What do you do when you collect your mail and find the dreaded jury summons?  Do you double check to make sure the envelope bears your name?  Do you even open the summons or, like many people, do you merely toss the unopened envelope into the trash bin planning to claim that you never received such a document should the authorities ask?  Or conversely, are you one of those civic-minded citizens who believes that jury service is an honor and a privilege?  You believe that it is your responsibility as an American to abide by the rules our forefathers put in place for this nation.  As is the case with most ethical dilemmas, it is always prudent to take the high road and “do the right thing,” right?  I’m not so sure.

As much as I loathe suspending all activity for an entire week to reserve those dates for possible jury duty, when MY envelope darkened the mailbox, I returned to my desk, inhaled deeply, slit the envelope open, blackened the appropriate boxes on the summons and officially registered my availability for the dates on which I would perform my civic duty.

“There!” I thought to myself as I clicked SEND on the official juror registration website, “No lawyer is going to want me on his jury anyway!  I’m married to a retired judge, for Pete’s sake!”

It didn’t bother me in the least that my husband and I had confirmed travel plans for the last day of my required week.  I KNEW that I would be excused from jury duty LONG before Friday!  There was no doubt in my mind that I would be sipping a vacation kick-off cocktail on the airplane on Friday afternoon as we headed to Colorado with close friends.  Yep!  Life was good.  I watched the temperatures drop on the 5-day weather forecast for Beaver Creek and began mentally planning my travel wardrobe, mixing and matching different combinations of slacks, sweaters, fleece jackets, skirts and, on the off-chance, foul weather gear for golf!    All that was left to do was actually pack those pieces in my suitcase, hand over the house keys to the dog sitter and head for the airport.

On the Sunday evening prior to my official jury duty start date on Monday, I called the number on my summons to see if I were required to report.

“According to our records, the first three letters of your last name are W-E-S . . . you are NOT required to report for jury service tomorrow, Monday, September 12,” announced the voice on the other end of the telephone.  “Please call again tomorrow after 7:00 p.m. for further notifications.” 

Whoo hoo!  Day 1 of jury duty is a free day!  Things were right on schedule! And again, at the stroke of 7:00 p.m. on Tuesday, I dialed the check-in number, and was electronically excused from Day 2 of jury service!   I confirmed plans with the dog sitter and continued to enjoy my week of jury duty that I KNEW would continue painlessly with notices of no need to report emanating from the other end of the telephone line.  Wednesday evening rolled around but THIS time, the electronic message was not so friendly!

“According to our records, the first three letters of your last name are W-E-S . . . please report for jury service tomorrow, Wednesday, September 14, 2016 at 7:30 a.m. at the address shown on your Summons.  Thank you and good night!”

“O.K., that’s good!” I thought to myself, “I’ll get this over with once and for all!  No more calling in every evening.  I’ll go downtown tomorrow, be sent out to a courtroom, answer a couple questions, tell them my spouse’s occupation then be excused!  Done and done! Colorado, here we come!”

Now, in a perfect world, that’s exactly how things would have played out.  In the REAL world, (into which I only venture when absolutely necessary), things are very different.  Juror parking is located several blocks away from the courthouse, many streets are closed due to construction and lengthy traffic delays are unavoidable.  I, being extremely reticent to wander the streets of Los Angeles alone, investigated other options for transportation.  The Gold Line would require an interline transfer;  I didn’t want that.  Uber was an option, but my past experiences soured me on using it.  Finally, my husband agreed to deliver me directly in front of the courthouse in the morning and return later in the day to bring me home!  PERFECT!

There I stood, on the sidewalk in front of the central court building, waiting for the Halls of Jurisprudence to open.  Soon the line wrapped around the corner, none of us really sure that we were standing in the correct line.

“Is THIS the line for jury duty?” I asked the woman directly in front of me.

“Beats me!  I’m here because I have a trial date this morning!” she replied.

“I’ve got jury duty!” came a voice from further ahead in the line.

“Me too!”

