The adventures of Hasty Hank

What Goes Up Must Come Down

short story by Henry Lee 

Circa ‘86, having returned from Florida to ole Orange, Texas, the butt of the USA-Man reclining (see USA map), Hank decided a toe surgery was in order. Hank most Hastily one morning in Hudson Florida got his right foot underneath a fly mower. A what? A gas mower that hovers a bit off the ground, rounded even, somewhat like a flying saucer.

Quite a lot went on in the ‘80s with the hovercraft-type things, but it all seemed to disappear in the ‘90s. (Expect a big comeback one day.) There were those Harrier jet planes, all the Star Wars weaponry talk, drone aircraft. Even the actual two and four seat flying saucer manufactured in Mesa, AZ that flew to 5,000 feet. Not cheap, but should have been popular for a few rich folks. Perhaps there was a fear factor, of townspeople with shotguns, ala Orson Welles’ radio broadcast.

Anyway, Hasty Hank’s mid-’80s Florida excursion wasn’t too great, but what to do back in Orange? Well, golf, and that he did, even getting a tournament win and a big quarter page write-up in the Orange paper. Something positive, unlike numerous negative write-ups he got in the ‘70s.

Hank also managed to sell his trusty product—waterless cookware—again. Though not overly successful, it was employment, and for Hank in Orange, a major step.

It led to a better sales job with the newfangled water purification systems, assembled on site. There were leads galore, with a boss whose local family so mirrored the ABC-TV “Dynasty” show.

Money was good, getting great, and Hank had truly seemed to come up in the world, even had a half decade of no legal trouble behind him.

Of course selling legally now made a couple illegal sales seem like a trifle, a few ounces of something lime-green and skunky, and middle-manning a pill deal to an “old friend.” Hasty Hank felt that as long as he was dressed in a shirt and tie he was (ugh) safe, even in Orange.

Well, life starts to get good with a true chosen ambition of becoming a club golf professional. One might think Hank was very Hasty, quitting his sales job where less than forty hours of talking put more than 800 bucks in his pocket, the same salary for a month at this new golf job.

Money aside, it was a most nice country club, number two ranked course in the state, with numerous wealthy—and nice—members. There seemed an abundance of “New Yawkers” there, Italians and Jews.

Anyway, as the weeks went on, the job and life for Hank so improved, good things and even money started growing, along with—sad to say—Hasty Hank’s ego. Oh no!

It was exciting for him to sell sportswear for commissions and he really put the high pressure pitches to all those out-of-town non-members who would come in on Mondays and pay the big green fees to have their Nassau match headed by our excellent golf pro, who later made a big name for himself in the senior PGA tour.

Hank grew to love his life, and taught golf to non-member beginners to supplement a growing salary and commission. Members were so kind, even providing a luxury townhome at half price to reside in. Hank was given cartons of cigarettes from big distributor friend, tons of clothes, shoes from his boss who said he may break tradition and have Hank employed another season.

As the summer wore on, Hank thought of a relationship with a sweet young woman with a child’s mind and a Playboy bunny’s body who would come into his pro shop clad in bikini at times. Luckily the floor was carpeted and his jaw was cushioned on its drop from her warm words and exquisite visionary delight.

One day a most pregnant woman escorted by two older club matrons came by his door and our golf pro was quickly introduced to this reasonably attractive brunette.

Hasty Hank didn’t think much of it till later he found out the girl was actress Demi Moore, whose husband, Bruce Willis, was filming a movie nearby (one he wishes he didn’t, I guess). But a couple years later Hank was surprised to see a pregnant Demi nude in a bathtub for the movie “Seventh Sign,” probably shot days around that time he saw her.

A short time later our non-reluctant now-hero got to spend an hour or so alone, one-on-one, talking with his new buddy, singer BJ Thomas. Hank went that night to his show downtown at the big riverfront hotel, but Hastily left early and probably missed a great party. But such was his early-to-work dedication.

He loved his job, couldn’t wait to get to work, and was now halfway to becoming a qualified PGA Club Golf Professional, not just an assistant.

Hank mostly ran the place anyway, as his boss stayed gone a lot, due to sick Mom and playing in tournaments elsewhere. Hank felt his job fit him like a golf glove. And then one morning after doing his daily bookkeeping in the luxurious office upon the 5K cherrywood desk, he called his parents to see if he could send them some money, as it seemed to be pouring into his hands these days.

He inquired into his dad’s goings on, joyfully stressing his own, but his dad interrupted then told him, “Son, your life is not good, not good at all. The police were just by here with a warrant looking for you. A five-count drug indictment, habitual criminal. And son, they know you’re up there, too.”

Probably never has Hasty Hank been struck with such a debilitating trauma of sadness, exasperation, remorse, as those moments on the phone. Not even when he lost the sailfish from his line in Acapulco. He knew then that his career was shot. He had to disappear as to not embarrass the club.

So within minutes he was packing his car with all the great and valuable things he had. Then to the bank and the highway. But where? He might as well run north to Chicago, but decided “not my kind of town.” Veering west from Champaign after a stiff drink, to Iowa, and amidst more Harley motorcycles than he thought existed, he ended up in Rapid City, South Dakota, where at Mount Rushmore paranoia set in with Teddy’s glare, and then Sturgis, where he felt out of place.

West through Wyoming and Hank had the Hasty desire to become a firefighter with the huge fire around Yellowstone that year, but didn’t.

Up he went into and across Montana up the Bozeman Grade, where despite having his pedal to the metal 15 mph was the top speed, though his ears were popping 100 for hours, passing big trucks like they were standing still. His car, possibly his nicest ever, wasn’t your typical Chevrolet Citation, but the best model they every produced, with low years and miles.

When Hank reached the height, and all those massive evergreens and mountains, he began coming downward and arrived in Coeur D’Alene, Idaho, quite possibly the most attractive small city he’d seen, with its large lake and the logs being floated on the famed Columbia River. He stopped and stayed a couple days in Spirit Lake, unbeknownst to Hank the home of wrestler Andre the Giant.

It seemed to Hank the newly fabled city of Vancouver, Canada was the place to go, if not Seattle, but first a call to Spokane to his cousin and her husband, as his Mom said he should do. Maybe they will help Hank’s situation as his parents once helped theirs.

Well! Hasty Hank, you should have thought that out better, since it’s always family that turns one in. And did that hurt. At least fifteen grand worth of car and belongings lost to impound, hair falling out in jail.

Some weeks later and after several flights, one from Seattle—a most beautiful and so green and enchanting city, even if briefly felt in handcuffs—Hank was back where he started in ole Orange County Texas jail, with a big bail, feeling like hell. Oh, well.

Anyway, some Hasty choices and bad events, but even for Hank there’s always some future. He did get out of jail, purchased the best area lawyer, and ended up having to spend but two years in prison. The best thing was that Hank Hastily but happily got married and had a beautiful baby boy. So the losses hurt but diminished in time.

So as usual with Hasty Hank what goes up (high) goes down (low) but goes up (high) again in time. And yes, low down again, but that’s another story for the King of Haste Makes Waste, our Hank.•