The Changing (The Biergarten Series) by T. M. Wright, F. W. Armstrong Page B
Authors: T. M. Wright, F. W. Armstrong
Tags: Horror
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holes with just you for company, Miller." He didn't add that the reason he'd let Miller golf with him these last six weeks or so was that Miller was just about the best partner a guy could ask for. He was a good golfer, for one—almost as good, Youngman thought, as he was—and number two, he was just asshole enough that he got the members of the other team mad and flustered enough that they screwed up a lot.
"They said they'd meet us here, right?" Miller asked. "At the ninth hole?"
"That's what they said," Youngman answered, a noticeable strain in his voice because he hated to wait for anyone. He glanced at his watch. It said 12:15. "We'll give 'em another ten minutes." He looked suspiciously at the wooden driver that Miller had just used. "What is that, Miller? Is that new?" He thought it was possible that the reason Miller's drives were so good was that he was using an illegal club, one with a head that was heavier than normal.
Miller handed him the club. "Nice, huh? English; custom made. You wanta try it? Go ahead."
Youngman shook his head as he studied the club. "I don't need no special club—"
Miller guffawed. "It isn't special , Jack." Youngman gave him a quick, critical glance. "It's a standard club."
"Uh-huh," Youngman said, unconvinced. "And what's this?" He pointed at three letters cut into the top of the club head: "DAM."
"My initials," Miller answered. "Douglas A. Miller."
"Uh-huh. What's the 'A' for—'Asshole'?" He grinned, pleased with his joke.
"No." Miller grinned too, as if sharing the joke. " 'Ashland.'”
"Who the hell gave you a name like that?" He handed the club back, but Miller said nothing; the answer to the question was obvious, and the other players had appeared.
~ * ~
MONDAY, MAY 5: 1:00 P.M.
The man from Quality Control said to the man from Research as they both stood looking up at the Ansel Adams mural–transparency—"Moonrise, Hernandez, New Mexico"—near the Ridge Road exit at Kodak Park, "Wasn't that supposed to have come down last month, Earl?"
Earl nodded. "They were going to put something by Linda McCartney up there, I think, but it got spoiled in processing, so they've got to redo it. I guess it'll be another couple of weeks, anyway."
"Too bad," said the man from Quality Control. "I mean, this is nice and everything, it's really nice, but you get sick of any thing after a while, no matter how good it is."
"Even sex," Earl said.
"I wouldn't go that far," said the man from Quality Control, and, both of them chuckling manfully, they turned and left The Park by the Ridge Road exit—the same exit that Greta Lynch and George Dixon and Doug Miller (when he was tagging after Greta) and a thousand other people used—to have a liquid lunch at Jack Ryan's Grill, just five minutes away on foot.
TUESDAY, MAY 6: 4:20 P.M.
Okay , twenty-three-year-old Bud Wygant told himself, so this was where Walt Morgan bought the farm?! Big deal! People died every day; what did it matter if you died in your sleep or if you had your head ripped off like an overripe melon? You were still dead, still just a memory, you were still someone they'd called 'late,' whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. Bud took an almost perverse delight in treating the subject of death as if it were nothing but an adolescent joke. That may have been because death had never come close to touching him or anyone he knew. What he knew about it was only what several thousand hours of watching the tube had shown him—a version of death that was as sanitized and lily white as the people who sold detergent and toilet paper or as overblown and exploitive as a bout of professional wrestling.
He said aloud, with feeling, "Hey, Mr. Werewolf, fuck you, and fuck the horse you may or may not have rode in on!" He chuckled. He was an apprentice copywriter in Advertising at Kodak's State Street office and was in The Park only because his girlfriend, Sandi Hackman , worked there, and he was on his way to see her to take her
"They said they'd meet us here, right?" Miller asked. "At the ninth hole?"
"That's what they said," Youngman answered, a noticeable strain in his voice because he hated to wait for anyone. He glanced at his watch. It said 12:15. "We'll give 'em another ten minutes." He looked suspiciously at the wooden driver that Miller had just used. "What is that, Miller? Is that new?" He thought it was possible that the reason Miller's drives were so good was that he was using an illegal club, one with a head that was heavier than normal.
Miller handed him the club. "Nice, huh? English; custom made. You wanta try it? Go ahead."
Youngman shook his head as he studied the club. "I don't need no special club—"
Miller guffawed. "It isn't special , Jack." Youngman gave him a quick, critical glance. "It's a standard club."
"Uh-huh," Youngman said, unconvinced. "And what's this?" He pointed at three letters cut into the top of the club head: "DAM."
"My initials," Miller answered. "Douglas A. Miller."
"Uh-huh. What's the 'A' for—'Asshole'?" He grinned, pleased with his joke.
"No." Miller grinned too, as if sharing the joke. " 'Ashland.'”
"Who the hell gave you a name like that?" He handed the club back, but Miller said nothing; the answer to the question was obvious, and the other players had appeared.
~ * ~
MONDAY, MAY 5: 1:00 P.M.
The man from Quality Control said to the man from Research as they both stood looking up at the Ansel Adams mural–transparency—"Moonrise, Hernandez, New Mexico"—near the Ridge Road exit at Kodak Park, "Wasn't that supposed to have come down last month, Earl?"
Earl nodded. "They were going to put something by Linda McCartney up there, I think, but it got spoiled in processing, so they've got to redo it. I guess it'll be another couple of weeks, anyway."
"Too bad," said the man from Quality Control. "I mean, this is nice and everything, it's really nice, but you get sick of any thing after a while, no matter how good it is."
"Even sex," Earl said.
"I wouldn't go that far," said the man from Quality Control, and, both of them chuckling manfully, they turned and left The Park by the Ridge Road exit—the same exit that Greta Lynch and George Dixon and Doug Miller (when he was tagging after Greta) and a thousand other people used—to have a liquid lunch at Jack Ryan's Grill, just five minutes away on foot.
TUESDAY, MAY 6: 4:20 P.M.
Okay , twenty-three-year-old Bud Wygant told himself, so this was where Walt Morgan bought the farm?! Big deal! People died every day; what did it matter if you died in your sleep or if you had your head ripped off like an overripe melon? You were still dead, still just a memory, you were still someone they'd called 'late,' whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. Bud took an almost perverse delight in treating the subject of death as if it were nothing but an adolescent joke. That may have been because death had never come close to touching him or anyone he knew. What he knew about it was only what several thousand hours of watching the tube had shown him—a version of death that was as sanitized and lily white as the people who sold detergent and toilet paper or as overblown and exploitive as a bout of professional wrestling.
He said aloud, with feeling, "Hey, Mr. Werewolf, fuck you, and fuck the horse you may or may not have rode in on!" He chuckled. He was an apprentice copywriter in Advertising at Kodak's State Street office and was in The Park only because his girlfriend, Sandi Hackman , worked there, and he was on his way to see her to take her
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