Sidney Blackpool pulled up in Otto Stringer’s driveway at 10:00 A.M. as promised. He was driving his Toyota Celica and wasn’t nearly as sartorially splendid as Otto. Sidney Blackpool wore a navy-blue cotton golf shirt and tan cotton pants and loafers.
“You look devastating,” he said to Otto, “but any more luggage and we rent a U-haul. We’re loaded to the gunwales.”
“I’d like to remind you we’re going to Palm Springs, dah-ling!” Otto said, trying to cram his clubs into the backseat of the Toyota. “You got to arrive looking three under par. You really oughtta gussy up a bit, Sidney. I don’t wanna be embarrassed.”
“I bet a hundred baby argyles died in agony for that sweater,” Sidney Blackpool said. “Wanna drive?”
“I’m too stoked,” Otto said. “I didn’t sleep three hours last night. Whaddaya think our hotel room’s gonna be like? Room my ass. Suite! Sooooo-weeeeet!”
Sidney Blackpool headed toward the Hollywood Freeway and they were on their way. As they cruised past the downtown interchange, Otto glanced toward the police building at Parker Center, got a shudder thinking of the tour at narcotics just ended, and found it impossible to straighten out the holiday grin. He was starting to believe that he might just survive to collect his pension now that he was ensconced at Hollywood Station and teamed up with Black Sid whom he’d known twelve years ago when they both worked patrol at Newton Street. He just wished Sid wasn’t so gloomy all the time.
“Wait’ll the Dragon Lady hears about this,” Otto said dreamily.
“That your ex? When’d you see her last?”
“I never see her or her little dragonettes. I never got a kind word from either a those adolescent brats the whole two years we were married. My ex-ex had three cubs and they all were mean.”
“A policeman’s lot is not so hot,” said Sidney Blackpool.
“Maybe in Palm Springs I’ll meet a new ex-wife,” Otto said. “A nice one. A rich one. Both a my exs only closed their eyes during sex cause they hated to see me have a good time. Most fun I ever got in bed was when they moved, which happened twice, once on each honeymoon. They put me into bankruptcy. My creditors finally said they’d clear my debts for ten cents on the dollar and I said, are you crazy? Who has that kind a money! If they could see me now!”
“Maybe we better turn around and visit your old squad room downtown,” Sidney Blackpool said. “You could use a dozen downers. Save a little rocket fuel for reentry, will ya? Our vacation might turn out to be a drag.”
“Never happen!” Otto said. “I already heard about our hotel, and this guy Watson, you know who his old lady is. He does nothing on the cheap. He wants results.”
“Not gonna be any results, Otto.”
“Yeah, but we can make it look good. When we’re not on the links, that is. Hey, remember that putter I was gonna buy last time we played Griffith Park? I shoulda bought it. I bet they jack up the prices in Palm Springs. Think maybe we should stop on the way and buy some golf balls?”
“Great golfers like us only need one each.”
“You know, Sidney, maybe we can both find a rich broad in Palm Springs. I mean, how many chances like this we ever gonna get? Living in a hotel suite, just signing our names for drinks and meals and …”
“One wife was enough for me,” Sidney Blackpool said. “More than enough.”
“Yeah, but you shouldn’t marry good-looking broads. I bet your ex is a looker.”
“A looker. Yeah, she is.”
“I want an ugly one next time,” Otto said. “They’re more appreciative. And it’s okay if she’s old. Shit, I’m old.”
“Younger than me.”
“Yeah, but I’m facing the big one, Sidney. Number four-oh. In two freaking weeks I’ll be middle-aged!”
“Forty isn’t middle-aged. Not exactly.”
“Do you know Paul McCartney is exactly your age? Ain’t that amazing. Seems like a year ago the Beatles were kids, don’t it? I can’t get my head off my fortieth. I’m taking it real hard. Thank God for this vacation, take my mind off middle age. First thing goes is your memory.”
“That’s the second thing.”
“I know, I know! Think that doesn’t scare me?”
“Settle, Otto,” Sidney Blackpool said. “Don’t jettison your parachute. The vacation may bum out.”
“Black Sid,” Otto said, shaking his head. “You don’t just see the glass half empty, you don’t even see the glass. Must get a parched throat being you. By the way, I saw a piece in the Times the other morning about anhedonia. Ever heard of it?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Well, I think you got anhedonia. It affects maybe one out of a hundred. It means you can’t have fun. No kind of fun. Just like you on a golf course. You look like Torquemada’s got the hot pliers on your nuts instead a just enjoying the game.”
“Nobody enjoys golf,” Sidney Blackpool said. “And what makes you think it’s a game?”
“Anyway, people with anhedonia never get turned on by anything. They just go through the motions.”
“Like me.”
“They don’t know if it’s congenital or not. People just go around, don’t give a shit. I thought a old Black Sid with the blank stare.”
“Maybe it’s not always congenital,” Sidney Blackpool said, and Otto Stringer’s rosy jowls flushed, and Sidney Blackpool knew that Otto had suddenly thought about Tommy Blackpool although they’d never discussed his boy.
Otto suddenly changed the subject saying, “Wish I hadn’t buffaloed-up like this. If I was still in uniform, I’d need the jaws of life to remove my Sam Browne. Think I’d look funny in golf knickers?”
“No funnier’n Pavarotti or Tip O’Neill,” Sidney Blackpool said, turning the radio to an easy-listening station and adjusting the volume just enough to give Otto some competition.
“You’re thin and you still got hair. It ain’t fair, middle age.”
“You got several hundred left,” Sidney Blackpool said. “We’ll get you a toup in Palm Springs.”
“Marry a rich broad, I could afford a weave.”
Sidney Blackpool had been teamed with Otto Stringer for only two months and liked him fine except he figured he might have to buy a pair of earmuffs from a TWA mechanic in order to cope.
“Did you get … philosophical about turning forty, Sidney?” Otto asked.
“No,” Sidney Blackpool said. He was still forty years old when he last saw Tommy. Sidney Blackpool stopped fearing middle age after that. In fact, he feared nothing.
“I’m getting that way,” Otto mused. “I think I’m old enough to settle down with a nice ugly rich broad. Wonder if Yoko Ono goes to Palm Springs. I got this fantasy I’d like to skizzle old Yoko in a strawberry field. Tribute to the Beatles, sort of.”
“That’s very philosophical, all right,” Sidney Blackpool said, kicking the Toyota into fifth and getting a bit less cynical about the vacation. Maybe he could straighten out the duck hook that was wrecking his tee shots lately.
The hotel was as good as the town had to offer. In the lobby was a tiled fountain with blue and red lights under the water. There was lots of rattan and wicker, and white ceiling fans. The hotel had a baby grand in the bar and ersatz Mexican arches over the balcony and Formica cocktail tables and more hanging ferns than Hawaii. In short, it was just ugly enough to make Otto Stringer say it was absolutely mah-velous.
While they registered and were waiting for a bellman, Otto ran to a wicker throne chair, put on his sunglasses and said, “Quick! Who am I?”
“I dunno,” Sidney Blackpool said. “Who are you?”
“Reverend Jim Jones, dummy!”