July 29, 2006--Saturday Story: "The Club"--Part Four

The Club--Part Four

In Part Three, after their round of golf at Dyker Beach, Lloyd was invited to have dinner at the Traubs. From what Dicky had told him about his own woeful situation at college, the fact that he had been placed on academic probation and that his mother would undoubtedly attempt to motivate Dicky by holding up before him Lloyd’s glowing example of success at Columbia, Lloyd realized that out of loyalty to his best friend he needed to be careful in what he revealed, even though in truth he had decidedly not excelled either academically or athletically. But in spite of his best efforts, lured by the alluring Mrs. Traub, who insisted on being called “Trudy,” he wound up making matters worse for Dicky. So much so that their friendship might have suffered strain. As evidence of that breech, they only managed to play golf twice more during that endless summer, while Lloyd took a course at Brooklyn College (did poorly); taught himself the shot-put (eventually “put” it 24 feet); and wound up with a job in the Bronx at his uncle’s meat processing plant (kept Uncle Eli out of trouble with the Macy’s buyer); and then most surprising of all, found himself invited to a Labor Day weekend dinner-dance at the Traub’s club. Mrs. Traub herself doing the inviting.

In Part Four, which follows . . .

Mrs. Traub told me that I could unfasten my cummerbund and take off my rented tux jacket as we crept along in their Imperial, mired in end of summer traffic, on the Long Island Expressway, crawling toward the North Shore, Manhasset, and their club. “You’ll be more comfortable and they will be less wrinkled. We want you looking handsome when we show you off at the club,” she added with a wink that she relayed back to me via the rearview mirror.

Dicky and I were crunched together, our ungainly legs entangled in the backseat, perhaps recementing our relationship.

It was late afternoon. We had left earlier than necessary to get to the pre-dinner cocktail hour because Mrs. Traub wanted Dicky to give me a tour of the club. “The pass we have for you,” she explained when she called to invite me, “is just for dinner and the dance, not for golf. But Dicky wants you to see the course anyway. So come to our house at 3:00 so there will be time for you to see everything. I know you’ll enjoy that. Dicky will be sure to show you the locker room where he keeps his clubs and golf clothes and who knows what else. It’s very convenient.” So I did arrive as requested; and because of Mrs. Traub’s fine plan, even if it took two hours to get there, there would still be an hour for the tour.

“Sugar, why don’t you take the service road? At least they’re moving”

Dr. Traub just grunted but did begin to inch the car toward the right lane and eventually was able to exit at Little Neck Parkway. Which turned out to be a considerable improvement, even with the frequent traffic lights. We were able to move at twice the rate of those left creeping along the so-called Expressway. Looking over toward them, Dr. Traub spoke, under his breath, the only word I heard him utter during those two uncomfortable hours, “Sheep.”

Mrs. Traub, whose legendary auburn bouffant, even more splendidly assembled for this special occasion, filled the rearview mirror, sent me another complicitous wink.

* * *

The Squirrel Hunt and Racquet Club was in fact magnificent—just as Mrs. Traub had promised. Dr. Traub kindly drove their lustrous Chrysler slowly, processionally up the cobblestone paved circular drive, it must have arced for more than a quarter mile, so I could take in the full expanse of the Tudor structure. It seemed a greatly expanded version of their own house back in East Flatbush. Though it was at least another quarter mile in breadth, I recognized the similar artful integration of latticed brick, fieldstone, and half timbering.

When we finally reached the main entrance, guarded by two massive doors that had what looked like silver armor shields affixed to them, we were greeted by two footmen who were wearing full scarlet hunting outfits complete with jackets with brass buttons and tails, gleaming calf-length boots, and velvet hunting hats. All in spite of the oppressively humid weather. I was struck by the fact that even so they did not even appear to be perspiring while my dress shirt was soaking wet. So much so that I was worried that the studs I borrowed from my father would rust and stain the shirt and I would have to pay extra to clean it when I returned it to Zeller’s Tuxedos.

Tipping their hats, they simultaneously opened both of the car’s front doors and greeted, by name, both Traubs. And after helping them out, with a hand extended for Mrs. Traub who rewarded them with a glittering smile and an extra second’s glimpse of her cleavage, they proceeded to open Dicky’s door, but not mine since I had already done so on my own. I thought I caught my footman frowning, as I stood on the cobblestones, struggling to rehook my cummerbund. I though I heard the one on the other side of the car say, “Welcome Mister Dicky.”

