On The Island Of Puerto Rico

The story of Peter Albert Trousers begins not on top of the sea, but far below the belt. Way, way down where the big ones roost; where a man can feel the salt spray on his face and taste the tartar sauce on his tongue; where the accordions never cease and the celeste rings true.

"It was on the island of Puerto Rico," was how Pete always started, "where Buck and I were jokingly dared by some friends to share a rickshaw into the golf course on the wrong side of the spit. We knew that their friendly jibes were only an enticement to tango but, what they hey, we're on vacation, we thought. Let's hang the ham and go for it! It was only later, when our undergarments flapped in the off-shore breeze and our passports fluttered like governmental confetti, that we realized that we had crossed an invisible line. We were screwed. Royally."

Pete Trousers always lived with his jib out. He had belted white pellets from here to Hoboken. His skill with the One Iron was legendary. It was whispered in many a plaid trouser that there was no one who could hit 'em like Pete Trousers. When he stuck it out, it stayed out, and there was no one to tell him that it wasn't nice out. He leaned where he wanted and he parped his own song from one port-of-call to the next.

By his own estimation, Pete had whacked balls in at least one thousand four hundred and thirty-three bunkers. He had honed his skill in every which where and anywhere in between. He was skilled.

The orchestra's incessant pumping roused Pete from his Mateus-induced slump. "Where am I? Darling, have I thrown up again? Dylan?" Pete shook his groggy head from side to side. It took him a few minutes to get his bearings and figure out just where he had landed this week. He remembered the quick-paced bartering of oleo and dolls' heads to gain passage from Teirra del Flappants to the capital city; he recalled the rubber dinghy being punted upriver by the diaper-clad native; but for the life of him he couldn't remember how he had ended up stitting on this metal kitchen stool, white bow-tie hanging askew, leading the hotel orchestra in a vaguely recognizable run-through of The Waters of March.

"Hey! Gringo! You awake?!" the strident voice, almost cracking with disgust, broke through Pete's mental meanderings. "I don't pay for no snoozing! You wave that stick like you mean it or I'll have your bag!" the senorita motioned towards Pete's golfbag lying at the edge of the dancefloor.

To say she was a force to be reckoned with would be true. First off, she was fat. Her bosom swung and rippled with each ferocious sweep of her canoe-sized arms. Her rotund mass had been squeezed into a light chartreuse evening gown that left nothing to the imagination except a desire to run and hide. Her anger was palpable: the sweat and spit that flew from her lipstick-drenched mouth rained down on Pete's face like tears from some hideous, oozing harpy.

"You think I not know how to run this business?! All you do is snore while I work, work, work! The dishes! The laundry! The shopping lists! The puppie-guffers! It's all up to me! You're a dog, Illuminati, and I be done seen enough!"

Pete understood that she was angry; that much was clear. But the whys and wherefores of her wrath escaped him. He stared blankly and tried to dredge up some sort of comprehension of where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. It was hopeless. As she stormed around the ballroom, her violet espadrilles slapping on the teak wood, her upset only increased. Pete knew that he would have to answer her with something. Some sort of apology or excuse or mumbled comeback but the content of which he just couldn't muster. Would he lose face? Would she pounce on his feeble reply with renewed wrath and goobers? Pete didn't want to risk it.

He quickly collected his clubs, gave the orchestra the thumbs-up, thanked the dancing patrons for their kind applause, and headed for the nearest exit...

"... and that's how I came to be the pro here at Cinderbag," concluded Pete. The ladies gathered around the pro sighed and cackled with adoration; their wizened hands clutching their tiny clubs as they almost applauded the umpteenth retelling of Pete's perilous path to the Cinderbag Club. The ladies would do almost anything for Pete: lug his bag; hold his wood; rev his cart; rinse his ball; anything.

"Now, ladies, if we can move to the second hole, I'll point out the correct way to address the ball." The gaggle of geriatrics traipsed after Pete, marvelling at the way his golden locks sparkled in the sunlight as they jockeyed for position alongside the pro.

Late at night, as he swung in his hammock, Pete would ruminate about his blotchy past in the tropics, hopping islands and girls, seeking out the next big thrill. He hustled the locals at the neighbourhood pitch-n-putt; tossing nickels for kicks and giggles; always waiting for his big break. The way Pete saw it his break had manifested itself in the form of an overweight geisha girl with an axe to grind. It was her unbridled rage that had given Pete that much-needed kick-in-the-nads. Pete sat bolt upright in his hammock, slamming his forehead against the beam. He had never known her name! Through all those days of rehearsing and conducting, of cleaning spit valves and lubing slides, he never caught a name. What does it mean when you can't put a name to the thing that made you are what you are? When your true being, your self, has no hook on which it can hang? What does that say about the person you are? These thoughts moved through Pete' mind like worms out of a hot cheeselog and then quickly disappeared.

The raccoons looked up from their nightly prowl through the garbage cans, distracted by the loud snores coming from Pete Trouser's hammock.