“I do, too!”

“So do I!” admitted others.

<“O.K. This is STILL good!” I thought, “maybe I’ll be sent out to the courtroom where the lady in front of me is having her trial!  I can tell the lawyers that she and I were talking in the waiting line this morning, and they’ll excuse me!”>

My spirits were high knowing that I had at least TWO reasons to be excused from service!  And the ace in the hole would be the one day/one trial rule!  If I sat in the Jury Assembly Room all day long without being sent out to a courtroom, I would be excused!  I hadn’t a care in the world!  I was in such a good mood that even the constant parade of homeless beggars panhandling from all of us in line didn’t bring me down.

<“Good grief!” I thought, “all you guys have to do is register to vote, get a post office box mailing address so you can receive your Jury Summons, sit in a courtroom to the tune of $15/day and $0.32/mile and you wouldn’t have to beg!”>  

I have always enjoyed people-watching.  Airports, malls, banks, anywhere you happen to be that requires a lot of idle wait time, are perfect places for it.  Courthouses are even better.  As more and more prospective jurors filed into the Jury Assembly Room, I indulged in crafting identities for some of the more interesting ones.  One man looked like he’d just ridden his Harley-Davidson across the desert.  A thick, long brown braid fell down his back from beneath a faded blue kerchief wrapped around the top of his head. Dark aviator sunglasses hid his eyes, his leathery weathered cheeks sat on either side of a scraggly Fu Manchu mustache and beard and his tattooed arms told stories in ink that I was afraid to read!  I knew he couldn’t possibly be armed because of the security screening we all went through, but still, it wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d managed to smuggle in a knife or a lead pipe or something.

<“Whoa!  Scary guy! Please don’t sit next to me! Please don’t sit next to me! Pleasedon’tsitnexttoMEEEEEEE!” I silently begged.>  

Another lady brought her own reading material: a newspaper printed in Chinese!  She stood no taller than five feet.  Brown leather sandals, white ankle socks, a long beige skirt, a wrinkled white button-down blouse, a mousy brown cardigan sweater and her graying hair pulled back into a bun was the perfect costume for someone cast as a peasant in the 1987 Oscar-nominated movie, “The Last Emperor.”

<“I’ll bet she’s going to claim that she doesn’t speak English!” I thought to myself.> 

My reverie was abruptly interrupted by one of the courthouse employees in charge of juror assembly.

“O.K., my friends, my name is Yolanda Washington, and I will be guiding you through your orientation this morning.  Good Morning!”

Some people mumbled, but whatever they said was imperceptible.

“Good Morning!” repeated Ms. Washington, a little more loudly, “I’m sure that there are a few of you in this room who would rather be somewhere else.  So would I, but . . . as long as we’re stuck here with each other for who knows HOW long, we’re going to be cordial to one another, you see.  So, I’m going to say ‘Good Morning’ again, and I want you to return the greeting.  Are we clear?”

“GOOD MORNING!” came a more enthusiastic yet still apathetic response.

“That’s better, my friends,” she said.  “We are here today to allow you to perform your civic duty as a member of a jury.  It is an honor and a privilege.  It is.  Some of you MAY be called to serve in another courthouse today.  If that is the case, we will provide you with written directions to that courthouse, and you will be given a certain amount of time to make the drive there.  In my hand here are other travel options . . . bus schedules and subway schedules.  You may choose whichever mode of transportation your prefer, but just remember . . . you will only be given a certain amount of time to get there. Do NOT stop at McDonald’s or Starbucks.  Do not have breakfast at The Pantry.  Do NOT attend a Dodger game.  Go directly to the courthouse!”

Yolanda Washington was obviously a very-well seasoned government employee.  She knew her job well and operated on auto-pilot, directing incoming jurors, answering questions, and delaying information to one person when she knew her orientation program would be comprehensive.  Despite there being a loose dress code for jurors, that of “business casual,” there clearly is no dress code for the government employees — at least none that could be identified.  Yolanda, in her bright pink rubber flip-flops, slogged across the front of the assembly room in faded lime green leggings, squeezing her formidable Size XXL body into a Size M — apparently the only size left on the clearance table at Wal-Mart.  Her even paler green, scoop-necked t-shirt, on the other hand, draped over her torso with room enough to accommodate at least another half of her!

