Jack Duff Junior

Let me be upfront about this out of the blocks. There is vanity at work here.

I have been inspired to write this memoir - call it a rationalization of my life, or a justification of my existence, or a revisionist biography for all I care - after seeing on the tube some weeks ago, my name referenced in a… how shall I put this?…well, in a not so flattering manner.

Bluntly put, I was the answer to a trivia question.

I was not put on this fucking blue and green orb floating in space with no beginning and with no end to become a footnote in the annals of modern golf.

Let me back up a bit. To the some weeks ago part. To the more current history of my life.

I am the resident golf professional here on the Isles of Fair Eiron, an archipelago of greensward as the brochures put it, here where the North Sea and the Gulfstream intersect. I have been living on these islands since late 1996 after my plane ran out of fuel and crashed on the par five fifth fairway of the South Course, the hole the locals know as Oblivion. I had just won the General Weapons World Association of Golf Championship in Australia and I was flying solo to Sweden in order to at once reclaim my infant son from and to bed the woman who was taking care of him, my then newly dead ex-wife's lesbian lover Inga Bjornson.

Okay that sounds rather complicated but it’s not really. It made sense at the time. And made quite a stir in the tabloid press and on exploitative television programs. But as it is with these things over time, the shock value wanes and the narrative does not sustain. So, if you can’t recall or weren't paying attention then, never fear. All will be laid out in due course, with a view toward clarity. Yes life is mess but it does make sense if you don't think about it.

Anyway getting back to a few weeks ago.

I was sitting here in the clubhouse catching up on some paperwork of an early Sunday evening. There were a couple of patrons at the bar - Sean Connery and Nick Faldo - watching the final round of the OilCo Blue Lagoon Billion Dollar Blowout being played over The Blue Booby down in the Galapagos Islands. I wasn't paying much attention, really. Despite the fact that the Galapagos was one of my favorite stops when I played on the World Tour. A real pretty place, much nicer now I hear, since they finally got rid of all those damn cormorants and fucking penquins shitting all over the greens.

"In 1996, which former World Association of Golf member, blew a nine shot lead in the final round of that year's OilCo Blue Lagoon Billion Dollar Blowout. Here's a hint. Adam 'Thee' King was the eventual winner. The answer right after a few words from Arnold B Sawgrass, CEO of OilCo."

The guys at the bar glanced my way. I kept my head down, pretending to be oblivious.

"Hey, Jacko. They're bringing up that fiasco again." The pair chuckled in their pints. Normally I'd tell them to fuck off, you know, in that jocular familiar sort of way. But I just raised a hand, like I didn’t care. I'd endured worse ribbing. From greater souls than those two fucks I might add.

Over the years I've glanced rather disinterestedly at a fair bit of WAG golf. And it hasn't bothered me either way. There's never been a sense of loss, or an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. No longing to return to what once was.

But in this instance, on hearing the voice of the very familiar TAFT TV announcer Guy Stump, something did rub me the wrong way. Something was being stirred up inside. My memories of the event, the external stimuli, the sights, the sounds the smells, - the roiling blue Pacific, the polite yet enthusiastic gallery twenty five thousand strong, the fragrance of marinated tortoise wafting over the course from the grill room at the Beagle Bar - you know, that shit - was presently being tempered by some deep slow psychic heat or was being tampered with by some immovable ineluctable spirit. In other words my body was fucking with my mind. Or vice versa. My nerve endings were now complementing the empirical remembrances I was holding in my brain, a faint minor chord reverberating over a series of sweet still photos.

It was the answer to that trivia question that cemented it for me, like a great big boot in the balls.

"Which WAG pro blew a nine shot lead in 1996 eventually losing to his chief rival, next door neighbour and best friend Adam 'Thee' King. The answer: the late Jack Duff Jr."

And it wasn't 'the late' part that got my bag in a knot, either. That I've all along accepted. That the world presumes me to be dead is fine by me as I am physically grounded in a place of complete resignation. And I mean that literally. Not metaphorically. Here on Fair Eiron acceptance is a way of life. And, frankly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Even though the publication of this memoir will cause some sensation, cause some attention to come my way, cause a few pounds to flow into the kitty - that's not my reason for doing this. Jack Duff Jr. Back From the Dead! The Dead tells All! To cause a brief sensation. To scream Hey look at me! No no no. That's not my purpose.

The part that bugged me, the part that has incited this memoir, this recollection of my life, this reordering of the details, were the words 'best friend'. There's the rub. That is the impetus.

Adam Thee King was my best friend? Ha!

