I remember that Saturday morning as foggy and damp. The sun was just peeking over the cold, barren earth of the Pima Indian reservation as I putted along down the shoulder of Pima road on my moped.¹ It was 1982, and I was on my way to the Pima Country Club, where I was employed as a golf cart washer, which was way better than slinging burgers like some of my other high school friends. I was late every single Saturday morning, but I was one of the only kids who would consistently show up, so the guys in the pro shop opted to keep me around. Someone needed to pull all those carts out for the golf tournaments that shotgun-started at sunrise.

This Saturday morning was no different than any other, but I brought along my portable radio (a knock-off of a Sony Walkman, which I could not afford) so I could listen to KUPD instead of all the nonsensical shouting on the PA system that was so commonly overused by the pro shop during the tournaments.

Late as usual, I drove my moped straight down the sidewalk that was occupied by some of the early birds who were lacing up their golf spikes and hauling their clubs out of the trunk.

Now, this sidewalk was probably ten feet wide – large enough for a person to drive a Cadillac on, I remember that much because one of the drunken club members had actually done that. There was plenty of room for these guys to spread out their clubs, and for a skinny little high school kid to zip by on a moped – providing no one veered out of their negotiated sections of the sidewalk.

One of the Rangers at the Pima Country Club was named J.R., and he had a reputation as a hard-headed dude who had recently retired from a 40-year career as a prison guard.  J.R. took the public safety aspect of his job seriously, and we all knew that, but we also knew that J.R. drove a red truck, and on this morning that I chose to drive my moped down the sidewalk, I did not see a red truck in the parking lot.

And while that did weigh into my split-second decision regarding the path of my vehicle, the dominant reason for my diversion was the 80s metal band Dio, because I Speed At Night was the current song cranked up to 11 on my generic radio. The absence of the red truck meant the likelihood of getting in trouble for this little stunt was next to nil.

I pulled up to my parking spot, jerked the moped up on its stand and removed my headphones. Letting them settle around my neck, the music was still blasting, but now it sounded tinny and distant. The effects that the thumping metal music had on my moped navigation skills were now dissipating as the reality of Saturday morning and the cart-washing job started to sink in.

Then, like a swarm of killer bees, J.R. came flying around the corner. He got right up in my face, where his halitosis could be used as a weapon, and I then received a verbal spanking that rivaled Nikita Khrushchev’s shoe-banging incident at the UN General Assembly in 1960. During the very brief lulls in his auditory and olfactory assault, the headphones continued their little Dio broadcast, which made J.R.’s eye-watering thrashing seem kind of funny.

Part of my job duties included picking up range balls, which was a job best done with headphones on. While I listened to the radio out on the range, KUPD had a phone-in contest, so I ghosted² my range ball cart and ran with blazing speed to get to the pro shop’s telephone. As the 9th caller, I won two tickets to see AC/DC in concert, which was during their For Those About to Rock tour. I was stupefied, and that was the only contest I ever won.

How about you? Have you won any contests? I know one you could enter and be the envy of all your friends! Turn to page 19 and check out the Arcadia News Photo Contest.

¹ Yep, I’ll admit it.
² The process of jumping out of a moving vehicle, abandoning it without concern, to continue on its path without a driver (or with a “ghost driver”).