The Natural

The Natural

by

Burt Sage

“Phil Haskell to Reception, Phil Haskell to Reception,” the loudspeaker blares.

That’s me. I’m service manager here at Ed Haskell Cadillac.

“Not again,” I think. It’s been like this all morning. I was hoping for a break this year. It’s Tuesday, the morning after our annual Labor Day sale. It’s the biggest sales event of the year for us. Customers wait all year to get their new Cadillac at clearance prices. The new models will be arriving in a few weeks and we need to reduce our inventory.

I don’t blame them, though. I’d do the same thing if I didn’t get the employee discount.

“Phil Haskell to Reception,” the loudspeaker blares again.

As I make my way to the customer reception area, I wonder what minor problem the customer will have this time. Usually it’s someone who would rather talk to a person than read the user’s manual. Or why the car already has over 50 miles on it. Maybe it’ll be something different this time.

It is. Waiting in the reception area is a tall, athletically built and ruggedly handsome man in his early to mid thirties. Our receptionist is directing me to him.

“Hi,” I say as I walk up. “I’m Phil Haskell, service manager. What can I do for you?”

“My name is Jerry Butler,” he responds. “I’d like to apply for the mechanic’s position you advertised in Sunday’s paper.”

“Excellent,” I say. “Did you bring a resume?”

“Yes, sir,” Jerry replies.

I motion to one of the salesmen about using his office. He nods OK. Jerry and I go into the vacant office.

“Let’s see the resume,” I begin.

He hands it to me. One page, only half full. Right away I see it’s not a typical resume. There’s no mention of any experience as an automobile mechanic. And his mailing address for the last 15 years, 1948 to 1963, is South Carolina Department of Corrections in Columbia.

“Where to begin,” I think to myself.

He must have read my mind. “Yes, I’m a felon,” he says matter-of-factly. “I pled guilty to aggravated manslaughter. It was my fault. Here are my discharge papers.”

“What happened?” I ask.

“With all due respect, sir, I can’t tell you. I was tried as a juvenile since I was 17 at the time. I am not at liberty to tell you more than the charge, the plead, and time served.”

“I see,” I say. “I also notice that you have no experience as a mechanic. Why do you think you’re qualified for the job?”

“I love cars,” he says. “I got one as soon as I turned 16. Paid $50 for an old beat-up pickup. There was a whole bunch of things wrong with that truck. It needed new brakes, new tires, and the oil hadn’t been changed for years gauging from the viscosity of the gunk that I managed to retrieve from the crankcase. Got it running pretty good.”

“Did you have any help fixing it up?” I ask.

“No, sir. My mind seems to understand how things work. I was always fixing things around the house before…”

His voice drifts off.

“I understand,” I say. “Was the truck involved in the crime?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t talk about it.”

“So,” I say, “You have no experience as an employee working on cars, and you spent 15 years in prison. Please tell me why I should hire you.”

He answered like he had spent hours rehearsing his answer to this question.

“First of all, sir, I love cars. Second, I want a job working with cars. I don’t think there’s a better way to earn a living than to do the thing you love and do it well. Third, my fifteen years behind bars acquainted me with some of the most unsavory characters I’ll ever hope to meet. It taught me that not obeying the rules has consequences. Because they fought the prison rules, some of the inmates left as hardened criminals. Whatever rules you have, I will honor them. Fourth, and most important, I’m not afraid of work. With me you’ll get a full day’s work for a day’s pay. I’ll do whatever you assign me to do. I’ll even provide our customers with my phone number so that they can call me after hours if they need help with their car. Ed Haskell Cadillac has a reputation of being first class when it comes to service. I will honor that tradition.”

“Excuse me for a moment, please,” I say to Jerry.

“Of course, sir,” he replies.

I leave Jerry alone in the small office for two reasons. First, I want to see what he does. Will he rifle the desk drawer, for example. Second, I need to discuss the situation with Dad, our General Manager. I ask one of the sales guys to keep an eye on Jerry while I go to Dad’s office.

All Dad says is that it’s up to me.

When I ask the sales guy what Jerry has done, he says that Jerry just sat in his chair. He didn’t move.

When I go back into the sales office, Jerry immediately stands up.

“Sit down, Jerry,” I say. “We’re not done yet.”

“Is this the first place you’ve applied for work?” I ask.

“Yes, sir,” Jerry replies. “I want to be a member of the Ed Haskell Cadillac team. You have such a good reputation. I want to be with winners.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” I think. But I ask, “Are you willing to work odd hours? Including evenings, weekends and holidays?”

“Of course, sir.”

“And when the work isn’t done by quitting time, are you willing to stay and make sure the work is completed?”

“Of course, sir.”

“OK,” I say. “Here’s what we can offer. We’ll give you a one week trial period, starting next Monday. You’ll be assigned to one of our top mechanics. You’re to do whatever he asks you to do, be it rotate tires or wash the car. He’ll ask you to do a variety of tasks to judge your ability to learn this business. If we like what we see during that week, you will be offered a full time position with benefits including health coverage and earned time off which you can use at your discretion.

You’ll be on probation during the first six months, but you’ll also be earning your part of the profit sharing plan during that time. Once you have passed probation, you will be fully vested in the profit sharing plan.

Oh, and we’ll pay you $3.50 an hour and you’ll work at least 40 hours a week. Are these terms acceptable?”

A broad smile spread across Jerry’s face. “That’ll be fine,” he says.

“Good,” I say. “I’ll get you a job application form to fill out. Provided there are no issues based on that information, we’ll see you next Monday.”

I take him to the receptionist who provides Jerry with an application form. As Jerry walks to a nearby table to fill it out, I could swear I see a fist pump.

The trial week passes quickly. The mechanic that Jerry works with gives him a solid rating. “Likely to be a valued member of the Ed Haskell Cadillac team” is what he writes on his appraisal.

A valued member turns out to be quite accurate. It isn’t long before customers are asking that Jerry be the mechanic on their car.

Jerry keeps to himself, mostly. He’s always in the shop working on cars or reading the latest service bulletins.

It’s about a month into his probation period when Jerry learns about the Haskell passion for golf. In Grandpa Ed’s design of the sprawling automobile dealership that Ed Haskell Cadillac has become, he created an indoor golf facility. There are six driving mats where full shots can be hit into a net. And there’s a 2000 square foot putting green (artificial turf so we wouldn’t have to mow it). It’s complete with hydraulic lifters that allow the contours of the green to be shaped so that the 9 hole “putting course” can be adjusted to provide new and different putting challenges each time. And of course there is a 19^th hole with a bar.

There’s snow on the ground today; not very many car owners have wanted service done on their cars. The service bays are all empty and for the first time Jerry decides to explore the unfamiliar parts of the dealership. He finds all five of the Haskell golfers: Grandpa Ed, my father Tom, my brother Tim, who’s a touring pro, my ten year old son Jim, and I engaged in a putting contest in the golf facility.

The five of us kind of jump when we hear the door open.

“Wow,” Jerry says as he surveys the facility. “I had heard rumors of your passion for golf, but I never expected anything like this. This is really cool!”

Now that Jerry is here, we break off from our putting contest to welcome him in. “Do you play golf,” Dad asks.

“I’ve never held a club in my hand,” Jerry says. “I played a lot of table tennis while in jail, but golf was not an option. I guess the warden was concerned about how many inmates would return if he let us out on a golf course.”

We chuckle. “Would you like to take a swing?” I ask.

“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” Jerry says.

Have you ever swung a baseball bat?” Tim asks.

“Oh, yes,” Jerry says. “I played on my high school baseball team. I had a batting average of over 300.”

Eyebrows go up. Good at table tennis. Batted over 300 in high school baseball. Must have good hand-eye coordination.

“Then I’ll bet you can hit a golf ball,” Tim says. “The golf swing is little more than a bent-over baseball bat swing. The seven iron is about the easiest club to use. Come over here to a mat and I’ll get you one.”

Tim gets the club and meets Jerry at one of the mats. Tim drops a ball on the mat. “Now,” Tim says, “stand like you would to hit a baseball and hold the golf club straight out in front of you. Good. Now, without breaking your wrists, bend your knees slightly and bend over at the waist so that the club just touches the mat behind the ball. Good. In this position just make your baseball swing while keeping your head steady and your eye on the ball.”

He does.

The sound of a golf ball being hit well is a sound all experienced golfers recognize. Unfortunately, for most golfers, they never hear it when they hit the ball. It is so distinctive that when you’re at a driving range and you hear it, you stop and look around to see where it came from. And you are not surprised that all but one of the other golfers at the range have done the same thing.

That’s the sound we hear when Jerry hits his first shot. We all just look at each other, stunned.

“Hit another one,” Tim says.

Without any help, Jerry gets another ball, adopts the same stance and swings. It makes the same sound.

Jerry looks up at us and sees that we are looking at each other. “Did I do something wrong?” he asks.

“Oh my God, no!” we all say at once.

“One eighty at least, and that’s just carry.” Tim says. “Let’s try the driver.”

Jerry hits his first drive.

“Two eighty,” Tim says. “He’s a natural.”

“But can he putt?” my son Jim asks.

“Good question,” Tim says. “Have you ever played putt-putt?”

“Once or twice,” Jerry says. “I thought it was silly. The putts are all straight. What’s so hard about that?”

I can see Tim wince. Putting is the most challenging part of his game.

“So you think putting is simple?” Tim asks. “Come here.”

They go to the putting green and Tim selects a specific hole ten feet away. “From here it’s straight in,” Tim says. “Have a go.”

Jerry looks at the array of putters against the wall. “Is there one that I should prefer?” he asks.

“Pick any one you like,” Tim says.

Jerry picks one, lines the putt up and hits it. The putt dies about half way to the hole. But it was on line.

“Golf course greens are typically slower than putt-putt holes,” Tim says. “You have to hit it harder.”

Jerry lines up another putt and hits it. It goes farther, but it’s still short. Like the last time, it was on line.

The third putt is the charm. Right into the center of the cup.

Jerry sinks his next two ten footers as well.

Tim looks at the rest of us with a huge smile on his face. “The Haskell foursome is sure to win the Chamber of Commerce charity tournament this summer.”

“This is cause for celebration!” Dad says. Looking Jerry straight in the eye he says, “You have no idea how good you are. With Tim’s help, you’ll be breaking 70 before you know it. This facility is yours to use whenever you like.”

I go over to the bar saying “Beer for all!” and proceed to pull out a six pack and hand them out.

Jerry politely declines.

“C’mon, Jerry,” Dad says. “This is all about you. Down the hatch.”

“Please,” Jerry says. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” Dad asks. “We’re all just working folk. We need a good time every now and then.”

A pained look crosses Jerry’s face. Clearly he is fighting an internal battle of some sort.

At this point my Grandpa Ed pipes up. “Let him be. He’s got his reasons. I’m sure they’re good ones.” Then, “You want a Coke, Jerry?”

Relieved, Jerry says “I’d love one.”

“Great,” Grandpa says.

Turning to Jim, Grandpa says, “There’s some in the service customer’s lounge. Go get him one.”

The celebration of Jerry’s new found golf talent goes on, but with somewhat lesser enthusiasm than might have been.

Over the next several weeks Jerry and I spend quite a bit of time together, especially on trips over to the Eagle Valley Country Club where the Haskells are lifetime members. It’s mostly time we spend on the practice range, with Jerry learning to shape his shots and how to put different amounts of spin on the ball. The course still isn’t open for actual play.

A strong bond is forming between us. Clearly Jerry needs a friend, having just gotten out of prison. I am attracted to his forthright manner—there is never any hint at game playing or looking for favoritism.

As usual, though, there are some peculiarities. Like when he drives a customer’s car around to the customer lounge to deliver it after it has been serviced. He won’t move the car an inch until the area is completely clear of people.

And the way he drives. He treats caution lights as though they were red lights. Even if we are almost into an intersection, he will slam on the brakes when the light turns yellow. Once he stopped so suddenly that I heard the squeal of the tires of the car behind us as it stopped.

As the weather gets warmer, finally we have a chance to play complete rounds of golf. He breaks 80 the very first time.

Concepts of course management are explained to him. What it means to be short-sided. Why you don’t always aim for the pin on your approach. And why it’s better to tee off with an iron sometimes rather than a driver on par fours.

Jerry is a quick learner. Only four months after that day in the practice facility at work he breaks par for the first time.

It’s just after dawn one Sunday morning, and Jerry and I are sitting in my golf cart ready to head down to the first tee for a round together. There’s nobody ahead of us—it should be a quick round. There are very few people around this early, just one woman slowly walking down the cart path ahead of us to the practice area.

I’m driving. As I start down the path, moving gently to the left to pass the woman, Jerry suddenly grabs the wheel and jerks the cart sharply to the left, off the cart path and down the hill towards a lake. Using all my strength, I manage to stop the cart just before we plunge into the water.

I am about to say “What the hell!” when I notice that Jerry has his face buried in his hands and is sobbing. “I’m so sorry!” he keeps sobbing. “I’m so sorry!”

My anger is gone. “Sorry about what?” I gently ask.

He looks up at me, his eves red with tears. “I was going too fast. Way too fast. The light ahead of me turned yellow and I floored it, trying to beat it. I see her too late. I hit her. Hard. I stop and race back to her, laying crumpled on the cross walk. I lift her head to comfort her. She looks up at me, tries to say something, but the light goes out in her eyes. She died in my arms, Phil. She died in my arms!”

I hug him. No words. I just hug him.

The crowd that gathers sees two adult men sitting together in a golf cart on the side of a hill just short of driving into a lake. One of the men is crying, the other is hugging the crying man.

Nobody sees the burden lifting from Jerry’s shoulders.