She continued her orientation.

“All right, my friends, listen up!  Everyone turn off your cell phones, pagers, laptops, iPads, iPods and any other electronic devices that you may have in your possession.  I know who you are, and if I find you using any of these such devices during my orientation, it won’t be pretty.  Trust me on that.

“I want you ALL to take out your Jury Summons and turn it to the front side with the Juror Badge facing you . . . like this,” she said, displaying the correct side of the document.

And from there, she instructed us, step by step, item by item, box by box, bubble by bubble on how to correctly fill out the form.  If I didn’t know better, I would have thought I was back in the third grade learning how to fill out an answer sheet for standardized testing.  Shortly after all forms were completed, signed and turned in, Yolanda addressed the group of us again.

“O.K., my friends,” she began, “here comes my favorite part of this job.  Do you see this pile of papers in my hands right here?  THESE are all of the forms that have been filled out INcorrectly!  If you hear your name called, please step forward, claim your Summons and we will try it all over again.”

While all of that was being completed, I picked up the Time magazine that was sitting on one of the empty chairs and began paging through it.  I wasn’t particularly interested in reading it; leafing through it was just a way of killing a little bit of time.  A very deliberate, monotone, robotic voice cut through the air, startling me.

“Excuse me, Ma’am.  When you are finished with that magazine, may I please have it?”

I looked immediately to my right to discover the source of such a foreign sound.  A man sitting a few seats away from me was speaking through a tube sticking out of his neck!  He’d obviously had some life-altering surgery and was now speaking through a tracheostomy tube!

“Oh!” I said, trying not to sound too surprised, “Take it now.  I’m not really reading it!”

Boy, oh boy!  Back to people watching!  How did I miss that?! I glanced up toward the front of the room to measure Yolanda’s progress on those whose forms had been completed incorrectly and I noticed the back of an extremely tall, slender woman wearing a super cute sweater!

<“Turn around, turn around! Your sweater is so cute!  I want to see the front!”> 

And then she turned around.  The abnormally tall height should have alerted me, but it didn’t.  The woman wearing the super cute sweater was obviously a transgender individual in transition.

<“O.K. Wow!  Didn’t see that coming, but  . . . that’s cool.  This is a cross-section of people down here.  Not my thing, but . . . her sweater is really cute!” I thought.>

Once again, Yolanda interrupted my favorite pastime.

“Listen up, my friends,” she began with authority, “Central Civil West courthouse is in need of prospective jurors.  Remember when I told you earlier that some of you MIGHT be sent to another location?  Well, this is it.  If you hear your name called, please come up to the window at the half-door and pick up your directions to CCW.  You are instructed to get there ASAP.

Lena Nguyen

Fernando Salvatorre

Luisa Gonzalez

Win Tran

Hae Sung Chung

Julia Jo

Arturo Jimenez

Wai Wai Lin

Mary West . . .”

<NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!  Not Mary West!!!!  Please not Mary West!  I don’t WANT to go to CCW!!!!  That’s Carl’s old courthouse and that’s where long cause cases are heard!!! I want to study people and make up stories about them! I want to talk to the man with the tube sticking out of his neck!  I want to listen to Yolanda insult us and talk down to us like 8-year-olds!  I want to sit here all day and be excused!>

My over-the-top good mood plummeted to the depths of despair!  Not only did I not want to leave the relative comfort of the Jury Assembly Room, I didn’t have my car!  I was going to have to get to CCW on my own somehow!  None of the options was acceptable.  Red Line . . . No. Bus . . . No. Walk . . . I couldn’t get there fast enough within my allotted time.  Uber . . . Uber . . .