Let me set you straight on that. Adam 'Thee' King was, is, and always will be a fucking cocksucker. Adam King was never my best friend. I wish the man no ill by saying any of this either. He's just another cunt.

Let me give you a for instance going back to that time, that very day in 1996.

I was standing over a putt on the eighteenth green. My lead had already evaporated and I had already lost the tournament. I was left with a final three foot putt to close out the day with a 79, which would have left me well back in a tie for fifth. I was the last player on the course having been in the final group of the day. Even my playing partner Moses Bunt was in the press tent profusely thanking Jesus Christ for the good fortune He had bestowed upon his fat self that day.

A three foot putt.

I clearly remember standing over the putt. I'd looked at it from all angles. It was a simple putt straight up the hill. I knew the line.

"C'mon Jack, hit the putt, mate. We gotta going. Rumpole's on at 9." Adam began poking me in the ass with the flagstick. I never did pull the trigger. I never did hit that putt. I never did finish the round. I was DQ'd. Adam finally picked up my ball and led me by the elbow off the green. The sun had set. The stands were empty.

That evening, we flew home to the States in Adam's plane. Mine was in the shop for repairs.

I sat in silence in the co-pilots seat for the first two hours. Well, not in complete silence. In my headset I was listening to some Tibetan Buddhist chants. I was silent. I said nothing. I didn't really feel like talking much. And with Adam about there was never much need to do any amount of talking.

He was in his own state of euphoria, a high borne of his inflated ego, and yet another win, the year's first. No concern for me. No concern that I might be suffering.

"You know Jack I constantly amaze myself. Just when I think I've done it all I manage to top my self. You know, some day I'm going to write a book about myself. On second thought a book wouldn't do my life justice. I'm going straight to film with it. I can see it. It’s laid out like a symphony on the back of my forehead. All in one piece. A masterpiece. The only problem is there may be no ending. Just when I come to what I think is a climax I do something bigger and better and more amazing. And yet, Jack, I remain relatively normal."

"Adam, you're hardly normal. You're one of the wealthiest men alive. You're married to a former Miss Mulatto Universe. You've got twelve beautiful children. You live in a sixteenth century palace that has been disassembled and relocated to an ideal climate - I mean you're the King of the World."

"No, I'm not the King of the World, Jack I'm the King of England, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland" (Adam had purchased the Crown in 1994 from the House of Windsocks as he liked to call them for an undisclosed sum.) "And I don't have everything as you say. Not yet. I don't win every golf tournament. Sometimes I come in second, sometimes third. But I keep smiling. You should try that sometime Jack, Smiling. You think you smile but you don't really. You smirk. See. You're smirking now. Then you fold your arms and you look away. See. Just like that. You smirk, fold your arms, and then look away. Then you snort. See. You just snorted. See Jack, I know you better than you know yourself. You think you know yourself. But you don't. I know you better than you know yourself."

Allright so perhaps that's not how the conversation went. Exactly. And is that my for instance? That Adam 'Thee' King is a cunt because he's an out of control raging egomaniac who has the gall to presume that he knows me better than I know myself? No.

Or rather, partially.

We deplaned on the shared runway that separated our residences in Safehaven, Arizona. Adam's footman Gaston was there to help remove our bags from the cargo bay. He handed Adam his phone messages.

"Bob Hope called?" asked Adam, as if Bob Hope had never called him before. As if Bob Hope wasn't one of his best friends. "Fantastic. What'd did he want?"

"Merely offering his congratulations on your tremendous come from behind victory today... I believe, sire," Gaston gave me a sly sideways glance as he slid melodioulsy over the words 'come from behind' and then bowed demurely. That was the thing about Gaston. I was never sure if his gentlemanly manner was a put on or what. I mean here you have this older black guy - easily in his sixties, fit and wrinkled, with a distinquished calm about his head, with a bit of a French patois thing going for him, a bit of education obviously, from where who knows - who knows where people come from, who knows what sort of background they have anymore - and there he is in white linens right down to the white linen gloves taking this service thing a bit far as far as I was concerned. He bowed again after Adam barked some instructions regarding the returning cargo - his clubs, his laundry, his catch of Lake Titicaca gnu. Adam's tone was officious, not cruel, granted, but still, I don't know, harsh. Adam barked further orders to Gaston about my stuff, turned on his heel and headed for the main house.

"See you in the morning Jack? Come over and hit some balls."

I said yeah okay as I wasn't sure what I had on the menu for the next day. Never did. I was always one to live in the moment. Not much on plans. Some might say I was a bit spacey. Out there. Some found this aspect of my personality charming; others, like my fat short stupid wife, it drove mad. Me? I'd given up kicking myself over it long before. And it was about to serve me well in the coming months, along The Path to Enlightenment.

