Softie

Richard Oatman was incredibly kind. That was the problem.

A chubby man in his 50s, Richard Oatman could not pass a Girl Scout selling Thin Mints without saying yes. He was just as generous to meth heads on freeway off ramps and window washers at red lights and the tattooed man holding the empty plastic gas can at the Shell station that just needed a few bucks to get back to his sweet wife and kids in Bakersfield.

Richard’s kindness started early in life, when a high school bully convinced him to hand over his new Air Jordans in exchange for not being punched in the face. They were just sneakers, after all, and the bully really seemed to like them, so at least Richard could rest in the fact they were going to someone who would appreciate their value.

His reputation followed him to college, where Richard could always be counted on to pay for his fraternity brothers’ beers when they didn’t have cash and to share his chemistry notes when they missed class and to show grace when they they stole his girlfriend away and took her on the big ski trip to Vermont while he stayed back to “man the house.”

Water off a duck’s back, Richard would say to himself. The truth was he genuinely enjoyed being nice—and people enjoyed him. Especially car salesmen and telemarketers and his son Patrick.

Patrick was an entrepreneur. He hadn’t invented anything yet but he was only thirty-three and, as he regularly explained to his father, “pretty much everything’s been thought of already.” Nevertheless, Richard was a proud father and happy to be his son’s biggest investor, recently taking the penalty and draining an IRA early so that Patrick could travel to Asia in search of “the cool shit that hasn’t made it here yet.”

This was all Rita Oatman could take. Her husband’s generosity had gifted her a face lift and a nice pair of fake breasts, but now it was jeopardizing their long term financial stability and, in turn, her secret fantasy that Richard would drop dead within a decade and she could spend the next twenty years taking cruises with her late husband’s hard-earned money.

“Not a penny more,” she said. Unlike Richard, Rita could say “no” quite easily.

“Not a penny more for what?”

“For anything! You’re too nice!”

He didn’t think that was possible. “No one ever told Jesus he was too nice,” Richard argued.

Rita scoffed. “Jesus wasn’t nice,” she explained. “He was always making people mad! If you really want to be like Jesus, try being a jerk.”

It was sometime after this conversation that Gabriel DuToit knocked on Rita and Richard Oatman’s front door.

Richard opened it to see a tan, handsome man in his early 40s. A plaid, flannel button up hung loose over his jeans. He had a trim beard and a strong cologne that whooshed in on Richard like a warm tropical wave.

“Santa Barbara Mint,” the man said with a glowing smile and a silky Afrikaans accent.

“I beg your pardon?” Richard answered.

“That paint color. On your front door. Santa Barbara Mint. What a bold choice.”

In fact it was Santa Barbara Mint. The door was supposed to be eggshell white but a paint specialist at the hardware store reminded Richard that the front door is the gateway to the home and that a man of his stature was better than eggshell.

“Oh. Thank you,” Richard said. After his tussle with Rita, the compliment resonated that much more.

“I’m here about the putting green,” the bearded man said.

Richard’s sandy eyebrows lifted in unison as he spotted a measuring tape clipped to the man’s waist and remembered. “You must be Gabriel.”

One day earlier, Richard took a spam risk call on his cell phone because the number was awfully similar to his own and in the off chance it was a neighbor, he answered. To his surprise, it was a contractor calling to ask if he had any home repairs or backyard dreams.

It turned out that Richard did have a dream. He wanted a putting green.

Not just any putting green. He wanted his own miniature Augusta National, complete with humps and tiers and tiny custom flags that said Oatman Country Club on them. It would be a place where he and Rita and maybe even Patrick could gather on summer nights to laugh and tell stories as they took turns rolling their golf balls down the slopes and into perfect round—

“What’s he selling?” Rita asked. She stood in the hallway and could only see half of Gabriel through the slit in the door.

“I’ll be right back,” Richard said to Gabriel before closing it and turning to his wife.

“He’s not selling anything,” Richard explained. “He’s just here to give me an estimate.”