I had no choice.  With my iPhone in hand, I swiped across the screen, tapped the Uber icon and engaged the app.

Driver’s Name: Hakob     Silver Lexus     License No. XXXXXX     Arrival Time: 2 minutes

I tracked the little car icon on my screen to gauge the arrival of Hakob, but I needn’t have.  The sounds of tires screeching and horns honking announced my driver as he made an illegal U-turn dangerously in front of an oncoming bus!  Reluctantly, but desperately, I climbed into the back seat and clicked on the seat belt.  Several hair-raising minutes later, the car door opened and I spilled out onto the sidewalk like a rag doll.

Once through security at CCW and punctually on time in Department 306, I sank into a seat in the gallery and composed myself.

<You’re still O.K.  Don’t panic.  The lawyers will come in, they’ll seat twelve of us at a time, ask a couple questions, and you’ll be outta here!> 

When things start to go wrong, you should plan on EVERYTHING going wrong!  The lawyers DID parade into the courtroom, taking their places at either the plaintiffs’ or defendants’ positions, but there was no questioning of prospective jurors.  Instead, the judge lectured us on the history of modern jury trials . . . from 1798 to the present!  Not only was it boring, it was also irrelevant (in my mind!)  Following his discourse, the judge informed us that we would be completing a lengthy questionnaire . . . between 15-20 pages . . . to determine our suitability for the 15-day trial for which we were being selected.  We were to complete our questionnaires honestly and completely, UNDER PENALTY OF PERJURY, sign them, return them to the court clerk and return on Friday at 9:00 a.m. for jury selection to begin.  He did, however, offer a fifteen-minute break before distributing our bulky questionnaires.

“Oh my gosh! This is going to take forEVER!” said a very sultry, husky voice.  The cadence was so slow and deliberate . . . exactly like that of Gollum from The Hobbit. I looked in that direction and saw that the extremely tall woman wearing the super cute sweater had taken the seat next to me!  “I’m going to go down to the lobby to by some cookies.  Would you like some?” she offered.

“Oh, no thank you.  I’m o.k.!” I said.

“As soon as I’ve collected all the questionnaires, we will break for lunch.  Then those with hardships can return at 1:30 p.m. for disposition of their issues,” informed the clerk.

I raced through my questionnaire, making sure that my spouse’s occupation was in bold capital letters, and handed it to the clerk.  It was prudent.

“I’ll be back at 1:30 p.m.,” I told him, “for disposition of my hardship.”

“YOU have a hardship?” he asked, not quite believing me.

“AbsoLUTEly!” I confirmed, “Neither the plaintiffs nor the defendants are going to want me on their jury.  I also have prepaid airplane tickets for Friday morning at 9:16 a.m. to go to Colorado!”

“1:30 p.m. is for fiNANcial hardships, Ma’am.  You never CAN tell who the lawyers want on their juries.  That’s not your call!  We’ll see you on Friday morning at 9:00 a.m.!” he said as he snatched the multipage questionnaire from my hands.

I had no opportunity to tell him that I was married to a retired judge.  Most people would have engaged in a conversation as to WHY I felt that the parties wouldn’t want me as a juror, but not this guy!!  NOOOOOOO!  He shuffled me out so fast I didn’t have time to form my Plan B!

COME AND PICK ME UP NOW!  I texted Carl.  I’M AT CCW AND I’M NOT EXCUSED!  I HAVE TO RETURN ON FRIDAY AT 9:00 A.M. 

There are no bitmojis and no emoticons appropriate to communicate my mood.  I typed in crying faces, mad faces and sad faces, but all of them combined did not portray my feelings.

After discussing all the possibilities of changing our flight to one later in the day, with the uncertainty of how long I’d be detained on Friday, it was impossible to commit to new travel plans.  The call I had to make to our friends, informing them that the gamble I took with my jury duty exploded and blew up our plans was extremely hard to do!  I’d ruined what was supposed to be a really fun weekend!

