I’m willing to take the job. I’ve got bills to pay. And the health insurance, I need that too. Plus, if you’d ever seen my place you’d know that interior decorating and I are total strangers, so the tips count. I’ve needed a job ever since I was laid off at McDonald’s®. But ...”
Don’t talk to me about McDonalds®. That’s one of the places you were hired to keep me out of.
“But I’m not sure I should ride on the golf cart with you.”
The hell you say.
“I think that would be enabling. I’m not an enabler and I’m really uncomfortable with the lying.”
Oh, right, right. You talk to me about Melissa. You talk to me about Freddie. You’re driving me right back to my problems, the problems with over-eating and too much TV and golfing, but you think sitting in a golf cart minding my diet is enabling?
“TV?”
When I’m not golfing. I’m the original couch potato. You’ve got to sit next to me on the living room sofa and keep me from snacking.
“Why don’t you turn off the TV and get some exercise?”
What, go golfing? Why’re you tormenting me with all this?
“It’s not like golfing is ‘exercise.’ Unless you carry your clubs and walk.”
As if that’s gonna happen. I’d be laughed off the course. Look, you’re supposed to be guarding me, not torturing me. And Betty, I already told you I live in a Smart Home®. I can’t turn off the TV. It comes on when I walk in the house and it self-tunes to my favorite shows. And Melissa ...
“Melissa has the password. I get it.”
Now you’re talking about Melissa again. Is this supposed to be some kind of conversion therapy?
“Is that what you’re looking for? A complete change?”
All I really want is to lose about fifteen pounds around my middle.
“But you don’t want to lose the golf habit?”
I dunno. I kind of thought if I quit I could lose some weight. But I am embarrassed when people find out about it. That’s what happened with Melissa, see? At first I didn’t tell her. I hid my clubs in the garage, under a tarp, y’know? And she believed me when I told her I had to work long hours, when really I was shlepping over to the muni links or the driving range after I got off. Finally I couldn’t stand to live a double life and I confessed.
“And she left you for that? For lying?”
No, not really. It was when a couple of her girlfriends found out. I don’t know who the hell told them. But then she was completelyhumiliated to be known as someone married to a golfer and she said she couldn’t go on with me. I told her I’d try to quit. That’s when I went to GolfAnon. But we both knew it was hopeless.
“Hopeless?”
I think I was born with a golf gene. My father and grand-father …
“Scottish?”
Yeah. On both sides. And yes, I even went to Scotland.
“Don’t tell me ...”
Yeah. Trump International.
“You are a very, very sick man. Look, I’ll take the job and I’ll do what I can to help. You need help and I’m a helpful person. I empathize. I try to make things right. But one condition.”
What’s that?
“Please don’t tell anyone I’m your pal.”
*****
Note: Substack starts footnote numbers anew each time I paste in a story. But footnotes are wildly important and sometimes refer back to previous matters, so I’ve thoughtfully put the correct numbers in brackets, like so [#].
1 [65] “You Can Call Me Al” Paul Simon
2 [66] Ibid.
3 [67] Another interesting fact: M&Ms® were first manufactured for the U.S. War Department (back before we started to pretend that it was really a question of defense—we’ve spent $32 million per hour on wars since 2001—none of them defensive) during WWII®, to provide a quick burst of energy to soldiers.
****
Copyright© 2020, Cecil Bothwell, All rights reserved.
Want more stories? Check out my website
No posts
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.