“On what?” she asked, suspicious.

“A putting green,” he said.

“Why the hell do we need a putting green?”

Richard explained his dream of Oatman Country Club to her, complete with the miniature flags and scorecards and hopefully one of those fun golf ball washers that goes up and down. She did not care.

“We’re not buying a putting green,” she declared. “We can’t afford it.”

Richard nodded. He totally agreed. They could not afford it—currently—and he had explicitly said as much on the phone. “Gabriel is just here to tell me what it will cost when we have the money.”

Rita’s eyes narrowed and she marched slowly toward her husband of thirty-five years.

“We could have plenty of money,” she began. “We could have enough money to join a real country club where you could play actual golf. But we don’t, Richard. Because you’re weak. You’re a weak, naive man who doesn’t know how to say no.” She was inches away from him now. “If you go out there, that man is going to see how soft you are and play you like a fiddle. And if you say yes, don’t bother coming back inside.”

Richard’s forehead beaded with sweat. Rita had grown harder in recent years and he didn’t like to see her like this. He missed his sweet young wife who found him delightful and accepted every bouquet of flowers and designer dress and diamond bracelet he gave her. And so he was torn. Forced to choose between devotion to his spouse and kindness toward the stranger who had driven all the way to his house and was waiting patiently on his front porch.

“It’s just an estimate,” Richard whispered. Then he slipped out the door.

Gabriel was standing in the driveway, looking out at the view. From the driveway you couldn’t see anything of note, just a neighbor’s rusted boat and a cell phone tower, and yet Gabriel took it all in like he was standing on the observation deck of the Empire State Building.

“Sorry about that,” Richard said as he walked with a bit of anxiousness in his step. “Let me show you the yard.”

Gabriel didn’t move, transfixed. “You’re a very lucky man, Richard,” he said. “Do you know that?”

“Oh. Hmm, well—”

“A house like this, a beautiful wife… you are living the American Dream,” he said.

Richard paused. His wife’s insults washed away. Gabriel was right. He was lucky. Not everyone had what he had. Yes. There was a larger purpose for why Gabriel was here that Rita in her anger couldn’t possibly understand. He came to give an estimate, but the real gift he brought was perspective. “Thank you, friend,” he said.

This, of course, was an inane conclusion. Gabriel DuToit had no interest in enlightening Richard Oatman about anything. His goal was simple: to squeeze as much money out of this fool as possible.

A year ago, Gabriel had been in the car business. But increasingly he felt guilty spending eight hours a day talking school teachers into car payments they couldn’t afford and figured he’d find peace—and make more money—talking rich people into home improvements they didn’t need.

With his wife’s support, Gabriel earned his contractor’s license and started pounding the pavement of L.A.’s fanciest neighborhoods. He didn’t factor that rich folks only hire off rich friends’ recommendations and would happily ignore the door hanger ads he placed on their security gates. With two young kids to house and feed, he widened his circle until his phone finally started to ring. To his dismay, his best customers were the same middling people he was selling Hyundais to eight months earlier.

Every job he landed came with a dose of guilt. Yes, he could charge an extra two thousand dollars to re-tile a kitchen backsplash, but then he inevitably saw an oxygen tank in the corner or a credit card bill on the counter and he resisted, knowing they needed the money more than he did.

The small profit margins had Gabriel and his wife edging toward bankruptcy. Now they were the family with the scary credit card bill on the counter. Desperation was setting in and he needed a client for whom he didn’t feel a shred of sympathy. Someone who wanted him to build something truly frivolous.

Like a putting green.

Gabriel’s wife cornered him at the coffeemaker before he left home that morning. “Don’t be nice to this one,” she said.

“He says he only wants an estimate,” he explained, hedging his bets.

“So give him one. Then don’t come home without a yes.”

The area Richard had in mind for his putting green was a depressing rectangle of uneven dirt covered in weeds and pockmarked by gopher holes. For one brief stretch it had been a vegetable garden but after the first harvest, Rita and Richard realized they didn’t really like vegetables and back it went to its current form.