I dressed so conservatively for jury selection on Friday morning that I made J. McLaughlin’s line of clothes look avant-garde. My long-sleeved A-line dress, beige patent leather pumps, pearl earrings and a pearl necklace would blast the message to the lawyers on both sides that I am traditional, conventional and inflexible.  They. Would. Not. Want. Me. On. Their. Jury.  I sat outside the courtroom, texting friends about my morning as everyone trickled in.  At least that brought a few smiles to my face.

All one-hundred of us prospective jurors crowded the courtroom, waiting for the process to begin.

“What you all don’t know about this judge,” said the clerk, “is that he really appreciates jurors.  He brought donuts for you this morning, so . . . if you’d like one, please, come and partake!”

<Big deal!  I don’t WANT donuts.  They are so fattening!  Donuts are just thigh larvae.  You eat one and before you know it, your thighs are bigger!>

I was in no mood to be buttered up by some judge.  I wanted OUT!

There we sat and sat and sat and sat and sat.

“What you all don’t know about the court system either,” said the clerk, “is that nothing ever starts on time!  We’ll get going in a little while.  The lawyers are back in the back rooms finalizing things, so just sit tight.  There are more donuts for those of you who’d like seconds!”

<Ugh!!  Sure.  “Nothing starts on time” but WE had to be here at exactly 9:00 a.m.!>

Minutes ticked by.  Still no action.  At least I didn’t have to worry about catching an airplane.  A couple of hours of inertia in the courtroom lapsed.  There were no signs of anything official being close to getting underway.

“Mary West . . . would you please approach the rail?” said the clerk.

I collected my purse, shuffled across the people in my row and arrived in front of the clerk.

“Go down to the third floor, to Department 216, Window 2 and have your parking ticket validated.  You are excused.”

I felt like screaming a big “I TOLD YOU SO!” at him, but I quickly turned on my heels, punched the button to call the elevator and left that courthouse as fast as I could!

The NEXT time the mailman dares to drop a jury summons in my box, THIS jurist’s prudence may not be so noble!

 

 

 

 

 

 

“In Life, have a friend that is like a mirror and a shadow; a mirror never lies and a shadow never leaves.”  What nice words to live by, right? Who wouldn’t want a friend like that? Perhaps the litmus test is caddying for that mirror/shadow friend during her qualifying round of golf for the U.S. Women’s Senior Amateurs.

” Hey!  I’ve just signed up to qualify for the Women’s Seniors again.  Wanna caddie for me?” Heidi asked at the beginning of one of our many telephone conversations.

” Uuuuuuuuummmmmmmmm . . . when is it?” I asked, not ready to commit with an immediate yes.

There are lots of things to consider before taking on a responsibility of that magnitude.  Firstly, I wanted to know WHERE the round would be played.  How far would I have to drive?  Would I need to spend the night somewhere? And because of Rusty, I had to make sure he wouldn’t be left alone too long in the house all by himself.  As the primary caregiver for the family pet, I have to attend to his needs before making any plans for myself.  If the venue was close enough to my house NOT to require an overnight stay, I next needed to know Heidi’s tee time so I could gauge the number of hours I’d be gone from home and the dog.  Traffic in Southern California is highly unpredictable and notoriously congested.  My uncanny ability to get lost as soon as I leave my driveway requires at least an extra forty-five minutes of travel time . . . just in case.  Thirdly, and most importantly, I know that caddying can be physically stressful but caddying for a friend could be catastrophic for the relationship.   I knew I could deal with the physical demands of pushing a golf trolley across the fairways for eighteen holes, but the filter between the thoughts that race through my head and the sentences that escape from my lips is dangerously thin.   Since “mirrors never lie” and “shadows never leave” are the ingredients upon which I base my friendships, I needed to decide if I were a mirror, a shadow or both.

“Well . . . .,” pressed Heidi, waiting for a response.  “C’mon!  You’ve done it before . . . we do well together!  It’s at Rancho Santa Fe.  Come down the day before, we’ll play nine holes in the afternoon, spend the night, then arrive early for my 8:10 a.m. tee time a.m. the next day.”

