1962 Continental TR-682 (The Transistor Radio)

I receive a text from Lewberg telling me that golf is at 3:00. So, I get myself a bottle of water and go to the garage to jump into the cart and drive to the first tee. That's when I see the Angel of Death. He is decked out in a Nike dry-fit shirt, Nike shorts, and a 1968 Masters golf hat which, if sold on eBay, would be described as mint. I look down at his feet, half expecting sandals, but he is wearing FootJoy golf shoes and white ankle socks. He has very graciously unplugged the long gray charging cable from the floor of the golf cart. I get into the front seat, toggle the switch from Forward to Reverse, and slowly back out of my driveway. So far, neither the Angel of Death nor I have spoken a word. I'm the first to break the ice.

“They aren't going to let you play in a collarless shirt,” I say.

“Who is they?” asks the Angel of Death.

“The golf club,” I reply, “they are very strict about these things.”

And then the Angel of Death says, “fascists,” and I laugh. If he wasn't the Angel of Death, I think we could be friends.

“I’ll get you one of mine,” I say.

“Much obliged,” he replies.

I return with a logo shirt I got at TPC Sawgrass and gently toss it to him. The Angel of Death stares at me for a second and then makes a signal with his fingers which I understand means he wants me to turn my back. Turns out the Angel of Death is modest. I would never say it out loud, but the Angel of Death has put on a few pounds since the last time I saw him. Truth be told, so have I. He taps me on the shoulder to let me know I can turn around. The shirt looks good on him. I start driving up the 18th fairway towards the driving range. I stop in the middle of the footbridge over the pond to show the Angel of Death Iggy the Iguana.

“Never dies,” he says with a shudder, “those things give me the creeps.”

“What are you doing in these parts?” I ask.

“A guy can't take a vacation?” he replies with mock indignation.

“Seriously?”

“Tractor-trailer jackknifed on the Turnpike,” he says.

“Jesus,” I say.

“It’s a living,” he says without a trace of irony.

I stop in front of the free soda fountain. “You want something?”

“Lewberg will have some Ketel and cran?”

“Obviously.”

“Then I'm good.”

Lewberg and Goldfarb are on the driving range. I introduce the Angel of Death. Only, I introduce him as Stan. Lewberg and Goldfarb both give me a ‘what in the world?’ look. I'm not surprised. The boys, myself included, don't really like playing with strangers. It’s a rule we don't like to break. We should probably add a rule about playing with grim reapers. On the other hand, Solly, our regular fourth, has not shown, so it turns out we need another guy to play a match.

“Where the hell is Solly?” Lewberg asks.

“Said he was feeling under the weather,” answers Goldfarb.

I shoot the Angel of Death a look.

He shrugs his shoulders. “I’m off the clock, dude. People get sick.”

We decide to play a cart vs. cart scramble. Nick, the starter, discreetly pulls me aside and tells me my guest has to tuck his shirt in. I tell my guest, Stan, to tuck his shirt in. He glares at Nick, but, after stalling for a second or two, reluctantly complies.

“The guy looks like he has a bad heart,” he says, taking a practice swing with the driver.

“Can we just play golf?” I reply.

“Yeah, all right,” he says.

I’m not sure what I expected from the Angel of Death in terms of golf, but he is perfectly fine. Neither good nor bad. If anything, he plays a lot like Solly. I text Solly just in case.

‘You ok?’

‘Shrimp tacos,’ he replies. ‘Have been on the can for two hours.’

‘Serves you right for eating bottom feeders,’ I text back with four laughing emojis.

‘I hope you break three windows,’ he texts back.

The Angel of Death curls in a 24-footer for birdie on number 2. We high-five.

“Where do you play out of Stan?” asks Goldfarb. This is likely the only small talk Goldfarb will make all day.

“Little public course in Jersey,” he replies. “Pace is a bit slow, but they keep it in good shape.”

“Sounds like hell,” says Lewberg, pouring us all some vodka as we get to the tee on number 3.

“A little bit,” says Stan. “But it’s home to me.”

Much like Solly, the Angel of Death hits his drive on number 4 into the water. Goldfarb gives us his ball retriever, and we fish for it in the weeds by the water’s edge.

“If the boys back home could see you now,” I say with a laugh as I watch him lie on his belly and stretch his six-foot frame to rescue the ball. He seems genuinely thrilled to have found the ball.

“Nice,” I say.

Then he says, “I have a radio story.”

And I say, “oh, here we go. I knew that something other than the pond smelled fishy.”

“Accident on the Turnpike,” he says. “Just thought since I was here, I could kill two birds, sorry a bit insensitive, with one stone.”

“I'm good,” I say. “The book is done.”

“This is a great story,” he replies. “Hear me out.”

“The book is done,” I repeat.

“Is it? Lizards in the bathtub?”

That hurts.

“You don’t think it’s funny?”

“I think it’s hilarious. But, you know, doesn’t have much edge.”

“So now you want me to assail the reader with something metaphysical? Something completely out of left field? Golfing with the Angel of Death? I don’t think so.”

“Give your readers some credit. They are a lot more sophisticated than you think. Besides, you gotta throw them a curveball from time to time. Keeps them on their toes.”

“I’m going to stick to softballs, Stan. Sorry, you’re not making it into this book.”

“Suit yourself,” he says. “But it’s about the Kennedy assassination.”

“Not interested. Besides, I already have a story about the Kennedy assassination in this collection.”

We play our golf and drink our vodka. The Angel of Death is perfectly affable. On number 12, he turns to me and says, “It’s not actually a story.”

I say, “What’s not actually a story?”

“My radio story,” he replies. “I said it was a great story, but it’s not actually a story.”

“It’s not?”

“No. I mean, a writer like Calvino could make it into a great story.

Now he is just baiting me.

I, of course, take the bait.

“If it’s not a story, then what is it?” I ask.

“An artifact,” he says.

“An artifact?”

“A collector’s item, you might say.”

“A radio?”

“Transistor radio,” he replies. “1962 Continental TR 682.”

Lewberg screams out, “are you going to hit your damn ball or what?”

I tell him to hold his horses. Then I step up and promptly hit my ball into the water.

The Angel of Death, 5-hybrid in one hand, a transistor radio he has pulled out of his bag in the other, goes up to take his turn. He hands me the radio, then hits a beauty to within five feet.

I turn the Continental on. It has a battery in it, and I can hear some static and faint sounds of talk radio. We both get into the cart and drive to the green.

“It was in his rooming house,” he says.

“Oswald?” I ask, although I already know.

“Yup.”

I look at the radio, then hand it back. “I don't want this,” I say. “I appreciate the gesture, but this is not for me.”

The Angel of Death says, “I understand,” and then, as if throwing out a runner at home, flings the transistor into the pond.

“Ok?” he asks.

“Ok,” I reply.

The Angel of Death takes a sip of his drink. “Although...” he says, trailing off.

“Yeah?” I reply.

“I might have a line on an Emerson Marilyn Monroe listened to while she took a bath,” he says.

“Now that,” I reply, taking my own sip, “might get you into a story.”

The End