Country Club Coup d’état
Harold crushes the Cialis, cuts it into six lines on his monthly retirement community newsletter, and snorts them with a rolled-up two-dollar bill. Harold used to be the president of Camelback Mountain Village, but last week he was voted out of office because of Alzheimer’s. Impeached by four votes, Harold knows which table in the dining hall they came from: the redheaded widows who suck celery slices from their Bloody Marys till the stalks disappear.
Since the takeover Harold has remained in his apartment doing floor exercises, drinking vodka tonics, spoiling his sore bones with Oxycontin and his muscles with the massage chair. The police took away his Benzes after a string of accidents. He was cleared of all culpability for the wrecks, but the court revoked his license because of poor vision.
Harold does not have Alzheimer’s. He never forgets anything. He remembers the names of all the dead presidents. He knows the lyrics to all his granddaughter’s favorite hip-hop songs.
Harold picks up his driver and meets the women at the eighteen-hole putting course. The foursome does not notice as Harold tees up his balls by the swimming pool, taking practice swings with his Big Bertha. The assassination attempt underway, Harold aims each Titleist at her skull. Harold has won twelve club championships. His accuracy is solid. All the retirees screaming from their balconies, everyone acknowledges that Harold is skilled.
The president is struck in her temple, collapses into the eighth hole, jarring the flagstick with her forehead. Harold snatches the keys from her back pocket and races off in the president’s Mercedes. Harold never returns to Camelback Mountain Village. He doesn’t check into a hospital. He never stops running.