The Druid Hills Golf Course had past roots in the institutional racism that was a part of the Atlanta elite, but neither Tony or I cared. We came from the outside and didn’t give a rat’s ass about the Old South or the Confederates in the attic or any of that shit. Fact is, in spite of what William Faulkner said, people in Atlanta never talked about the past. A culture where everybody put their head in the sand about the past and focused on making money in the here-and-now was fine with us.
The morning sunlight filtered through the pine trees onto the green of the fairway.
“Those were some pretty hot babes at the Gold Club last night,” Tony said.
He set up his tee.
“You can look but you better not touch,” I said.
Tony drove his ball straight down the fairway.
”The joys of married life,” Tony said. “ Did you tell Candace where we went?”
”No fucking way. She doesn’t need to know about that shit.”
I hit a clean drive. The white ball sailed away, neatly piercing the pine trees that framed the bright green fairway with the bright blue sky beyond.
“Ever wonder if she’s screwing around on you?” Tony said.
“I don’t know. Who gives a shit?” I said.
“Whatever. She isn’t interested in sex anyway.”
“Yeah, right. Maybe not with you,” Tony said.
“I’ve always got you babs,” I said.
We walked down the course. The brilliant sun blinded me temporarily.
“So how’s the new Porsche?” I said.
My beeper went off.
“Oh, shit. I guess that’s it for the day,” I said.
“Yeah, just when we were starting to have some fun.”
“You can make it up to me this weekend.”