Ugh . . . Rusty.  I’ve got to get HIM all set.  Should I head down to Pauma Valley, spend the night down there, NOT play nine holes, get up REAL early and just meet Heidi for her qualifying round?  Since she plays early in the morning, we’d be done around noon and I could head back to Pauma and Rusty. 

“Let me see what I can do,” I said, still not giving a definite yes.

“GREAT!  I’ll make us a time for nine holes for Wednesday and Sioux already invited us to spend the night at her house,” Heidi said, obviously not having read my thoughts.  “Since my time is one of the earliest ones on Thursday, we’ll go down to La Jolla while we wait for the others to finish.”

“I think I’ll just leave after you’re done,” I said, thinking that I’d head out and get a jump on traffic.

“WHAT?!  You’re not going to leave me, not knowing if I’m going to be in a playoff, are you?” she exclaimed, panic evident in her rising tone.

“Good grief,” I said, “You’re NOT gonna be in a playoff! You’re gonna be well under the bubble!”

If friends are like mirrors and shadows, why can’t they also be clairvoyant?  Doesn’t she know that I have dog issues?  

All arrangements for Rusty’s care came together, freeing me up for the overnight at Rancho Santa Fe.

“O.K.  Change of plans,” I texted, “Will stay all the way through the final results and stay a second night! Can’t see myself leaving you before everyone’s scores are in and posted.”

My official pre-round caddie duties began on Wednesday afternoon.  While on each green, Sioux and I searched for markings that indicated the pin placements for the following day. Once identified, Heidi practiced putting to that spot from various distances and locations.  Sioux, the resident expert on “local knowledge,” advised Heidi as to which ways the greens ran, possible tricky spots and definite areas and situations to avoid.  The modified tutorial continued through dinner at the Club with the remainder of the evening planned to enjoy a glass or two of wine on Sioux’s back patio.

“O.K., Sioux, we’ll see you back at the ranch!” I said as I opened the car door and stepping inside the passenger side.

“No!  Sioux came with us in MY car!” Heidi reminded me.  “You rode in the back seat, remember?”

“Oh my gosh!” I said, slightly embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, Sioux!  I totally forgot!”

“Don’t worry about it!” replied Sioux, “I was just standing here thinking, ‘Now where did I park my car?’  I forgot I came with you too!”

The morning greeted us after a very fitful night of sleep.  I lay awake, thinking about an infinite number of faux pas I might commit during Heidi’s golf the next day.  Caddies must be silent, invisible and nonparticipating pieces of their golfers’ equipment.  Just another club in the bag, so to speak.  They must not contribute to the players’ conversations; they must not compliment good shots and they must NEVER, EVER, EVER gasp or make any utterances whatsoever at a missed putt, a chunked shot or any other unfortunate happening during that round.  I know that first hand from committing those very sins during my previous caddying experiences.  I laid in bed lecturing myself on “caddie etiquette,” and I was worried.  Like I said, the filter between what goes on inside my head and what escapes through my lips is seriously weak.  I had to be extremely cognizant of my primary role as Heidi’s caddie:  KEEP HER CALM; KEEP HER FOCUSED; KEEP HER CONFIDENT.  She was the only one with whom I could speak, and even at that, WHAT I spoke had to be ‘just what she needed to hear’ at that time.

We arrived a full hour and a half before Heidi’s 8:10 a.m. start time, and it’s a good thing we did.  The trolley that we’d used for previous qualifying rounds was unstable!  It could not be left unattended nor unsupported on the handle’s side lest it tip over!

“Did you get a lighter golf bag?” I asked.  “Maybe those new Sun Mountain bags are so light that there’s not enough weight on that end to keep the cart from tipping!”

“No,” answered Heidi. “And besides . . . even IF the bag were light, I’ve got so much stuff crammed into the pockets that would compensate for that! Here . . . want a banana, or half of yesterday’s sandwich?”

