Pat and God

Let us propose 2 things on this fine blustery day.
The first thing is that the Lord our God works in mysterious ways. The second thing and it’s corollary, really, is that those religious leaders among us who have their own networks, radio shows, fabulous parsonages, city states and what have you, really do, in fact, talk to this God on a fairly regular basis. By cell phone, Blackberry, or conventional land line it really doesn’t matter. They chat, make small talk, debate a little, the usual. No big whoop. And that brings us to tonight’s story.
The 16th hole at Hell’s Point Golf Course in Virginia Beach, Virginia, is in a word, a beast. The distance from the black tournament tees to what is the smallest green on the entire course is 582 yards, dogleg left. As the course brochure puts it this shot at Hell’s Point requires accuracy and finesse. Course management and patience is required here. Play this hole to make par. Don’t get greedy. Should you make a birdie, consider it a bonus. This hole has reduced better men than today’s foursome to bitter tears and angry recriminations in the clubhouse as they soak their sorrows in weak gin tonics and tip the bartender grudgingly as they clench one pleathered fist and grimace at anyone who’ll listen that they will par that damn hole if it’s the last thing they do upright in this life.
So it is that James Dobson of Focus on the Family squints into the afternoon sun, hand over his brow as he says, “Hey, Pat, you really got ahold of…oh no it’s hooking left, left, left, ooooh it’s in those trees about 200 yards I’d say. Looks like somebody’s caddy hangin’ out down there, maybe he can help you find your ball.”
Pat Robertson sneered at Dobson, “Thanks, James I don’t need your insipid play-by-play, how about just keeping your eyes on the ball so’s that we know where it lands. And where’s Gary? Is he in the men’s room, again. Ah, of course here comes numbnuts to grace us with his presence.”
Gary Bauer was emerging from the men’s room from just across the cart trail, his astonishing caddy Arturo trailing behind with an odd smile on his broad, copper face, all glistening capped teeth and long, pomaded black hair, and a powerful cologne leading the way. To call Arturo Ochoa Lopez y Garza de Medillo the black sheep of his family was an understatement. Father a retired Argentine diplomat who over the years had helped the Israelis hunt down fugitive Nazis in his native land, his mother a professor of classics at the University of Buenos Aires. While both his brother and sister had become physicians and prominent in their fields Arturo had careened from one bad endeavor to the next until he landed in Houston, Texas, and the arms of Senor Gary at an evangelicals conference back in 1999. Ever since he had made a modest if steady living - $5000 a month and free reign of the Capitol Hill townhouse so, white dudes in cardigans and young hill staffers could come over and blow him any time of the day or night. Always on call, always at the ready. That’s our Arturo.
Pat Robertson put away his driver as he said, “Gary you little twerp, you’re up, try to get it off the tee this time.”
Bauer reached for his Calloway graphite shafted 1 iron and put the ball on the little orange tee and said, “Pat, honey, sweety, do you still fuck your wife for pleasure, because we really wanna know.”
Arturo chuckled but Robertson scowled as he got in the cart and took off to find his ball, flippin’ the bird over his shoulder as he drove up the path.
Dobson and Jerry Falwell cleared their throats and waited their turns. Falwell, as well, farted loudly, braaaap. They both were decent low handicap golfers and thought a round on Pat’s dime was a small price to pay to keep an eye on the Cornpone Soprano and Bauer both of whom continued to harbor Presidential ambitions having both made respectable showings in Republican caucuses in years past.
Robertson brought his cart to an abrupt halt. He got out and looked across the fairway into the grass and the loblolly pines, where a small black man was just standing and smiling at him. Robertson looked back to the tee while Bauer hit his shot which rolled past where he was standing with some good momentum. “Little bitch”, muttered Robertson as he walked across the fairway, Callaway Big Bertha 3 iron in hand, ready to find his ball and take his second shot.
Robertson said to the Man, “I say, son, have you seen a Titleist IV around here”.
“Pat”, said the Man.
“Mind giving me a little help here,” Robertson was wacking at the grass with his club looking for his ball.
“Pat.”
“You’re being mighty familiar and I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced, hey, anybody ever tell you you look like Sammy Davis, Jr.” Except without the glass eye, funny thing, I never knew which eye.”
“PAT, it’s ME” , said the small black man in the dark blue silk shirt and tan cashmere slacks.
Robertson stopped weed wacking and leaned in with a tentative grin, “Lord, is it really you?”
“Word”, said the Lord breathing in the air and smiling at a Blue Jay calling overhead.
“I don’t understand, Lord, we usually do this on a conference call back at the office”.
The Lord rotated one good eye in Robertson’s direction as he said, “I was in the neighborhood, Pat. Thought I’d give you a little face time, that ok with you.
The Lord smiled as he lit an enormous cigar, striking the match in the air. “Mind if we pedeconference a bit”.
Robertson slung his club over his shoulder as he walked under the trees in the afternoon sun.
The Lord smirked a little as he asked Robertson, “How are you and the wife getting along, things ok at home?”
Sheesh, thought Robertson, what is it with everybody today. “We’re fine Lord, thank you for asking”.
“Don’t mention it, babe”. The Lord winced and rocked back on the heels of his calfskin loafers as Falwell’s ball zipped between them but was gently guided back onto the fairway and dropped between 2 kidney-shaped sand traps 150 yards from the flag.
Whoops and hollers from the tee as the Lord continued walking and said under his breath, “You’re welcome, Jerry.”
Robertson and the Lord came to a small clearing where a mockingbird up above was running through his litany of calls and whistles, mimicking the Jay, a starling, a red-shouldered hawk, on he went but then fell silent as the two men entered the clearing below.
The Lord took the cigar out of his mouth as he blew a smoke “ring” that looked like the Trevi Fountain in Rome with pigeons and tourists all around. Robertson almost wept as he scratched behind his ear. He looked down at the grass and said, “Hey look, Pat, a Titleist IV, right?”
Robertson cleared the ball from the grass.
The Lord continued, “Pat I just popped in to tell say you’re doin’ a heckuva job.”
Robertson looked worried as he shifted his eyes around the clearing. “Well thank you Lord, I am merely your humble servant.”
“Yeah, well, I loved the Sharon thing although technically, not mine. Don’t do strokes, well ok I’ve done 5 but only 2 on this planet and none this century. Don’t ask, ok? Just. Don’t. Ask. Besides, I’m more of a big picture kind of guy, know whadamean?”
The Lord put his cigar back in his face, “Look, you keep talkin’ that smack about the Middle East, Dover Township, Europe committing racial suicide what with all the Ayrabs and immigrants and whatnot, yada, yada, yada.”
“And stick with the Old Testament will ya, it’s my favorite to tell ya the truth”
Robertson looked down at the ball “ I think you can count on me doin’ my best, Lord.”
The Lord winked as he took the cigar out and jabbed it toward the preacher, “I know I can, Pat. Heckuva job.”
“Oh and Pat…loosen your grip just a bit - won’t hook so much.”
Robertson turned around and found himself alone in the clearing as a flock of starlings overhead whispered into the fading winter light. He hit his ball cleanly onto the fairway.
Somewhere up ahead Jerry Falwell leaned over his ball and farted loudly, braaap. Dobson and Bauer rolled their eyes at each other and sat in the cart as Robertson came up behind them slapping Arturo on the back.
The men completed the last 2 holes with a minimum of rancor and were high-fiving each other as the made their way into the clubhouse. Just a few clouds to roll in off the nearby ocean to obscure the setting sun.