Bathtub Porsche

Outside the entrance to the club, someone has left a silver convertible bathtub Porsche unlocked, top down, with the keys in the ignition. The car is perfectly preserved: the dials are clear and crisp, the wood paneling on the dash is scratch- and chip-free, and the mileage is in the basement. The crimson leather is buffed smooth looks so inviting that for a split second I think of taking the car for a spin and work through the possibilities of what might happen to me if I did. There is however more to see. In the front seat is a bulletin from St. Aidan’s and from the keychain dangles an affinity card from our local co-op. To cap things off, the vanity license plate is the stock symbol of the company I work for (with dollar signs subbed in for the “Ss”).
I point out the car to Kate and Anne and receive dull shrugs. They are deep in talks about Pepper. I point out the car to Thomas. He nods at me and then leans inside, placing his sweaty palms on the driver’s side door.

“What are you doing?” I whisper-yell.

“What?” he says.

“Are you crazy?”

“Why are you whispering?”

He shrugs and walks off. He then sidles up to Kate, steps on her heels, and gives her a flat tire.

Kate screams and boxes his shoulders with her cupped hands.

Inside the clubhouse, Kate and Thomas each see someone they know and then both disappear simultaneously into thin air. Anne checks the tournament rosters and looks for open slots in this week’s mixers.

On the flat panel by the bar they are showing the PGA Tour at Hardscrabble. It has been a tough weekend at Fort Smith with high humidity, temperatures in the low nineties, and the real threat of thunderstorms.

A player I have always admired, a young South African named Weller, is leading by two strokes with play delayed by lightning. The golfers are sitting under tents hydrating and trying not to stiffen up, while the network splits the screen to show clips from the morning’s competition.

Our clubhouse is fairly full, given that the pool does not open for two more weeks and there is no place to sit comfortably and still see the television. The sounds of the match outside buffet against the large picture windows such that I can barely hear the scores announced. Anne motions to me that she is going outside to see for herself who is winning.

During the commercial break I feel the remote pangs of undefined needs (to change deodorant, to change laundry detergent, to change airlines, to change something) until a commentator from the evening news comes on to announce a profile she will be presenting on 60 Minutes of a local official who has come out against the war. The war is not going well enough to anyone’s liking (on either side of the political median, sparks have been flying, and with an election in the offing, these sparks are threatening to catch fire).

The other viewers, men and women whose faces I know from the years of Back-to-School luaus and holiday cookouts and mixers and swim meets (Kate swam for the Sharks for several years until she reached a certain age and metabolism and decided that swim team was making her fat), check their watches and their drinks and do the math. Soon it will be time to either head for home to check on thawing steaks and select a vintage, or to commit to staying and eating here. The club recently rebuilt the kitchen and the restaurant has had decent reviews to date, but part of me reasons that while we’re here, we’re not there, there being home, the one place we have the best chance of finding Pepper if she decides to come looking for us.

A voice I recognize finds me and catches me off guard. “Is she out there?”