“Here she is,” Richard said.

Gabriel walked back and forth across the dirt. He picked up a handful and let it fall through his calloused fingers. He kicked at it with the toe of his work boots. He was like Michelangelo assessing a block of marble.

While Richard watched with increasing excitement, Gabriel unclipped his measuring tape from his belt and stretched it the length and width of the area. He typed numbers into his phone. He pretended to do complicated math. In truth, the only calculation he was making was how much he thought he could get Richard to pay. This was a separate math problem that involved pricing the make and models of Richard’s cars and the Zillow estimate on his house.

“Okay, let’s talk numbers,” he finally said.

They moved to the wobbly patio table and sat down opposite each other.

Gabriel smiled. “First of all, this is very exciting,” he began. “I’ve done a number of backyard design projects but none have felt as special as this one. I just have a sense, and I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something about this space feels… like holy ground.”

“Oh my,” Richard answered. When he first toured the house twenty years ago, the real estate agent said the neighborhood had once been a Chumash village and that it had a unique “spirit energy” to it. That must be what Gabriel felt.

“Because of that, I’m going to price this job less than I probably should,” Gabriel confessed.

Richard smiled. What luck! “I appreciate that,” he said.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, Richard. First I will strip away twelve inches of dirt and haul it off. Then I have to compact the remaining topsoil so it doesn’t shift. After that I’ll put down a layer of gopher wire. Then I’ll add six inches of decomposed granite. The granite must be compacted multiple times over multiple days to ensure the green rolls just as true on day one as it does twenty years from now. Finally I will lay down the turf and finish it off with a top layer of fine-grain sand until we reach your desired green speed.” Richard was beaming now. “When I’m done, Richard, this will be the finest putting green in the city. Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if local pros stop by just to ask if they can play. You could probably charge green fees and turn this into some passive income for you and the wife. Put away a little more toward retirement. All because you were wise enough to answer my call.”

This was almost more than Richard could absorb. It was spectacular. It was even better than he had dreamt. He wished Rita were sitting right here next to him. Even she would have come around and realized that scheduling this appointment was one of his finest moments.

“And so,” Gabriel continued, “after adding in the discount, I can do this for twenty-nine thousand dollars.”

Richard’s smile dropped. Twenty-nine thousand dollars? For some crushed granite and grass? And it wasn’t even real grass… Truth be told, Richard assumed the quote would be closer to four or five.

“What do you think of that number?” Gabriel asked, well aware of the shift in Richard’s countenance.

If Gabriel had said twelve thousand Richard might have taken the bait. He would have given Gabriel the benefit of the doubt that such a project was more complicated than he had assumed. But twenty-nine thousand? That was almost as much as Patrick needed for his three-month research trip across Thailand!

“It seems… high,” Richard finally answered.

“I understand but everything in my industry has gotten more expensive the last few years,” Gabriel said. “It really is a very competitive price… all things considered.”

Naturally, Richard wanted to believe him. But all he could hear was Rita’s warning. He could picture her hovering over his shoulder, scoffing at the audacity of this smooth-tongued salesman and hoping that just this once her sweet husband would see through the bullshit.

“I’m worried you’re trying to take advantage of me,” Richard said.

Gabriel did not expect this. He knew he’d started high but had pegged Richard as the kind of customer he could wear down with calm persistence. “Is that what you really think?” he asked. Years of training had taught him not to show any weakness.

“Yes,” Richard answered.

“Richard, I gave you the best price I could give. Now I understand that you may not have the entire amount on hand now. And that is fine. If you put down a small deposit, your first payment won’t be due until sixty days after I finish the job.”

“Gabriel, I’m not paying you twenty-nine thousand dollars. I can’t.”

“And I’m not asking you to. We have some wonderful financing options and I assume your credit is outstanding, Richard. If you put down a little today, it would only run you a few hundred a month until it’s paid. How does that sound?”