Oh well.  Whatever it was, I was going to have to be very, very careful not to stand too far away from it.  But . . . what about when I had to pull the flag stick or rake a bunker?  Was I going to have to prop the cart against a tree?  And what if there were no tree around?  I could foresee a horrific nightmare ahead.

As Heidi warmed up on the driving range, trolley leaned up against the club stand, I sat watching the other contestants do the same.  Boy, some of those women can hit the ball F-A-R!  It didn’t take long for me to notice that Heidi’s swing was the prettiest, smoothest and by far, the most fluid one of the bunch.  The two women at the stations on either side of Heidi betrayed their nervousness through their warm-up strokes.  The lady on the left was a definite “shank-o-pottomus” while the one on the right kept chilly-dipping.

“Well . . . there’s two right off the bat that we don’t have to worry about!” my thoughts temporarily distracted from the tippy golf trolley. 

I was positive that Heidi would be among the fifteen contestants earning a spot in the U.S. Women’s Senior Amateur Tournament.  I was NOT so positive that the trolley would make it to even the first tee.

“Let’s go see if we can find a cart boy,” suggested Heidi, “maybe he can figure out what’s wrong with the cart!”

“Good idea!  Let’s go!” I said.

Forgetting that Sioux rode in the car with us was the first dumb thing I did.  Setting up the golf trolley was the second.  The reason it was unstable and kept tipping over was because we hadn’t pulled the front wheel out from it’s contracted stowing position, and it didn’t take a cart boy to figure it out!  The young female employee from the pro shop knew immediately how to fix the problem!

“Just pull the wheel, like so,” she said, “and . . . there!  It stands all by itself! See?”

“Well butter my butt and call it a biscuit,” I thought.  

The elite golfers chatted among themselves while I organized the trolley and headed toward the first tee. They all know each other from years of similar competitions.

“Hi Heidi!  Good luck today!  Play like you did last week when you kicked my butt!” said one of them.

“Hey Heidi!  Nice to see you!  Play well!” said another and another and another.

The LED clock on the first tee displayed 8:10 a.m. on the screen, officially marking our starting time.  The U.S.G.A. official introduced each of the three players for the 8:10 a.m. time and dictated the order of play and went over a couple of the local rules, especially emphasizing the new pace of play rule.

“Announcing Heidi Person from Pauma Valley, California,” declared the official, and the round began.

Text messages buzzed into my phone.

“Keep us posted!”

“I want a hole-by-hole report!”

“Good luck to Heidi!  Let us know what happens!”

“Is she nervous?  Is she o.k.?”

Heidi noticed the phone in my hand and immediately ordered me to put it away! “NO TEXTING!” she hissed, sounding very much like Sister Mary John of the Cross barking out orders to my sixth grade class.  I tucked my phone into my back pocket, very much aware of the constant vibration signaling more incoming texts but also very much afraid to do anything about them!

All three drives hit the fairway with Heidi’s ball laying at least fifty yards ahead of the other two.  It should have been clear to me from the get-go that Heidi’s game was far superior to those of the other two in the group, but I attributed their errant shots to early round jitters.  I stopped feeling sorry for them by the third hole, however.  One qualifier in particular probably should have picked up her ball and withdrawn from the competition altogether after her drive on Hole #3.  She was hitting her fourth shot before Heidi hit her second one!

“What do I do here?” she asked, obviously not liking her lie and definitely not knowing basic Rules of Golf. “Is this area ‘ground under repair?’ Do I get a drop?  What do I doooooooo?” she whined.

“Shut up, stop whining and HIT YOUR  #@! BALL!” I thought to myself.  

The U.S.G.A official that had been following us for the first two holes had disappeared.  The Whiner’s caddie-husband tried to flag her down, but to no avail.  After several minutes of indecision, The Whiner finally played a second ball and continued down the fairway with two balls in play.  Due to the delay and an extra ball on the fairway through that hole, our group fell seriously behind the lead group.

