The feudal system is alive and well. Historians would claim it faded into obscurity a few hundred years ago, but they obviously have never experienced the atmosphere at a country club. I should know, I'm a mere peasant serving royalty. To be honest, I'm a waiter -- a commoner -- at a glitzy country club in New York State. The upper crust that I serve are the members: their (ahem!) royal highnesses.
Let me start off by saying that I don't automatically blame anybody for being wealthy or wanting and possessing nice things. But, at the risk of sounding immature and hostile, I don't expect them to be a jerk about it. Describing these people and their lifestyles is a difficult task to an outsider. They're weird. Let me be more concrete. Do you ever talk to somebody and at the conclusion of that conversation think to yourself, "Is this person from the same planet I'm from?" Well, that's the feeling I get when talking to these members. I always thought when a member leaves the country club, he or she escapes to a secret castle set away expressly for people like themselves. However, I have finally realized that the club and golf course is that secret castle. It is where these baronesses and earls go to hold court, feel important and talk about how much money so and so makes and discuss their displeasure over not having rare enough roast beef to eat after losing a $500 bet on the golf course.
While this piece was written with the sole intention of describing me as a waiter -- it's becoming a joy trying to understand and describe some of the members. Through their idiosyncrasies will come an understanding for my current cynicism about the whole system.
The lord is the president of the club, usually an up and coming member who has fresh new ideas on how to improve his castle. Alas, a president can only do so much. This is where he hands some power over to his vassals. It is here that these members preside over committees such as house and entertainment, pool, sand trap, greens, publicity, rules and regulations, food and about a dozen more municipalities. Talk about inmates running the asylum.
We're not done though. The lord and vassals need an enforcer. This is where the white knight comes in. He is the general manager of the country club. He is also a non-member, middle-aged and used to running things. In the case of this country club, the white knight is my father. And talk about the irony of all ironies, he used to be a member at this very same club. A couple bumps along the road led to his working for, instead of with, these jovial group of royals. It can be said that he has the most important job out of anyone. He deals with the serfs and peasants. They, consisting of the chef and cook, waiters and waitresses, golf pro and caddies, course superintendent and locker room managers and all the other assorted malcontents (including me), make the system work. Any talk of a revolution and our lords would be cooking and serving themselves, cleaning their own shoes and fertilizing their own greens (around some greens we use real manure). Our importance is tantamount.
Now remember, our tasks must be done with a straight face. The members expect us to be at their beck and call and be happy in our work. Believe me, this is no easy task.
"More mint jelly with the pork chops, (1) Mrs. Uppity?"
"Oh! forgive me, not enough cashews in your mixed nuts, (2) Mr. Epicure?"
Don't get me wrong, I like Mrs. Uppity. I like Mr. Epicure. But I also enjoy poking a little fun. But it isn't always that easy. For instance, here is a recent incident that would test the loyalty of any of the kingdoms most loyal subjects...
At this summer's Labor Day Ball, a certain (3) Mr. Clutterbuck, known to the hoi polloi as "His Impestuosity," obviously having had one too many, comes swaggering through the main portal of the grand ball. He descends upon the aforementioned white knight, brandishing his wife's pocketbook, demanding immediate attention (if not sooner). I, who was in the process of rectifying Mr. Epicures cashew count, was startled by the commotion. What had gone wrong? Seems as though Mr. Clutterbuck was dissatisfied with the evening's seating arrangements. His customary table of 17 years was given to a higher ranking lord. A ghastly mistake on the part of the white knight. Sir Clutterbuck ranted and raved and to the surprise of many disbelieving members took his lady by the arm, turned on his heels and left in a royal huff.
Eight feet, seven inches! The seat he was assigned was exactly eight feet, seven inches from his former throne. I know. After the last table had been cleared and all the honored guests had left, making sure no one was looking, I found a ruler and measured off the distance. And I wondered how the loss of status could breed such discontent.
One would think that playing a round of golf and enjoying the pristine setting of a golf course and country club would bring some joy and happiness to a person as it does for me when I am lucky enough to sneak out and hit some balls. Under the right circumstances, this beauty can serve to soothe the savage beast. I know it soothes me, otherwise I would have quit long ago and certain members of the royal house would be left to count their own cashews.
There is something to be said about power and status, but I'm not going to add to it here. It is just that I am reminded of the lines from the poem Piers Plowman. Then I did dream a marvelous dream: that I was in a wilderness -- where, I did not know; and as I looked toward the east, a loft to the sun, I saw a tower on a hillock most splendidly built, and a deep dale beneath with a dungeon therein, with deep ditches and dark -- a dreadful sight.
I have come to the conclusion that dear ol Piers must have worked
at a country club!
Footnotes: 1) The names have obviously been changed to protect the
innocent.
Copyright 1997 David Cavalluzo. All Rights Reserved.