Mrs. Traub was gracious enough to help me reassemble myself and before sending me off with Dicky whispered to me, as if reading my thoughts, “Yes Lorenzo designed the club and then made our little house for us. You have a wonderful eye, Lloyd. And be sure Dicky gets you back to us in an hour. No stops in the Acorn please. There will be time enough for that. You must be on time to thank the Silvergolds for your guest pass. And of course to meet their beautiful daughter, Jewel.”

And with that she gently launched me toward Dicky who was pawing the ground in eagerness for a little time on our own. And as soon as we were alone, he said, “Let’s forget the fucking tour. I’m dying for a drink. A green’s a green, and I can’t believe she wants me to show you the stupid locker room!”

So off we went toward the Acorn Bar. Also clearly designed by Lorenzo—I immediately recognized his unique use of colors and reproductions.

We found two leopard-skin covered bar stools down at the end of the bar that opened onto a slate terrace that swept around the 18th green, which did indeed look like fine carpet even from my perch. This assured that players would have just a short walk to the cool sanctuary of the bar and its offerings.

“My parents think I’m a moron,” Dicky said, unprovoked, while at the same time snapping his fingers in the direction of the bartender who was dressed, it seemed appropriate, in a jockey’s suit since he was so small that just his head appeared over the top of the tin bar. He bounded right over to us.

“How’s it going, Dicky? The usual—Beefeaters and tonic, hold the garbage?”

“Yeah, Snappy, and the same for my pal. Is that OK, Lloyd?” I nodded. “I’m parched. We had some drive out here.” Snappy disappeared under the bar, I assumed to find ice for our drinks. “I mean it,” Dicky turned back to me, “they think I have the brains of a hamster,” he laughed, “and though I’m sure I’m not brilliant like you,” he chuckled again, but this time with a slight touch of malice, “I’m really more of a fuck-up than a retard. That’s why they wouldn’t let me invite Betsy Sue here tonight, to the dinner-dance. My dad assumes that anyone who’s interested in me must either be after my money, which is a joke, or is a bimbo who would embarrass him to his big-shot friends. They should only meet her. She’s the real thing, not a phony like the rest of them.”

Snappy reached up toward us and placed two gin and tonics on the bar. “She’s from California, Santa Barbara, and is staying in New York for the summer with her aunt who lives on West End Avenue. In the city. I met her while riding. She’s an eventer, you know someone who competes in horse shows. Dressage, jumping, all that kind of thing. Of course she only rides English. I’m trying to learn. She’s teaching me. My horse, though, is used to my riding Western so I don’t know how it will work out. But in the meantime she has a whole trophy chest full of cups and ribbons and all my parents have is a cabinet full of pictures of themselves standing in front of the Pyramids.” I smiled at him.

“Do you want to hear the best thing yet?” He had drained his drink and gestured toward Snappy who quickly provided a refill. I indicated I was still OK; I had only sipped at it since I wanted to be careful about how much I drank. “They think Betsy Sue in Colored, a Negro,” he slapped the bar so hard that my drink jumped up off the metal surface. “Because her last name is ‘Robinson.’ When I told my parents about her my father asked if she was related to Jackie. Can you believe it? He’s such an asshole.

“And when I somehow managed to convince them that she wasn’t, and I can’t believe I even entered into the conversation with them, my mother chimed in to say, ‘Then she must be Catholic. Only Catholics have two first names—“Betsy” and “Sue,” which isn’t much better.’ At that point I just checked out. They’re hopeless.”

The irony is that she’s really Jewish!” He grinned at me in the radiant way of the old Dicky I knew so well. Her family name is ‘Rabinowitz.’ Her grandfather came from Russia, from St. Petersburg where he was a violin teacher. A famous one. His best friend was Jascha Heifetz’s teacher. I think his name was Leopold Auer. So many Jews studied the violin there. It was a ticket out of the ghetto, to respectability and a way, they thought, to avoid discrimination and worse--pogroms. For those who got out, like Betsy’s grandparents, it worked. We know what happened to the rest of them.” He sighed. This was not the familiar devil-may-care Dicky. I had no idea he knew about much less cared about any of these subjects.

