Chapter 6

It was a great evening. Maybe the happiest evening out, with a girl, that I had ever experienced. Of course, my experiences with women were pretty limited, for a 22-year-old college grad. Oh, I was no virgin. I'd "known" a few women in the Biblical sense.

But for my generation, and for my age, I guess I was definitely a beginner. Sort of like a rookie on the Futures Tour: I knew how the game was played, might even be pretty good at it -- but didn't have my Tour Card just yet.

Tess was deliriously happy. The Great Decision on the 18^th hole was not bothering her at all. Evidently, she had decided she'd made the right call. It was only second place, but it was a very encouraging way to begin a career -- outdistancing a field of young professionals every bit as hungry for success on the links as she had been.

We had a lovely, laugh-filled early dinner at the finest restaurant we could locate in Hammond, Indiana. True to The Plan, we left there and found a bar -- a "neighborhood bar," as it turned out.

It was a new experience for both of us. This was no "cocktail lounge" that we'd happened across. This was an urban, Chicago-style neighborhood bar. Neither of us knew it, but bars like this one could be found on practically every other block in Chicago and its exurbs. We were the only people in the place that nobody else knew. It was like "Cheers" (only a lot darker, and a much narrower room). A place where "everybody knows your name."

The predominantly male clientele was, not surprisingly, intrigued by the fresh-faced, extraordinarily busty young woman who had entered their midst. But the patrons of the bar didn't seem threatening or dangerous. Far from it. They looked at Tess with frank admiration; with longing, even. (With lust, most likely.) But they seemed willing to treat her like the lady they could tell that she was.

Me, they pretty much ignored altogether. I figured they couldn't believe that Tess was "with" me -- other than perhaps as a friend. I imagined that I didn't look the part of Tess' lover. Well, they had that right.

Still, I wanted to tell somebody that she'd told me, not two hours earlier, that I had a "nice cock." But how do you wedge that sort of thing into a conversation?

I was driving the Scion, and in honor of that fact, I limited myself to two beers. Tess, however, wasn't driving, and wasn't drinking beer (or wine) either. She asked for a Margarita. That request put the bartender back on his heels for a moment. It was clear he didn't get too many calls for Margaritas at the 77^th Street Bar and Grill. But he rallied quickly and managed to prepare a bona fide frozen Margarita for Tess in quick time.

And another one, just a little later.

"Are you having another?" Tess asked me, after we'd each disposed of our second drinks -- her hard booze and my beer.

"I'm driving," I reminded her. "And it's a bit of a ways, back to the RV Park, and I don't know the neighborhood all that well."

"Well, I'm going to have one more," she said. "I feel like celebrating!"

"OK, Babe. But remember -- I can help you back into the RV and into your bed. I can't carry you!"

Tess giggled. "I know," she said. She shifted her upper body back and forth in a herky-jerky movement that sent her breasts flying, despite the fact that, tonight, she was wearing a proper, heavy-duty bra. "I'm way too big for you to carry!"

I could hear several of our fellow bar patrons gasping for breath. Guys don't miss moves like that. Not when all of them were already giving Tess' twin treasures their near-undivided attention.

"Ladies and Gentlemen!" I announced, standing up with my near-empty beer glass and calling for everyone's attention. "You have a celebrity in your midst!"

Everyone got quiet to see where this was going. Tess wasn't having any attacks of false modesty. She just worked on her third Margarita and smiled a foolish little smile.

I continued my impromptu speech. "Today, right here in the friendly confines of your own Hammond, Indiana, USA, this young woman finished ONE STROKE off the lead in the Northwest Indiana Futures Golf Classic! Second place! Runner-up in her VERY FIRST professional golf tournament!

I ask you, Ladies and Gentlemen, is that pretty fucking fantastic, or what?"

"Fuckin'-A fantastic!" agreed one bearded 40-something new-found Friend of Tess.

"Fuckin' amazing!" another fellow, younger, but balding, exclaimed. "... But how'd she ever even see the ball, lined up under them incredible tits?"

Hearing that, Tess stood up, raised her frozen Margarita in salute, and told the crowd, "Back home, they call me 'Ton a' Tits Tess!'"

I was beginning to wonder whether all this might be getting a little out of hand, but after a moment of stunned silence, our bar mates simply broke into sustained applause.

OK, so that was very nice. But I had a feeling that it was just about time for us to go. "Thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen! Thank you! We'll be back to see you all again, next year, for the Classic -- that is, unless Tess has her LPGA card by that time!"

"Go for it, Ton!" somebody back in the crowd hollered.

They were friendly. Nobody got out of line. Nobody said anything untoward.

But they were kind of looking at Tess with a funny expression on their faces. It reminded me of the look I'd seen at the Outback Steak House, when the waitress brought out those big steamy sirloins.

I got her out of there. Fast.

It was early, still, but Tess was a little bit loopy. Oh, she wasn't falling-down drunk, but she'd had three drinks, and those were the first three servings of the hard stuff that I'd ever seen her consume.

"You want to stop someplace, have a cup of coffee?" I asked her.

"No. But maybe you could make us a pot, when we get back to the bus."

"Deal."

I didn't have to carry her into the RV, but I did hold her arm and help her along, as if she were 73, instead of 23, years old. She didn't object to my steadying influence.

Inside the bus, she settled heavily on that same couch where, earlier, I had rubbed liniment on her spasming back. No spasms now. She was slumping there like somebody who, really, would rather be lying there. Maybe lying there, snoring.

"You still want that coffee, or would you rather just hit the sack?" I asked, taking my cue from her appearance.