Record 22: Palm Springs, Thursday, July 5th, 2012. Day.
Jake and his bro Ajax rode golf carts on the casino’s course every Thursday at 8pm. They never played golf. Casino and hotel patrons would often ask: “why?” The question was a fair one, says this guy here.
Jake and Ajax, they didn’t like to respond to any such inquisition. Instead, they’d glare at the casino and hotel patrons from the casino and hotel bar, and when perturbed by dyspeptic tourists or slot-addicted regulars, they’d ask: “What are you doing in Palm Springs?”
These bros, Jake and Ajax, they were in their thirties. They were both portly. They both wore Tevas. Jake liked to drink Bud Light in his art deco studio apartment while he watched The Biggest Loser. Ajax drank wine coolers and ate stale Wheat Thins. He ate stale Wheat Thins, he said, because he enjoyed Stale Wheat thins. And fuck you if you don’t like stale Wheat Thins, says this guy here.
The two, the dynamic duo (a groovy little moniker that was never given to them), they had a mission, back when this guy here knew them. “We dig, man.” Jake would say, his Oakley’s reflecting a merciless sun that tanned Jake and Ajax in the farmer fashion. “He’s right, man. Jake and me,” Ajax would sip his wine cooler, “We dig for treasures.” This guy here, he used to be able to get the dynamic duo talking. “Yeah man. Golf course treasures. They’re out there.” Jake spoke. “They’re totally out there. Way out there.”
An entrancingly charming delusion, thought this guy here. It was a joy to rise on Friday mornings, drink Folgers, and watch Jake and Ajax from the terrace, out on the course, hysterically trying to cover the massive divots they’d made the night before. It was always nice to start the weekend with a good chuckle, which this guy here did. Every Friday. Without fail.
This guy here, he’d find Jake and Ajax in the hotel lounge, moon-burnt and slumbering, snoring for all the casino and hotel patrons to hear. “Are these men okay?” “Are they drunk?” “Are they construction workers?” “Do your room televisions offer adult films?” They’d inquire.
“These bros are a hindrance!” The hotel manager shouted at this guy here, once. In the past.
“No they’re not.”
“A hindrance! Hindering the staff’s work and focus! And defiling my golf course!”
“Do you dream at night, hotel manager?”
“I surely do. This is of no relevance, is it?”
“In your dreams, do you imagine wondrous worlds? Worlds where you are free to be?”
“You’re starting to bother me, guy.”
“Jake and Ajax, this is their dream world. It would be a shame for you to ruin that.”
The hotel manager shook his head furiously.
“And also, hotel manager, they’re attracting patrons. Haven’t you noticed?”
The hotel manager, after an ample number of Manhattans with little umbrellas, began to see the world, and the casino, and the hotel, and the golf course, for what they were: playgrounds for Jake and Ajax.
“And what do they do here?” Asked the hotel manager, gesturing to a poker table.
“They try to count cards.” The hotel manager chuckled.
“And what do they do here?” Asked the hotel manager, gesturing to the hotel’s very blue pool.
“They sword-fight with swimming noodles.” The hotel manager smiled. “That’s outrageous.”
“And what do they do here?” Asked the hotel manager, gesturing to the golf course.
“Well I think you know, hotel manager.” Said this guy here.
“Oh yes. Right.” The hotel manager glanced across the course. This guy here glanced at his watch: 8:35 p.m.
“Why did you just say oh no?” The hotel manager asked, so this guy here pointed out into the vast golf course distance, where Jake and Ajax were digging a tremendous hole, and the hotel manager laughed.