Boca Knights
Steven M. Forman
“.
The membership at Broken Sound was diverse but they all had two things in common. When the members were young they were all “wannabees.” Now they were all ustabees (you-stah-bees).
“I ustabe a heart surgeon Eddie,” said an octogenarian.
“That’s awesome, Dr Goober. Hey, let me get that golf bag for you.”
“Yeah, open heart surgery.”
“Wow. You driving or riding Doc?”
“Driving. Angioplasty was my specialty.”
“Balloons, right?”
“I guess that sums it up.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“It was. I held life and death in my hands at one time. Can you imagine that feeling Eddie?”
“As a matter of fact I can, Dr Goober.”
“No, you can’t. You’re a bag boy.”
“Actually, I’m the head of security here, Dr. Goober.”
“Is my golf bag secure?”
“Looks that way to me,” I said, rattling the bag for him to make sure.
“Good. So what does a security officer know about the power of life and death?”
“I ustabe a police detective, Dr. Goober. “When I had my gun aimed at a suspect, I had the same power you did with your scalpel.”
“I didn’t know you ustabe a police detective.”
“Everyone ustabe something before they got here, Dr. Goober.”
“Yes, that’s true,” the former heart surgeon said reflectively. “Everyone ustabe something,” he paused a moment, “I ustabe a heart surgeon you know.”
“I know, Dr. Goober. Well, hit ‘em straight.”
“It would easier for me to open a chest cavity,” he drove away, deep in thought.
__________________
“Where you from Mr. Shankman?”
“Philly. I ustabe a lawyer.”
“Do you know Dr. Shapiro? He’s from Philly?”
“Know him? I sued him.”
__________________
“I ustabe in business back in Chicago,” short and dapper Louie Lipshitz told me. His pure-white hair was slicked back and always in place. His golf clothes were coordinated, and his tan was perfect. He wore a big gold Jewish star around his neck.
“What kind of business, Mr. Lipshitz?”
“I sold African-American beauty supplies.”
“To African-Americans?”
“No, to Koreans. Of course to African-Americans.”
“Isn’t that an unusual profession for a white Jew?”
“I think being a white Jewish cop is even more bizarre.”
“Good point.”
__________________
“I ustabe a dentist.”
“Painless?”
“Not really. I hated every minute of it.”
__________________
“I ustabe a proctologist. No stupid comments please.”
“Hey, what do you think I am? An asshole?”
__________________
“I ustabe in ladies underwear.”
“I’m sure you still are, Mr. Krinitz.”
“Yeah, but don’t tell my wife, Eddie.”
“You told me you were single.”
__________________
“I ustabe an anesthesiologist.”
“I thought so,” I said stifling a yawn.
__________________
The male members were amicable and cheerful, for the most part, but there was something about them I found unsettling. These former captains of industry and highly respected professionals appeared to have lost their individuality in this homogenized environment. They blended together in a leisure universe of white hair, sunscreen and tightly scheduled fun. They reminded me of old thoroughbred race horses that had been put out to pasture as a reward for a winning career. They could still remember the thrill of the race, but their racing days were over. I don’t know why this bothered me. It didn’t seem to bother them.
They were a friendly, active fraternity with a camaraderie that reminded me of the tight knit cliques in the North End. The big difference was that the North End groups developed their sameness growing up, while the Broken Sound groups developed their sameness by growing old.
The female membership at the East Course was a different story. I was completely out of my element with one group known locally as Boca Babes. The “Boca Babe Look” was an unmistakable combination of chic clothing, beauty parlor magic, and surgical surprises. Under the professionally applied makeup and carefully selected designer clothes were good nose jobs, bad nose jobs, good boob jobs, bad boob jobs, good lip jobs, bad lip jobs, and face lifts that stretched the imagination.
The “Boca Babe attitude” was equally unmistakable. Boca Babes didn’t act as if they appreciated the idyllic lifestyle they were living. They acted as if they were entitled to this lifestyle. I don’t know if this attitude was developed by over indulgent parents in childhood or later in life by luxurious husbands, but it was a pervasive force at the course and impacted everyone it touched.
For the most part, there was a pleasant working relationship between the gophers and the golfers at the East Course. There was no relationship or appreciation, however, between the help and the Babes. Most of the time the help was invisible to the Babes until something wasn’t perfect. If something wasn’t perfect, someone had to pay. I tried to understand the Boca Babe mentality so we could co-exist. Unfortunately, I was only able to surmise a few things.
First of all, I learned not to waste my time analyzing Boca Babes who were second wives. They were easy to understand. Instead, I focused entirely on the majority of Broken Sound’s Boca Babes—the elder first wives. I concluded that they had married wisely, cared for their children faithfully, and waited patiently for this part of their lives. Their children now had children, and their husbands had the joys of golf and the comfort of sexual indifference. There were no serious demands on the time of these Boca Babes, so they were free to pamper and entertain themselves. Less than perfect was not in their plans for the day.
After careful analysis, I decided that the best way to deal with Boca Babes was to avoid them. That was not always possible.
Category: Baby Boomers, Books, Steven M. Foreman
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