Different Circles

Jake and Laura got up at 4:30 AM on Monday morning. Jim Scanlon drove them to North Bend Municipal at 5:15 AM. Jake lifted off from Runway 04 at 6:01 AM, just one minute after the night restriction on outgoing flights was lifted. Nevertheless, the screeching, whining loudness of his plane woke up hundreds of people as he made his climb-out and turned to the south. The airport operations voicemail would record two dozen noise complaints before he was even at cruising altitude.

Laura slept almost the entire flight, nodding off around eleven thousand feet and not waking up again until the sound of the flaps lowering for final approach to Whiteman. They touched down at 8:33 AM and were at the studio at 8:55. Laura drove Jake’s truck to Grenada Hills to sleep some more and then to start getting her affairs in order for her upcoming trip to Europe. Jake put in a full day of rehearsal with his band. They made some good progress.

Mindy Snow and Grand Oldfellow returned to their home that same day. Paparazzi and videographers captured her trip from the hospital lobby into the limousine (with reporters commenting on how Mindy did not even look like a woman who had just given birth) and then news helicopters followed her home, broadcasting the entire trip live, including the zoom-in as the mother and son got out of the limo and walked into the house.

Greg Oldfellow’s whereabouts was still a mystery, still the subject of endless speculation. It was known, however, that he was scheduled to officially open his new golf course in Oregon on the morning of July 20^th—one day before Mindy’s original due date.

The pap staked out the airport for two days before the 20^th, but no one caught so much as a glimpse of him, though they did get some good shots of other celebrities and general rich people arriving in town for the grand opening. The media people were not allowed on the golf course property, but this did not stop them from mobbing the entrance starting at 5:30 AM. They filmed and snapped pictures of every vehicle that arrived for the opening but still never managed to capture Greg’s face since when he did actually arrive, he was in the back of a limo with tinted windows.

There were a gaggle of reporters who were allowed onto the course, but they were mostly sports-oriented, and all had been advised that the subject of Greg Oldfellow’s illegitimate child was off limits.

And so, when the time came, Greg simply appeared outside the clubhouse, dressed fashionably in a pair of expensive slacks, six-hundred-dollar golf shoes, and a polo shirt and hat with the name of the club prominently displayed. He gave a short speech about the club being a lifelong dream of his and then cut a ribbon with a large pair of scissors. He then joined the first foursome to play the course—himself and three of his top investors.

They took to the links and played for the next four hours. Greg beat all of his companions with a scratch 76, thus briefly allowing him to hold the record for the lowest score ever recorded on the course. The fact that his low score was beaten two hours later did not even matter. He was still entitled to having his name inscribed on a plaque above the bar, where it would be there forever.

In his opinion, it had been a good day.

Chapter 8: Blurring the Line

July 26, 1996

Oceano, California

Jake and Gordon Paladay—aka Bigg G—sat in the loungers out on Jake’s deck on the cliff, watching as the sun sank lower and lower toward the horizon. They had just smoked a joint of some pretty good Humboldt greenbud, passing it back and forth until it was gone, and were sipping from icy cold bottles of Lighthouse Ale from the Lighthouse Brewing Company in Coos Bay. A cooler next to Jake’s lounger contained ice and four more unopened bottles. Both men were dressed in shorts and simple t-shirts. They were feeling quite mellow, particularly Jake. It was Friday at last and this was his first indulgence of intoxicating substances in more than a week now.

“I really dig your place, brother,” G told him with obvious sincerity. “I can see now why you go to all the trouble of flying back and forth all the time.”

“It’s worth it,” Jake said. “Worth every penny I spend on fuel and maintenance, every dollar I spent on this land and this house, and worth every minute I lose from my life making the commute.”

“Fuck yeah,” G said. “I get it now. You got this big-ass crib sitting on this cliff over the ocean. There ain’t no fuckin’ smog here, no fuckin’ neighbors putting their nose in your business, and you go to sleep at night in a place that ain’t fuckin’ LA.”

“To ain’t fuckin’ LA,” Jake said, raising his beer bottle for a toast.

“Ain’t fuckin’ LA,” Gordon said, clinking his own bottle against it.