LITMIR.BIZ

      Alex’s pulse quickened as he struggled up the hill toward the first tee at Crooked Stick, an exclusive country club in Carmel, Indiana, a near north suburb of Indianapolis. He looked forward, with great anticipation, to his weekly game of golf. Nearing the tee, he knew that he was in for some serious ribbing from his golfing buddies for showing up late. The three of them were already pacing on the tee and taking occasional short, quick practice swings as they awaited his arrival. Jake, owner of a local computer store, was the first to see Alex approaching the tee.

      “Evening, Alex,” Jake joked, leaning down to tee up his ball.

      “Good afternoon everyone. Sorry I’m late.”

      “Late? Hell, we’re all tickled pink,” Dr. Will Everett barked. “This is the first time we’ve teed off before 1:15 this month.”

      Alex grinned and shook his head, “That’s BS Doc, and you know it.”

      “Okay fellas, take it easy on him. He probably had to run an errand for Nicky or something,” attorney Joe shouted.

      The other players howled in delight. This was the ultimate insult among golfers—to insinuate that an order from one’s wife was the reason for being late.

      “You’re all hopeless,” Alex shot back. “But at least your money’s good, so let’s hit it.”

      “Throw your bag on my cart, we’re riding together,” Jake ordered.

      Alex dropped his bag on the back of his old friend’s cart, tightened the strap, and carefully lifted his prize Taylor-made driver from the bag. He yanked off the head cover and tossed it in the little metal basket behind the seat.

      “Twenty a hole and double for birds,” Doc announced. The wager had been the same for years, but someone always had to announce it just to be sure they were all on the same page. And, as usual, all of the men nodded in the affirmative.

      “Good,” Doc replied, “Joe and I will play you two sandbaggers.”

      “Like taking candy from a baby,” Alex joked as he and Jake enjoyed a high-five.

      “Couldn’t have said it better, pard,” Jake laughed.

      Doc leaned over and ripped some grass from the ground and gently tossed it in the air. “The wind’s right at us and it’s a two hundred yard carry over deep rough to that damned fairway,” he complained.

      “You’re the one who always wants to play Crooked Stick, Doc, there are other courses around here, ya know,” Jake barked.

      Doc addressed the ball and prepared to hit his drive. The group suddenly fell quiet as he slowly lifted his club and swung hard at the ball. There was a sharp metallic clicking sound as his driver blasted into the ball.

      “Great drive, Doc!” Joe shouted. “Looks like another big day for the good guys.”

      The other men hit their drives with all of them successfully reaching the distant fairway. They jumped aboard their carts and sped down the asphalt pathway toward their next shot.

      “Tough day at the office?” Jake asked. Golf tees and loose change bounced in the cart’s console as they drove along the bumpy path.

      “Yeah, seems like they’re all tough lately. The board doesn’t want me to pay back the bailout money and I’m determined to do it.”

      Jake shook his head. “The Government is throwing money around like it grows on trees. That stimulus bill is huge. It’s kind of scary, but I’ll take it, I guess.”

      “Oh yeah?”

      “Yeah, we’ve been chosen to help install broadband throughout Marion County. It’s a huge project and should make us well for the year. It’s not really needed. We’re replacing an existing system, but what the hay? If they got an extra hundred mil to throw around, we’ll take it.”

      “Nice deal. You install the unneeded broadband and take your money and run. It’s different with the TARP money, it’s more long term. They get inside your organization and soon they’re running every facet of your business. It’s not long before they’re telling you when you can go to the bathroom.” The brakes squeaked as the cart jerked to a stop.

      “You’re up, short knocker,” Jake joked.

      “What are we Jake? About 130?”

      Jake leaned over the side of the cart and looked down. “This sprinkler head right here says 136. Looks like a wedge.”

      Suddenly, Joe Patterson shouted from across the fairway at the two men. “I was there yesterday Alex, it’s about 165. Hit a seven!”

      “Thanks Joe,” he shouted back at his opponent. Alex watched as Joe and Doc, their shoulders shaking in laughter, continued toward their balls.

      “Seven my foot,” Alex said quietly. He reached into his bag and lifted out his pitching wedge. “If I hit a seven iron from here, I’ll fly the green by thirty yards.”

      “Those ass-holes will do anything for twenty bucks,” Jake laughed.

      Alex made a couple of practice swings, took his final stance, held still over the ball, lifted the club up slowly and took a nice steady swing. A large divot flew into the air as the ball smacked off the clubface and shot toward the green, bouncing twice and then rolling down an incline to within ten feet of the hole.

      “Great shot, partner!” Jake exclaimed.

      He and Alex chuckled, they turned and watched Joe and Doc both hit their shots into a greenside bunker. The two shook their heads as they angrily slammed their clubs in their bags and jumped back in the cart.

      Suddenly, the smile disappeared from Alex’s face. “I worry about my grandkids Jake. With all this massive spending taking place in Washington, we’re going to leave them with a bankrupt country that’s supported by a bankrupt Government.”

      “Yeah, I know Alex. I worry about my grandkids a lot too.”

      They arrived at Jake’s ball. “You‘re up, long knocker.”

      Jake

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