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THE CONGRESSMAN’S BROTHER
By Crackpot
 Side by side there are almost no similarities, much like me and my brother. Samuel is square eyed, Windsor knotted and has a pressed breast kerchief. The knot in the tie is a piece of perfection that I could never achieve. Rough skin, yet a slick shave that only comes from a straight razor, but it could be make up. Eyes straight forward, firm handshake and grab on the shoulder. This guy is allfuckinbusiness.
Jackie is none of this. When he shakes your hand, the is skin softer, the grip looser. A designer tie dye shirt drapes his skinny frame, just below a WB haircut. Someone had whispered to me earlier that something had happened to him a few years ago (a stroke maybe?”) but he seemed fine to me. He did have the same eyes as Samuel , but there was more life waltzing through his. I had never seen a more youthful person in their early 60’s. Every new person he met at the self-congratulatory after party for a Celeb Charity Golf Pro-AM was like receiving a new gift, perfectly wrapped. A gift given for no reason. “Look at all the professionals,” he winks at me. We really got along well that night.
He’s not a professional anything, but he does paint and it breaks his heart when he sells an original painting.
He technically lives at his brother’s but gets shuffled around the affluent neighborhood whenever the press showed up. Shuffled around by working class liberal millionaires; the salt of the earth. Jackie is fine with that, he knows what’s up. He knows he speaks his mind even if it isn’t working right and isn’t always tactful. He knows what a soundbyte is and there are so many media assassins in this new age. Whether it be a field reporter wanna be anchor or some teenage kid with a blog dying for some attention…. There are folks out there who want to catch him off guard.
He doesn’t know fear. I don’t think I could live in the shadow of a uber successful older brother. It doesn’t seem to bother him.. but I have yet to see what happens at 3:00 am after everyone has gone home. That’s when it would get me.
The day after the Party he runs (well, it was more of scurry) over out of breath. Berkenstock sandals slapping against a fall. “Igotit Igotit I gotit….
“You go what…?”
“comeon comeon comeone” His head’s shaking, he’s a little perspery. We jump in his car and speed back to the clubhouse where he had spent the night last night. He leads me to a corner in the basement and rips aside the garbage bag he has been using to hide his treasure.
He does a Game Show flourish to reveal what I think might be the most beautiful set of golf clubs, I had ever seen. All titanium and they, for the most part, were of a brand name I didn’t recognize. I picked one up and it was perfectly balanced.. except for some obvious wear from the day they were perfect. It was a great looking set, even had the Callaway “Big Bertha” Fusion FT Driver. I’d seen them on TV, but never held one. I took a swing.
“This is the second best thing I have held in my hand”
“Dumbass it’s not about the clubs?”
Dumbass? Dumbass? Didn’t see that coming. I could tell he was getting a little knotted up, eyes a little more feverish, a little more perspiry.
“It’s about the bag.”
I had been so excited about these clubs, I hadn’t even noticed the Presidential Seal on the bag. There are only four people who are supposed to have these clubs. I am not one of them and know for damn sure that Jackie isn’t one either. Now I am sure a few folks have wound up with them as gifts and there had been a lot of VIP’s at this Pro-Am.
“Was HE here last night? I think I would have remembered that?” Despite the top shelf open bar at the party, I remember the night quite clearly.
“Fucker” (Did he just say fucker? Where is the mouth coming from all of sudden? Last night I didn’t hear a single curse word.. not even a “heck”) “Had to crap out at the last minute. Guess he doesn’t care so much for his common man after all… crap out on a Charity event”
Now that I think of it, I can’t even remember which Charity it was for.
“These are rare fucking clubs, no one is supposed to have them… then he fucking cancels and gyps the Charity out of their money. When he has a thing like this, they send them ahead. So I think we should get the mutherfucker back. I can put these on E-bay and raise a ton of cash for the charity. That’ll show him. He won’t look so good on next Golf Course without his FUCKING CLUBS, will he?”
I am rarely called upon as the voice of reason. I’m usually the one “inabling” others.
“Jackie, I don’t think that’s such a hot idea… I think they’ll be able to track them down pretty easily”
“NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!” his face twitches, “I HAVE A PLAN!!!” Aw crap, the propellers are top speed, the trains wheels are churning, tears are pouring down his face… “I WANT TO HELP THE CHARITY!!!” He starts sobbing… folding
“Buddy,” I slide into my soothing baritone radio voice “I have an idea.. why don’t we try them out first on the driving range… can’t sell something we haven’t tried out.. that wouldn’t be honest”
Jackie near hysterical suddenly calms, mellows…
“Try them out to make sure they work?”
His breathing slows to just above normal.. and he smiles.
“Okay, I know where they keep the left over cocktails”
So there we were… just a couple of guys on the driving range with a President’s golf clubs and a pitcher or Manhattans and some pretty tasty stoogies. This part of the country is especially beautiful this time of year and just beyond the fairway the state’s largest river was moving strong and proud. The sun started going down and for some reason I was grasped by an overwhelming sense of patriotism. Everything just seemed completely and utterly perfect.
Until there was a tap on my shoulder. I’m pretty sensitive to people crawling into my space so I jumped a little.
“Are you sure these are your clubs?”
Yep… just like the cliché. The questioner was a gentleman in dark glasses, ear piece, Reservoir Dogs ensemble and an overly fit demeanor. I hesitate, wondering if I can bluff my way out of this as I stare at the bulge in his Brooks Brothers below the left shoulder.
“Nope, not mine.” as I inhale one of the stoogies we had found in the bag and drive another a shot.
I glance over at Jackie.
His eyes sharpened.
Please don’t freak, Jackie.
Lip curls under.
Hold it together, Jackie.
He sips his drink.. I couldn’t tell if he was drinking for calm or drinking for courage.
We’re fucked if he’s drinking for courage.
Jackie swallowed “Go ahead, take em.. we were just screwing around.”
With the precision of a soldier, He takes Bertha from me, slings the bag over his shoulder and commands into his sleeve “Secured.” I got to keep the cigar.
Jackie flopped down on the grass. His shorts absorbed the dew as he looked up at the clouds and the Red Sky sunset.
Exhausted and a little drunk he said “I just wanted to help”
“It was a good idea Jackie…”
He sighed and wiped his face.
“Red Sky at night.. Sailor’s delight… it’s gonna be another nice day tomorrow.”
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