Celeste was expecting way too much hospitality from our little public golf course. She had booked an outing for 75 people in late September, and although she didn’t play golf, she made sure that everything went off without a hitch.
Very controlling, this 40-something Celeste character was. She referred to us golf course employees as, “my staff,” and my uniform (consisting of a Bugle Boy sweatshirt) had to be altered immediately upon her arrival because it was, to use her word, ugly. Celeste demanded that certain advertisements be placed on certain tee boxes even though she would never venture on the course to see them.
“Place them prominently on the tee boxes,” she told our 60 year old course ranger, Joe. “Do you understand? Prominently.”
Joe took a long drag of his pipe and replied, “So I shouldn’t leave them face down on the grass?”
Our golf course catered to the weekend golfers: the hackers, the drunks who have to often be reminded that wife-beater t-shirts and army fatigue cut-off shorts are not allowed. If an angry customer came in to complain about the pace of play or bad conditions on the course, we would have to first say, “Yes, sir, I understand, but in order for me to take you seriously, you need to put on your shirt.”
What Celeste was looking for was a country club reception, only we didn’t have the means or the will to meet her lofty standards.
“You mean to tell me you don’t have an easel,” she’d asked me, shocked.
“Um, no, I’m sorry. But I have a friend, he paints. He might have an easel, but he lives down in the city. I could call him…”
“Never mind,” she said curtly, and then called over to her young daughter. “Emily! They don’t have an easel! Get the one we have out of the car.”
Celeste then instructed me to close the cart-barn door because looking at the interior was, “disgusting.” That much was true. The big red barn that stored our 73 golf carts was ugly. Actually, to call it a barn would be insulting to barns. It was nothing more than a two-story, glorified shack; held together, thankfully, by the barn-swallow nests at every creaking joint in the place. The barn swallows were good for that at least, but it came with a price.
I began to close the barn door while I said, “I don’t think it will look much better with the door shut, what with the bird droppings and all…”
She saw the door and our barn swallows best attempt at recreating a Jackson Pollack. She sighed again and placed two fingers against her temples. “That’s fine. Whatever. You have a banner to put in front of it anyhow.”
The banner was 8 feet long and showed a picture of a smiling middle-aged woman who bore a striking resemblance to Celeste: same color brunette hair, same upturned nose. The text read: “Karen Beuller Memorial Golf Outing To Fight Ovarian Cancer.” On the far right of the banner was a large teal ribbon.
As customers began to arrive to the outing, Celeste told me to carry their golf bags to their designated golf carts; once again, something that country clubs do, not public courses, but there was no use arguing with her. What did bother me, however, was that as I was picking up two bags at a time, trying to get the names of the owners to find their names on the cart layout sheet, Celeste advised them not to tip me. “Don’t tip my workers,” she said to a man who had opened his wallet, ready to fork over a buck or two to me, the guy working minimum wage. “Why not buy a mulligan instead? It goes to a good cause.”
On my fourth trip to the bag drop, Celeste approached me with a scowl on her face and a teal silicone wristband in her hand. She shoved the wristband into my palm and said, “You work for me? Wear this.” Etched in the silicone was the word, “OVERCOME.”
The idea behind the whole “awareness wristband” trend forced my spiteful side, and left me no choice but to stuff the teal wristband in my pocket, and Celeste’s possessive attitude kept it there for the duration of my shift.
It came as no surprise to me how popular these wristbands had become. I saw the first one in my sophomore year of college. My roommate, Jeff, and I were on our fourth pitcher of beer at the local bar and on his wrist was a yellow silicone band that said, “LIVESTRONG.”
He told me that the bracelet cost a dollar, and that it went to cancer research. I wanted to inquire further, to ask such questions as, “Do you think that your dollar will help cure the liver cancer you and I are sure to get?” or “Would you still donate the dollar if you didn’t get the wristband?” But I let it alone. I figured, “Ok, it’s an ugly bracelet, sure, but it goes to a good, broad cause: cancer research. Fine.”
The day after our seven hour excursion to the bar, I saw Jeff’s LIVESTRONG bracelet as an ironical fashion statement as it loosely hung from his motionless wrist while he lay in his bunk through the entire morning and afternoon.
I saw the yellow bracelets everywhere after that; on people motoring down Broad Street at dangerous speeds, the LIVESTRONG bracelet resting comfortably on the wheel. On students lighting cigarettes outside of Gladfelter Hall, the tobacco smoke swirling around the yellow silicone on their wrists. On frat boys stumbling out of a party on a late Saturday night, falling over on the sidewalk, their LIVESTRONG bracelets hanging in the gutter.