“When you get a second,” said Heidi to me quietly, “read the new pace-of-play rule.  I’m screwed!”

Pace of Play:  All players in a threesome completing their qualifying round beyond the allotted time behind the lead group will be assessed a 2-stroke penalty.  

It didn’t matter WHO caused the delay in play!  ALL players in that threesome would be penalized!  The Whiner would be responsible for Heidi’s 2-stroke penalty!

It took ALL the strength I could muster to keep the thoughts inside my head from blasting through my lips!  I started running down the next fairway, pushing the now-stable cart in front of me.

“Stop running!” ordered Heidi.  “It’s not up to US to speed up the group; it’s up to the SLOW PLAYER to get HER act together!”

My need for speed was ill-spent anyway.  The Whiner hit her tee shot out of bounds!

And that’s pretty much how the entire round continued.  I was constantly aware of pace of play until an official appeared confirming that we had caught up.

Four hours later, Heidi signed and verified her scorecard with the tournament officials and the wait for everyone else to finish began.

“Do you want something to drink,” asked Heidi.

“A Diet Coke would be great,” I said, plopping down in the nearest chair, my feet throbbing.

She returned with a Diet Coke for me and a Bloody Mary for her.  Two U.S.G.A. officials joined us at our table and assured Heidi that with her score, she’d be one of the fifteen to qualify.

“See?!” I asked with as much sarcasm as I could, “. . . and to think you were worried!”

More texts buzzed through my shorts.

“Well?  How’d it go?”

“What did she shoot?”

“How many cigarettes did she smoke?”

My fingers typed responses as Heidi’s feet took her pacing back and forth to and from the scoreboard.

“I’m on the bubble!” she announced, “There’s going to be a playoff!”

“Would you just reLAX?” I said, “You are NOT going to be in a playoff!  Just stop being so weird and insecure, would you? You’re driving me nuts! I KNOW you’re not going to be in a playoff because #1, you’re just not and #2, my feet are so tired I couldn’t go one more hole with you!” <mirrors never lie!>

As more and more scores were turned in and posted, the bubble grew to include Heidi in a playoff!  <and shadows never leave!>

The looks on our faces and the glances between us confirmed our testament to friendship: Friends are mirrors that never lie and shadows that never leave.  Heidi reported to the putting green to warm up again.  I retied my shoes, re-wet my towel, texted everybody that there was a playoff, and got ready to make sure Heidi was the one to get the envelope with all the material for Boston.

“Do you know what time it is?” Heidi asked as we approached the first tee for the second time that day.

“Cocktail time!” I said resolutely, imagining the fresh lime taste of a cold vodka/tonic.

“Nope. Time for another one of these!” she said as she lit up her hundredth cigarette.

There is always something to be said for getting a second wind, but Heidi got a second hurricane!  She drove her tee shot so far it almost met the dawn of the next day, and her approach shot to the green?  RiDICulous!!!  Her ball laid about 140 yards from the green, in thick Bermuda rough behind a tree as tall as a skyscraper.  Her line to the pin required a shot up and over the skyscraper.  Cue the Konica-Minolta camera!  Heidi assessed her lie, touched several clubs in the bag, reassessed her lie, looked at me (with me only returning a panicked “deer in the headlights” response), selected a club and swung it.  The ball flew in high trajectory, OVER the tree, OVER the bunker and onto the green no further than eight feet from the hole!

A gallery of finishers had gathered to watch the playoff.  Everyone clapped, hooted and hollered.

“Way to go, Heidi!”

“GREAT hit, Heidi!”

. . . and another voice,

“Good caddying, Caddie!”

“Thanks!  It was all because of the club I selected for her!” I teased.

As we approached the green and I handed Heidi the putter, I also wanted to park the trolley close to the next tee in the event we were going to play another hole.

“Here’s your putter.  We’re going to play #1 again, right?” I asked.

“NO!  We’re NOT going to play any more holes!  I’m taking care of business NOW!”

And she did.

Mirrors Never Lie.

And Caddies Never Leave.