Saturday morning, May 2nd, 2015. Thin-faced, silver-haired, Arizona-tanned Justin Case is whizzing northward up Interstate 77 in North Carolina. The sky is already azure-clear and the air is a refreshing 48° Fahrenheit (9° Celsius) as he crosses the Yadkin River, merges left, and takes Exit 83 (US 21 Bypass). He muses: Should be a perfect weekend for golf. Both days with highs around 70°. [F; 21° C] I’m going to blow ol’ Steve-O off the course. No, I’ll go easy on him. Let him think that he has a chance to win. Then on the 34th and 35th holes, it’s birdie-birdie, bye-bye. The 36th hole tomorrow should be quite satisfying as he rears up and mis-crushes a desperation tee shot in an attempt to eagle. The pill [golf ball] will go way out of bounds. Yeah, he’ll probably hook it into the woods. The trees will play ping pong with his Titleist. Or, maybe he finds a bunker. He’ll finish even farther back. Will thoroughly relish the walk up to that green. Can hardly wait.
As Justin’s rented-from-Hertz-at-the-CLT-airport, black, super-shiny, 2014 Corvette Stingray curved through the Thurmond community on the now-two-lane highway, he could see the Blue Ridge Mountains ahead, or more specifically, Murphy Ridge.
Soon the low-profile vehicle was twisting and turning up the southeastern flank of the vehicle-vacant, forest-bisecting, scenic route. A diamond-shaped, seemingly bored, black-on-yellow warning sign stated that the safe speed for the curvy mountain road was 35 MPH (56 km/h). He took it at 45 MPH (72 km/h). The tires slightly chirped. Justin backed off. What the heck am I doing? I’m freaking 53 – not 23! Take it easy, old boy.
Just as he passed the WELCOME TO ALLEGHANY COUNTY / LEAVING WILKES COUNTY green sign, his cell phone rang. It was none other than Steve Olivert IV, his golfing partner/foe, onetime college drinking buddy (at Duquesne University), and intense-yet-friendly (usually) rival.
“Hi Steve. I’m close.”
“Have you passed Statesville yet?” Steve asked sarcastically. What an asinine question.
“Long past there, sport. I just entered Alleghany County. They spell it differently than they do in Pittsburgh; it ends with any instead of eny.”
“Yeah, I noticed that, too, Justin, the first time I came up here back in 2009.” Hmmm … Thought he said that 2011 was the first time. Why would he lie about it? Or, is his memory already starting to go south?
“Well, the GPS [Global Positioning System] says that I only have four miles [6.4 km] to go, Steve.”
“Good deal, pal. I’m in the clubhouse – in the main dining hall.” Probably already getting sauced. This will be easy.
“Oh, what are we playing for this time, Steve?” The maid?
“I am offering up a priceless, vintage, linen postcard of Lake Louise. It’s from the end of World War II in Europe. It’s dated May 3, 1945 – seventy years ago tomorrow. The cursive on the back – well, you’ll just have to read it, Justin. It’ll give you pause and some deep thoughts. Anyway, I got it from a postcard collector on the internet. And, what are you putting on the table, Doctor Slice?” Doctor Slice? Oh, I’m going to show him no mercy. Going to beat him by at least six strokes. And rub it in.
“I didn’t have time to get a special trinket. So, I guess I’ll just tender a crisp portrait of Benjamin Franklin, [$100 bill] Steve.” Which will be as safe as being in my safe: my wallet.
“That’ll work. Drive safely. Some dangerous curves lie ahead.”
“Will do. See you in about ten minutes. Ciao.” Bet he’s dating an Italian lady now. Bet Justin marries her, too. She’ll be good for eight years, just like the previous two. He’s such a fool when it comes to women.
Justin continued climbing the escarpment in the American sports car that purred up the slope. When he passed Oklahoma Road on the left, which a brown sign on the right indicated: STONE MOUNTAIN STATE PARK (left arrow), he suddenly remembered his first wife, Jenny. Wonder if she is still in Tulsa. Is she still with Reid McGreed? No telling, and won’t be asking. What a shifty-eyed huckster. So glad that we never had kids. That would have been awful.
When he reached the ridgeline, a green sign plainly stated: Eastern Continental Divide – ELEV 2972 FT [906 meters] Nowhere near the elevation of the western divide in Colorado, but it sure is thick with flora.
He slowed down, passed a gray-sided thrift store on the left, and quickly turned right onto Roaring Gap Drive. The overstory was lush and dense; all the deciduous trees had their leaves back again. The understory of rhododendron was like a nearly opaque, darkest-of-green-hues privacy wall in recurring patches. It’s like a virgin forest in here. A scene right out of a Bavarian fairy tale. A raven is getting fat on the breadcrumbs. A cuckoo clock just went coo-coo.