I tried to give Gaston a hand unloading my stuff from the plane but he'd have none of it.

"You may if you wish go ahead to your house, Mr. Duff. I will bring your things along presently."

"Gaston, can I ask you a question?"

"Yes, Mr. Duff?"

"Gaston, you’ve worked for Adam for several years now. I’m not sure how to ask this but well, don’t you find him to be a bit hard - on you - at times?"

"Mister Duff, I’m afraid I am finding myself inclined toward the dissuasion of your entreaties at this moment. To engage in conversations of this nature, well, it goes against the grain of my conscience. His majesty is my employer, yes, you are correct in that assumption. But I have pledged to him my allegiance and fealty and so therefore I am his devoted and silent servant. To wit, to become involved in conversations of this nature would be to betray a trust. You ask me ‘is he hard', a seemingly innocent question. Ha! Questions of a more diabolical nature are asked of me routinely by the tabloid media. Monies have been offered. Sums dozens of times larger than my yearly income. Cash for my socalled insights into the goings-on of the household. Sir, I do not trade in gossip. It would, I believe, undermine the stability of the monarchy."

"Gaston. I was just wondering if he was a bit hard on you, the way he orders you about."

"That is my job."

"Your job is to haul luggage, fold underwear, answer the door, not to be treated like dirt."

Gaston took a step back. His entire body, once athletic, utilitarian, was quivering in anger.

"Why do you find it necessary to humiliate me like this Mr. Duff."

"Gaston, it was never my intention..."

"To remind me of my shame? That I am not a professional golfer?"

"Gaston, I’m sorry."

"You are rubbing my nose in it like a dog. From His Highness, I take it, but from you I do not. Now, if you would be so kind as to excuse me Mr Duff I will take my leave."

"You don’t need my permission, Gaston."

Gaston stood motionless, making his point.

"Mr. Duff, you are making this very difficult."

"Gaston I just wanted to know if you found him a bit harsh at times, that’s all."

"You would like me to confirm what I suspect you already know. Will that please you then? If I answer your question? Very well, then. Yes, His Majesty is a hard man. His Majesty is, in a word, a prick. Worse, His Majesty regularly beats Her Highness the Queen. His Majesty buggers the kitchen staff at will, and has deflowered each of the several virgin nannies who have been employed in the House. His Majesty tortures the Corgis. And for those unfortunate souls who dare stand in his way, His Majesty has, in the past, had them executed. Royally, as they say. There you have it. That is all I am going to say."

I was stunned by these revelations. I'd known Adam for years and had always suspected a dark side, a morass, a knot of deceit, some sadness behind that ever present smile, but never had I suspected this sort of thing. I was nonplussed.

"You’re kidding?" These were the only words I could manage.

Gaston exploded: "Of course I am kidding! Adam "The" King is the greatest human being I have ever served. His Majesty is hard on me and I accept that because it is my role. I am his valet. I act and dress and talk like a valet. I know my place. And I would have thought that you, by now, would have known your place at court. In your position as consort to ‘The’ King, it is your privilege, your responsibility -"

"My place at court? This isn’t medieval Europe. This is America. We’re all equal, Gaston."

"Equal? We are all cards in the deck, yes, but we have different value. I am but a two of cups to the King of Hearts. "

"And what am I? The Jack of Spades."

"Jack of Spades? Ha! No. You flatter yourself. Jack of Clubs, perhaps. But you have no clubs, it would appear."

Gaston handed me a clipboard with the airplane's shipping manifest, an itemized log of the cargo that had left the Galapagos some four hours prior. My clubs never made the trip.

"You have left them in the Galapagos. Like a Fool. Yes, that’s it, You are The Fool. The Joker. The Clown. Now if you would be so kind, I have work to do."

So there I was making presumptions about Gaston much the same way Adam had made and would continue to make presumptions about me.

'You should smile more often Jack. Be more like me.'

I was being more like him. I was being a complete fucking asshole. But that's on me. No need to be a fucking asshole like him. I could be a fucking asshole in my own right.

Adam with his big sunny disposition was not just the center of the world, he was the centre of the universe. His ego was not of this world. As his golf game was beyond superstar status, his ego was beyond the superego. His ego was positively helio. His children were the planets. His wife was Mother Earth upon whom he shone his love daily. I suppose I was the moon. I should have been happy with that. And I suppose I was.

But the metaphor doesn't hold. Nothing is permanent.