“So they became ‘Robinsons,’ also to avoid anti-Semitism, here in America, which was then widespread, especially during the Depression when no one had jobs. Can you believe it, my parents, whose families crawled out of shtetls in Poland, really more peasants than scholars,” he laughed again, “they look down their big noses at Betsy’s people.” He gestured toward the entrance to the Acorn as if to dismiss them.

“Then they make fun of my interest in horses, which is also ironic considering my father’s reputation as a ‘sportsman,’ his so-called involvement with the ponies. I’ll tell you what that really means!” He looked around then to make sure we were alone and not being overheard. “One day I’ll tell you the whole story, the truth.” He didn’t remember that as a kid I had worked at Augie’s barbershop, sweeping up the cut hair and running errands, and knew about what went on in the back room, and about his father. But I decided not to say anything, to let him talk.

“I wish they’d just get off my back and let me do what I want to do, what I’m good at. I can make a good life for myself. I tell you if I got a little encouragement from them I could do well enough in college to get into veterinary school. I know you also don’t believe me, you think I don’t have the brains or discipline to do that.” I shook my head, “But you don’t really know me either. You only know the fun-and-games Dicky. Dicky the empty-headed cut up. Well, there’s also another Dicky. Again, not brilliant, I admit that, but fucking smart enough.” He downed the last of his second gin and tonic and Snappy was right there, unsummoned, to get him another.

“You can ask me anything you want about horses, and I don’t mean handicapping bullshit. About that you can ask the great Dr. Traub. And I also don’t mean bridle and saddle talk, though I know that too. In fact, I made my own saddle, and not from a kit, which anyone who knows anything would say is impressive. But I’m talking about equine medicine. I’ve been studying that on my own and when the vet comes to the stable to treat any of the horses he asks me to assist him. I’m not there just shoveling shit, though I do that too and groom all the horses without anyone asking me to. The vet, Dr. Jencks, thinks I’d be a strong candidate for veterinary school, but I’d be crazy to even think about applying unless my parents would be willing to help with the tuition. It costs a fortune and there is very little scholarship money for people from east coast cities whose fathers are rich dentists.”

The bar was filling up. It was close to the time when the dinner was scheduled to begin and other club members were trying to get in a few quick drinks before sitting down in the club’s restaurant. “Just the other day Dr. Jencks was there and one of the horses suffering from constipation.” He winked at me, “You’d think that with all the roughage they eat, their basic diet, that this would be unheard of, but it’s actually quiet common, especially for stabled horses. The treatment is to give the horses laxatives.” He smiled at me, “You know, horse-size suppositories about the size of a big lemon. And guess how they are inserted in the horses’ anus?” He paused, “Right, by hand. And guess who did that the other afternoon?” He waited for me but I just smiled back at him, “Right, your best friend Dicky boy got the assignment.” He again waited for my acknowledgement, and I nodded at him to show that I was impressed.

“So I took that friggin pill in my hand and shoved it, way past my wrist, up that horse’s ass and held it there, waiting for him to relax and suck it in. Which he did.” Now I was indeed impressed.

“It was awesome.” He turned away from me and took a long look out over the steaming golf course.

“That’s what I want to do with my life. And they would love to see my horse sent to the glue factory!”

“Oh there you are, Dicky.” It was Mrs. Traub yodeling to us from the waterfall end of the bar. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere—the Pro Shop, the putting green. I almost went into the men’s locker room.” And with a trill, she quickly added, “But of course I didn’t.”

Hearing that, one club member who must have known her quite well hopped off his barstool and, wrapping an arm around her waist, pulled her to him, grinding his hip against hers, and whispered something right in her ear that so amused her that she squealed with laughter. And she, as if to admonish him, squirmed out of his grasp and gave him a soft punch in the shoulder and a kiss on the cheek while saying, for all to hear, “Oh, Larry, you’re such a bad boy.” All the other men along the bar joined Larry and Mrs. Traub in good natured laughter.

“And Lloyd, darling,” she then turned to me, “the cocktail hour is starting and the Silvergolds are just dying to meet you.”

To be continued . . .