He soon passed a leaden wooden sign that informed: ROARING GAP CLUB – MEMBERS AND GUESTS ONLY No riffraff allowed. ‘The Pinehurst of the hills!’ Steve proclaimed. A bit of a stretch, me thinks.
He had an internal chuckle as he caught the first glimpse of Lake Louise on the left from a shady cove. The Prussian blue water glistened further out. Created by an earthen dam in 1925. Is that the year Steve said? Think that was it. So, the manmade reservoir is 90 years old. Wonder if anyone has ever drowned in it. What a downer of a thought. Downers lead to drowners. Though, it sure looks sublime. Wouldn’t mind living here. Could do my consulting business about anywhere now. Something to ponder later.
“Would you like another Bailey’s on the rocks, sir?” the Latina waitress asked Steve.
“Just one more. My golfing opponent should be here very soon.”
“Playing all eighteen holes today, sir?” the mid-thirty-something waitress asked with a smile.
“Yes, and all eighteen again tomorrow. A thirty-six-hole, one-on-one tournament. I plan to win a hundred bucks from him.” Steve laughed.
“Oh, I see, a private competition,” she acknowledged. “And your friend will get one hundred dollars if he should win?”
“No, he would get an old postcard.” What a cheap bastard! Probably not much of a tip here.
The waitress disappeared just as Justin walked in. He twisted his head to and fro, scanning the two dozen Caucasian men, and soon saw now-balding, brown-haired Steve back in a corner. He waved to him.
“So glad that you could make it,” Steve announced. “Have a seat.” He’s added some weight in the gut. Beer pounds I bet.
“This is some place!” Justin remarked enthusiastically.
“It’s actually the second place. The first building here was a hotel. It burned down in 1915.” Wow! A century ago.
“Let me guess – a candle fire,” Justin posited.
“Arson was suspected, but no one was ever convicted. The big plan was for the railroad to come all the way up here from Elkin, but it only made it to Doughton.”
“Doughton?” Justin was unsure of its location.
“Just before the climb starts. My guess is that things started getting tight, and someone got paid to accidentally drop a kerosene lantern on some straw mats.”
“And collect the insurance on the loss?”
“I didn’t say that, but if I were to wager …”
“Would you like something to drink, sir?” the black-haired waitress asked Justin as she set Steve’s drink down.
“Just an iced tea with Splenda,” Justin answered. “Thanks.”
“A teetotaler, are you now, Justin?”
“No, Steve, I just don’t drink before noon.” It was 9:39 AM.
“How’s the bachelor life for the third time?” Steve jabbed.
“Well, there’s no one to entertain. Some lonely hours, but not that bad. My finances are much better now. How are Nancy and the boys?”
“All good. Nancy is now doing an online accounting gig. The boys are both at Penn State. [University] John is in grad school and David is a senior. Both are computer techies.”
“Excellent. So, how do you like living up here?”
“Love it. There’s a winter, but it’s milder than Pittsburgh. It snows/sleets just five times a year on average. It’s rarely on the road for more than a day. And, the summers here are not as hot. I play fifty-four holes a week on average. The house is only a mile and a half [2.4 km] from here. You should consider moving here, Justin. With your job, you could leave Phoenix, right?”
“Yeah, I could. I am not looking forward to the triple-digit summer heat.”
“But, it’s a dry heat, Justin.”
“Screw you, Steve.”
Steve laughed. And after two seconds, Justin did, too.
“Can I see the postcard that I’ll be taking legal possession of tomorrow evening?” That cocky prick.
“You think so, do you?” Steve chortled and then extracted the 1940s postcard from his tan jacket’s inner pocket and placed it face-up on the table. What an enchanted night that must have been.
“Ah, that is a really nice one,” Justin declared.
Steve made a muffled coughing sound. He was choking on a piece of strawberry waffle. His face began to turn red.
“Are you ok, buddy?” Justin asked with a look of concern.
No reply from Steve. He frantically pointed to his throat.
Justin dashed over, right behind Steve. How to do the Heimlich maneuver? Where to place my hands? On or below the sternum? Which fingers interlock? Where do the thumbs go? Shit! He’s really choking to death!
“My friend is choking!” Justin yelled. “Can anyone help him? Please!” Can’t believe this is happening!
Two sixty-something, white-haired men came over. And then a 40-ish, short, blonde-haired waiter. But they were all unsuccessful, despite even placing their fingers down Steve’s throat. By the time medic arrived, it was too late.
Stunned and consumed by disbelief, Justin finally stood up – eighteen minutes after Steve’s corpse was taken out on a stretcher – and exited the now-somber grand atrium with his head down. Damn! Steve’s dead!
Once seated in the Corvette, he flipped the postcard over and whispered: