A Walk in the Sun

[Max Sawicky]

I had just made the turn and slammed a perfect
drive down the right side of the fairway, when
up drove a lady with the refreshments in her
golf cart.  She noticed my sinewy forearms,
glistening with perspiration.  "Snapple?"  
I declined with a grunt.  I was thinking
about whether I could reach the green with
my six iron.  But she wasn't finished.
"You're pretty long off the tee," she said.
That got my attention.  I looked her up and
down for the first time. She was wearing
little white shorts, a midriff revealing
short tee shirt, and a white sun visor that
said "Pro Staff."  She had legs that went
all the way to the Chesapeake Bay, if you
know what I mean.  Then I spied a copy
of the Verso edition of the Communist Manifesto
in her basket, next to the strawberry
Gatorade.  She followed my eyes and raised
her eyebrows.  "Are you down with the people?"
she asked.  Then I realized my moral dilemma.
I had a lock.  This was a done deal.  All I
had to do was ride it home.  But I would have
to play Robbie the Rinky-Dink Red.

I had heard all the buzzwords.  I could chant
the latest slogans.  I knew that the world economy
was on the verge of collapse.  In fact, it had
been so for the past twenty years.  So do I
play along, for the sake of "penetrating the
most backward regions of the proletariat,"
as Chairman Mao said, or do I own up to my
miserable sell-out of revolutionary ideals?
Then I realized.  Come the revolution, they're
going to shoot me anyway.  So what the hell.

Pulling out my six iron, I said, "We need a
revolutionary party; that's what I'm about."
Then we exchanged e-mail addresses.

MBS