Soon, however, yellow was not the only color wristband around town. The money that would normally be donated to the yellow wristbands was quickly being fragmented and diluted by other colors and causes: Dark Blue was for Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome, Burgundy was for Cesarean Sections, Green was for Eye Injury, White stood for Hope, and Black was for Gang Prevention. Of course, there are only so many colors in the human spectrum of eyesight, so each color stood for at least four other causes. The most absurd one I saw was an Autistic Wristband, decorated with little yellow, blue, and red puzzle pieces. The text on the bracelet read, “I LOVE SOMEONE WITH AUTISM.”
It took some time for me to realize why I disliked the wristbands so much. At first I thought it was because they were new and popular, and I argued that the only thing I would ever have on my wrist is my trusty quartz wristwatch, but my contempt for the awareness bands went deeper than that and after interacting with Celeste on the golf course that day I realized it: the wristbands were arrogant. They lacked humility and modesty, and worst of all, they were safe. They said to the world, “I am against things that are not good.” They took a stand against the obvious horrors of life: cancer, mental retardation, gunshot victims, and rape just to name a few. The bracelets brought out a bitterness in me that I hadn’t experienced since High School, when I failed at learning how to play the Recorder. My argument was sound. “How is this going to get me anywhere in life?” I asked hypothetically. “Is a potential boss going to say, ‘well, Michael, your resume looks good…’ then pull a plastic recorder out of his desk and go, ‘now let’s hear some ‘Three Blind Mice!’”
I wanted to point to her teal bracelet and ask Celeste, “Oh, so you’re taking a stand against cancer? Maybe you should take a couple days before you make that statement. Don’t say anything rash.”
Another reason I detest the wrist bands is that I am all too aware of awareness. I can’t believe that I am fondly recalling a time when the rear of someone’s automobile was limited to things like political affiliations or favorite musical bands. So you may have voted for Ross Perot back in 1992 and yes, The Grateful Dead was a decent band, but this new generation of bumper sticker is more aggressive by constantly reminding you—yelling at you, “Cancer! Diabetes! Autism! Multiple Sclerosis! Cystic Fibrosis! Lymphoma! Sickle Cell! Lyme Disease! Children’s Arthritis! Fibromyalgia! Epilepsy!” Whatever happened to decorating your car with reminders of your accomplishments like your community college parking permit or jokingly stating that your other vehicle is a broom? The bumper sticker I miss most is, “How’s my driving? Dial 1-800-EAT SHIT.” You just don’t see that one anymore.
Now, the perpetual warnings of diseases and ailments are also decorating people’s wrists, and I have to wonder, wouldn’t it be nice to go a day without thinking about all the wretched things that can happen to you? Sure, you can
emboss a derived generalized motivation on it like, overcome or fight or battle or defeat, words that make it seem as though if you concentrate on it hard enough, the ills can be willed away, but they won’t be. It’s still a reminder. It may make a person feel good about him or herself, but it’s still a reminder of something awful. Think of all the times your hand comes into your field of vision every day, and wonder if it wouldn’t be nice to just once not think of dying when it does. You open the door and look at your hand. Cancer awareness. Licking on a popsicle? Diabetes awareness. Give somebody a thumbs up for doing a good job or making a funny remark? Lyme Disease awareness. I really do think some bliss is called for. Some ignorance is needed.
I understand the intent of the wristbands, and for most people it’s a well-intentioned effort. It’s people like Celeste who already have a sneering attitude towards others and hide it behind the guise of something like a teal bracelet and a deceased sister in order to make herself tolerable to others who bother me. Call me cold, but being against cancer did not entitle Celeste to be a bitch. Her actions showed on that chilly morning in September that Celeste had been working painstakingly for years on her controlling behavior. If she actually cared about the charity and was compassionate towards others in order to exemplify a good cause, she wouldn’t refer to the Mainland Golf Course employees as “my workers,” and she wouldn’t talk down to people as if they were personally against her.
After all of the golfers arrived and a mass prayer was recited before their game, Celeste stayed behind and stomped toward me with a grimace. She didn’t say anything, but instead just held up her right arm and sternly pointed to the teal awareness band with her left hand. Moments earlier I had given my silicone awareness band to fight ovarian cancer to the young girl who was working the beverage cart, telling her that if she wore it, people would see that she too was on their side in the fight and that her tips would improve. “Wear two, if you can,” I advised.
All that I could say to Celeste was, “Yeah, my shift here is over, So…” I turned my back on her and headed towards the time-clock when I looked at my wrist and saw the oldest of all awareness bands: my wristwatch, counting away the days, the hours, the minutes, the seconds, reminding me that at any given tick, my time too, could run out. But at least the band on my wrist didn’t freely offer up any ideas as to how.
Contents
Studies in Modern Personal Agendas