Planet Willie by Josh Shoemake Page B

calling.
    Then
thankfully there’s Billy Sidell, God bless him. Never have I had a better veep.
He’s handed out all his brochures with the help of Twiggy, has two days of meetings
scheduled, and has somehow persuaded the caterers to rustle up a bottle of Jack
Daniels. I lead them out to the sidewalk, grab the bottle, and apply liberally.
    “The night is
but a fetus, Billy,” I say. “What do you and Twiggy here have in mind?” Twiggy
appears ready to follow Billy to the ends of the earth, or at least, I’m
guessing from my last conversation with Kafka, to where she imagines we’ve got
that Madonna stashed.
    Billy looks up
at me with a big drunk grin. “I’m a huge golfer,” he says. I look down at the
bottle, and there are two types of people in this world: those who say the
bottle’s half full, and those who say it’s half empty. This one’s most
definitely half empty.
    “Good man,” I
say. “So where does that leave you, me, and Twiggy?” And why not have her
along, I’m thinking. It’s not yet midnight, and maybe there’s still something
to be learned. Also she’s showing more flesh than an average person naked. So
exciting it almost shuts down the libido completely. Like a little built-in
safety valve. She catches me contemplating the little piercing in her belly
button and says, “You shut up.”
    “She says
there’s a driving range open late not far from here,” Billy says.
    I look up at
Twiggy. She looks down at Billy. “It’s in Chelsea,” she says to him.
    “Alright
then,” I say to Billy, so he can relate the message back up to Twiggy. “Bit of
a golfer myself,” I say, “if you count streaking the Westwood Hills Putt-Putt
back in the winter of ’79.”
    From where
we’re standing it looks like Twiggy rolls her eyes, but she’s so far up there
when her posture’s working that maybe that’s just blinking. Through her
translator this comes out as, “Drita thinks it might be fun.”
    “Who’s Drita?”
I ask.
    Billy busts
out laughing such that I can’t make out a clear answer. “Alright then,” I say.
“Let’s vamoose. There are golf balls out there in need of deliverance, and a
thousand taxi cabs cruising to take us to the moon.”

8
    The driving
range is this impressive multi-level affair aimed out at the shores of New Jersey. Wall Street bankers and college kids in baseball caps smash balls out towards these
little flags set up on astroturf under lights. We buy ourselves three of these
cards they’ve got at fifty dollars a pop, paid for by the generous Harry Shore. You pick out a driver, find yourself a stall, put your card in a little slot,
and a ball just pops up on a tee there for you. Makes you feel you’ve already
taken a few strokes off your game just standing there watching that technology
work. We’re set up on the third level and do ourselves some stretching, deep
knee bends, breathing exercises and the like, then Billy steps right up to the
plate. Quite a cut, Billy takes. Misses the first five tries but keeps at it,
which is in the spirit and admirable if you ask me. On the sixth try he manages
to nick the thing, and it dribbles off about a foot from the tee. Another ball
pops right up in its place, which is about all Billy can take. He picks up the
first ball and hurls it out there as far as he can, screaming, “ Go ,
dammit!”
    Meanwhile
Twiggy is taking a few practice swings with a driver about as tall as Billy. Nice
and easy, she does it, and her skirt, if we can agree to call it that, flips up
real gratifyingly each time. Probably the most beautiful golf swing I’ve ever
seen, but that doesn’t make it any less terrifying. Flutters my cape a little
on the backswing, and I fear for the city of Hoboken. Then, once she’s cleared
some air around her, she steps back away from the tee and bends over to check
her alignment or whatever. Turns out that from certain angles she’s not wearing
anything at all. Real freedom of movement there. Everything