Now it was Richard doing the calculations. Two hundred a month… twenty-four hundred a year… to pay off twenty-nine thousand… “I’ll be paying it off till I’m seventy,” he realized.

Gabriel could feel Richard pulling away. He checked his phone. Hoping to see another great lead. There was nothing. This was the one. He had to close. For his kids. For his wife. “What price were you expecting to pay, Richard? Let’s see how close I can get to that number.”

On another day, Richard would have fallen right into this trap and before he knew what had happened, he’d have been signing a contract and shaking Gabriel’s hand. But today was different, and each time he said “no” brought a fresh hit of dopamine. At the age of fifty-four, Richard Oatman was becoming a man.

“I explained—quite clearly—that I just wanted an estimate. And now you’ve given me one. And I appreciate your time and your talent. But I’m not going to make a decision today. And your constant pushing is not helping.”

Gabriel looked hurt by the comment. He wasn’t, of course, but he hoped that by showing he was capable of emotion it might soften Richard back into the pliable stooge he had been when he first arrived. “We have a saying in Afrikaans, Richard. ‘My heart is your heart.’ It means we have an unbreakable bond. I felt that between us. As we dreamed together. As we saw the putting green. As we felt what could be.”

“You’ve overstayed your welcome,” Richard said.

From inside the house came a rustle. Gabriel turned and saw a face pull away from a window. “Is that your wife, Richard? Invite her to join us.” Gabriel had a special way with middle-aged women and subtly undid the top button on his shirt .

“It’s time for you to leave,” Richard said. For the first time, he looked almost… intimidating.

“I can’t leave, Richard. I haven’t finished yet. Tell me, are you familiar with quantum mechanics?”

“Gabriel—”

“Quantum mechanics says that once you inject momentum into an idea, something that was merely theoretical becomes real. And we have momentum. It may look like dirt but that putting green is real. It is already happening. No one can stop it, Richard. Not your wife. Not your children. Not your boss. For the first time in your life, you can have something that’s wholly yours. And all you just have to do is say—”

“I don’t actually play golf,” Richard interrupted.

Gabriel’s smile vanished. He was sure that he had misheard. “What?”

“I don’t play golf. Not much of a fan, to be honest.”

It was true. For all of Richard’s dreaming, what he longed for wasn’t so much the golf but the idea of having his family around him. Talking. Laughing. Just happy to be with each other and no desire to be anywhere else. All Richard really wanted was their love. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt that. Those days had passed. And in its place all that was left was dirt and weeds.

Richard hung his head. Lost in sad thoughts. He didn’t notice Gabriel leap from his seat.

“You stupid piece of shit!”

Gabriel shoved Richard with all his strength, tipping his chair and sending his round head onto the bricks with a sad thud.

Richard lay on his back, stunned. Still in the chair with his feet to the sky. Gabriel hovered over him, aware of the line he had crossed. “I’m sorry, Richard. I’m sorry. Here…” Gabriel leaned over and set Richard upright again. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I just—”

Richard jumped from his chair and charged at Gabriel with fifty-plus years of untapped aggression. His hands dug into Gabriel’s flannel shirt and tossed him onto the dirt of the abandoned vegetable garden. They rolled, crushing weeds until Richard was on top. He punched and clawed at Gabriel’s tan face.

Gabriel flailed in the dirt for a rock, then remembered and reached for his measuring tape. He unclipped it and hit Richard full force on the temple. Blood started to flow but Richard kept punching. Gabriel hit him again and again until, finally, Richard teetered and fell.

“RICHARD!” Rita yelled as she came running from the house.

Gabriel crawled out from under Richard’s limp body and wobbled to his feet. He reclipped his measuring tape.

“WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY SWEET RICHARD?” she cried to Gabriel. “WHAT DID YOU DO?!”

Gabriel caught his breath and watched as Rita fell to her knees and hugged her dying husband. He couldn’t help but notice a stream of blood running from Richard’s head, down the dirt slope, and straight into a gopher hole.

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