Diet coke for Eric & Sonia
One late afternoon hot and sticky after playing, or pretending to play in my case, we all raced for the last empty table and grabbed the chairs like they were life rafts.
“What y’all be a’vin?” Asked our ample waitress in a low drawl.
“Diet coke!”
“Diet coke!”
“Diet coke!”
“Soda!”
Called out each person one by one. It was a rainbow of one fizzy drink after another.
“Water for me please, no ice,” I said, to change the flow.
“What’s that!?” she looked to the others at the table to provide a reliable translation. I always got the same reaction, so I repeated my order, very slowly.
While I was here I might as well re-hydrate, detox, and cleanse all in one go. I would get the ‘tucks’, but I wouldn’t rot in Coke in the meantime.
“It’s a tennis BBQ tonight at six, so who’s going?” S threw out the question to the table and there was a show of hands, except for Eric’s.
“You’re not coming? Why not? You’ve got to come tonight - make an effort!” Tim exclaimed, straight from the heart.
“I’ll ask my wife, Sonia, but I know she hates these things and she doesn’t like to be around the tennis crowd. I doubt it,” he looked down at the table and stopped talking. He had missed every event, and we were beginning to feel sorry for him.
He was the first to arrive at the courts every morning at 8am and the last to leave; his playing was improving dramatically, despite injuring himself from over playing.
I wondered if his wife was s dragon or something, as he was reasonable-looking and left alone all the time, which could be dangerous as this was Florida and full of desperate women.
“I have to go home to change into a dress, it’s really late,” I said to Tim as I moved my things to go.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Came the reply, and in no uncertain terms, I knew that was end of that. “You will go in tennis clothes like everyone else; just put on a clean set. No one gets dressed up for these things.”
I could never imagine going to an event in the UK sports clothes, but this was the USA and the formal rules of Europe were left behind.
Sure enough at six, all the players arrived looking exactly as they had done that morning in more tennis outfits. This was the season’s tennis BBQ, and I would have looked ludicrous in high heels, satin, and pearls….I had to learn and learn quickly.
My world, and my people were not here, and I had to adjust, fit in, understand the protocol then smile, listen, and keep smiling.
So I did.
* * *
When seeing reports on CNN on families living in war-torn countries, houses blown apart and reduced to rubble, I think some Americans actually believe they aren’t real pictures, but more of an ‘overseas thing’ shown to make them feel guilty.
The members of a country club raise arms if the pool cuts back on towels, if the tennis times are reduced by unnecessary building works, or god forbid if there was bad weather.
Let them paint at night, let them dig in silence, or let them clean after midnight, but interruptions were not accepted without a lot of protests. I happened to agree, because this level of organizing was ‘art’, not just a matter of being efficient.
It could be seen in the major casinos in Vegas, Disney World, great shopping Malls, NYC skyscrapers, hotel chains, and in golf clubs in Florida.
After an unexpected afternoon shower, the sun filtered back through the clouds and the water melted away into ripples of gold, slipping into cracks and out of sight.
A single white egret screeched high into the cleansed air, preened itself and stared at nothing.
With no seasonal changes, people mysteriously got thinner and younger.
The only way to mark time was by noting who started on what team with what handicap, and with what car that season.
This was Florida living, in a golfing community, behind a security wall, and I was beginning to lose my nationality.
* * *
Pulling up to a free standing 1950s diner in a parking lot, I was hardly overjoyed but too hungry to complain.
“Names!” shouted the middle-aged seasoned waitress with sun-damaged wrinkled skin and an ironed apron at the door. “How many?” She didn’t bother to look up from her clipboard; she didn’t need to, she could feel us all.
“No tables for two for forty-five minutes, only a table for four in five minutes. Who’s next?”
Tim looked at the couple behind us, asked them if they would share a table, and screamed “Four! We are four! We just grew two more!”
That was it. We were in, seated, holding menus, and we discussed the food.
“We come here all the time. You will love this. You like Nova, bagels and cream cheese?” The man and woman gushed at us.
His eyes were beaming and glistening with the excitement from what was to come.
He ordered for the table and Tim readily agreed because the man ordered more than we would have, and it saved Tim finding his glasses.
“Fresh juice, coffee, scrambled eggs, poppy bagels, fresh onions, Nova Scotia salmon - all to come out at the same time.” He yelled and it was music to my ears.
“Coming right up,” said our waitress and we all watched her leave and go straight to the kitchen, put in the order and return with the coffees.
As the food arrived I picked up one plate and began to share it with a fork delicately.
S poured the entire portion on my plate, threw a bagel on top and said “Eat! That’s not to share that’s one portion”
I laughed nervously and I saw a shadow of deep pity cross their eyes.
“Poor child she has never had a whole plate of salmon to herself-it must be the rationing in Europe after the war” they were thinking.
I immediately fell in love with the 1950’s dinner and swore to come here at least once a week if not more.
We all fell silent and I learnt a new meaning of ‘heaven.’ This is what I will dream about during future tennis games.
“You both play tennis?” The man beamed his question at us from a cherub-like face, with little hair left.
“Yes,” we both answered at the same time.
He was essentially a large ball, mostly stomach on sturdy legs and in his late sixties.
“Good, we will play one day. How about tomorrow? Do we have a game for tomorrow?” He quickly turned to his wife who smiled sweetly, like a 14-year-old girl trapped in a sixty-something body.
She was embarrassed by his forthright attitude, but it was his attitude in life that got her living in a golf resort behind a wall.
“No, I don’t think so,” she replied sheepishly.
“Good. By the way, I am Joe and this is my wife, Cora,” he held out his hand for Tim to shake.
“Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” Cora added, having been forced her entire life to meet total strangers.
We introduced ourselves and we were pleased to be invited to play, even against such a mature couple. I was more than a generation younger and perhaps even appeared to be a reasonable player. I felt guilty for deceiving them, so I mumbled that I had not been playing long.
“Nonsense, she’s fabulous. With that figure she’s a devil on the tennis court. Don’t believe a word!” S proclaimed, and he put his arm around me like a vice to discourage any contradictions on my part.
I was doomed, again.
He was American and I came from planet Mars and everyone was laughing.
Four sets of gleaming white ivories caught the sunlight in false smiles, topped with moistened eyes watching their new opponents every move to assess strengths and weaknesses.
As we left Joe said;
“Until tomorrow. I will get the court, leave it all to me. Won’t we darling? Come along then.”
His sturdy brown legs carried his rounded belly off, with that cherub face and beady-brown eyes.
Cora was rounded, but carried her fat like a burden; her large brown eyes were dull, as she did not look forward to the 8.30am game tomorrow as her husband was.
“What did you tell them that for? Are you completely mad?” I bluntly demanded to his profile.
“Don’t be ridiculous, you’ll be fine. Just hit the ball back over the net and leave the rest to me.” He was literally going to have to play singles against a doubles pair.
“It’s the net that’s in my way!” I pleaded.
I was resigned, but sick to the stomach after all that great food, for being so hopelessly mismatched.
Another struggle set in paradise, and I thought of changing my name to ‘Ridiculous.’