Guerilla Golfing, Dr. Ron, and the Killer Mimosa

I recently ran into my old friend, Dr. Ron Berner. I hadn't seen Ron in some time, six or seven months. I was at a gas station in a neighboring town, washing the windows of my newly-acquired, brilliantly used BMW, when I heard someone yelling.

"Hey, Kid, nice fucking ride."

Ron has a unique voice. It's like listening to a mash up of John Wayne and Neil Cassady: commanding and deep like Wayne, but with a rapid and rambling firecracker quality like Cowboy Neil on speed.

"Where's the old work truck, Bill?"

"Gave it up, Ron."

"The truck?"

"Well, Yes, I mean . . . all of it: truck, business, the works."

"Well that's fine, if it suits you." Ron smiled his broad toothy smile.

"I haven't seen you in a bit, where you been?"

"I haven't got the time now, kid, but I know where to find you. We'll talk soon."

With that he hopped into his convertible -- ‘66 Mercury Comet, mirror black -- and sped off onto the state road. I wasn't quite certain when, or for that matter, if, I'd see Ron again. He’s a meteorite, lighting and thunder, as unpredictable as either; he came into my life with a great rowdy bang, and he’d likely go out with an equal force. But I’ve always enjoyed our encounters.

Jesus, I remember the day we met like it was yesterday.

I first met the doctor through mutual friends, at a crazy summer party at a very private golf facility a local friend built somewhere in the hills of New Hampshire. I was there to play a round of hillbilly golf, have a few beers and laughs; the doctor was there to provide the madness—and the cannabis. Ron is probably about 6 foot 4, a lean 200 pounds. He’s got an odd gait about him that I later learned was from a botched experiment a doctor did on his knee as a child. He’s got a shock of thick grey hair, eternally messed up and falling around his eyes and face.

We were teamed up together to play eighteen of the weirdest holes I’ve ever played. We had a cart for ourselves, and a bag of clubs to share (neither one of us are “regulars”).

“First thing, my new friend,” the doctor said speaking not at me, but kind of aside me, “Is to go over there and grab as much ice as you can muster from that barrel over there.”

He made a waving gesture towards a barrel of cold beer. I was puzzled and asked why we just didn't put the cold beer into his cooler. He wheeled around with a jarring look, “Did I say anything about beer? Christ, the beer is in the basket, it’s cold for now, and it’ll only melt the fucking ice.”

He began walking away, lighting up a hemp joint, smoke billowing, “You leave the thinking up to me kid, and we’ll win this bastard game.” He turned and looked at me through his mirrored aviators, waiting.

“Yeah, ok, I’ll grab the ice then.” I said, as he turned and walked back to the golf cart. I grabbed the ice, returned to the cart. Upon opening the cooler I found a large bottle of Wild Turkey and two highball glasses. This should get good. Trust the Doctor, I told myself.

Trust . . . I’ve learned to trust in a lot over the years, but first on the list are myself and the universe—directly trusting in another’s abilities has been a weak suit. I’ve stood, held by the wind, leaning over a two hundred foot sheer drop; I’ve navigated the midnight highways of the great western expanses, awake for days ingesting illicit substances; skated a 1972 VW camper between semi-trucks and the guardrail on an shiny slick icy highway, keeping my wits about me and shooting the gap—somehow; given myself to the behest of a flock on unknown hippies, taking up with them on grand psychedelic adventures . . . but this was at another level today, here playing guerilla golf with Dr. Ron.

The course was laid out on a hillside, steep and unforgiving. There was no cart path, just a long run of grass, mown short, dropping away like a ski run at Loon Mtn.

Cracking a beer and handing me a real joint, the doctor pulled me into the cart. “You ever jump a golf cart before?”

Before? I thought. Before what? Now?

What the bloody hell did that mean?

Dr. Ron took a long swig of his beer, finishing it off, and grabbed the joint back. “Ready Kid?”

Before words had formed in the back of my throat, he had launched the cart down the slope. “Holy Christ Ron!” I cried as I grabbed the bottom cushion of my seat, turning my knuckles white. He took aim at a large uneven lump halfway down to the first tee. Trust the doctor, I was telling myself. His crazy toothy smile was spreading over his face, and his eyes grew wide.

Then we were airborne.

“Son of a bitch!” I yelled as we flew a good four or five feet over the ground. Somehow, perhaps by the grace of the universe, he pulled off a landing Travis Pastrana, or maybe Evel Knievel would have been proud of, but it didn't end there. No, upon landing he wrenched the steering wheel abruptly to the left causing a massive slide sideways down the hill at warp speed.

What the hell . . . who the hell was this guy?

He pulled off the near impossible, sliding all the way to the first tee perfectly, as if he’d done this a hundred times. I was pale when we stopped, but extremely impressed by the skill and dedication to sheer insanity. He leapt out of the cart and opened the cooler, “Whiskey?”

He took the glass, filled it with ice, then covered it with Wild Turkey and handed it to me. “Damn guy, that’s some drink. Do you want me standing at the end of this thing?”

“No worries, kid, you’ll do fine.”

“Well with this Turkey, and the beer, and the weed. Just saying, this is heavyweight business, and I don't usually meet . . . well folks like this, like you”

Laughing he says, “I saw the light in your eyes when you got here kid. Some people are illuminated, you know?”

“Well thanks, but we’re up, chummy, let’s see how you hit.”

He walked up to the ball and, barely pausing to stop walking, struck it with a great crack. Like a ballistic missile it flew up, down, and out of sight, but clearly dropped very near the green.

“I see you’ve done this once or twice, Ron.”

“Barely play.”

“C’mon, you just killed that thing.”

“State of mind, kid.”

“No, no, it’s not Ron, you’ve clearly worked on that swing.”

He turned to me, got close, breathing in my face. “No. Don’t second guess me. Life is all a state of mind. That’s what most folks miss.”

I took my shot. I crushed it, but it landed left of the hole.

He continued, “My life, my life was fucked. A fuck show. One day I just decided I was done with all that. Told the universe I was changing, that I needed it, and opened myself up.” Cracking a hint of a smile, he grabs a tuft of grass into his hand, and tosses it to the wind, “Oh, and I wanted to help—an earn-your-wings sort of thing.” Again he pauses, “It just took a change of my mental state, and speaking of that, pass that joint kid, and let's go.”

We went down to the first hole at the bottom of the hill. Ron’s ball was sitting three feet from the pin. Unreal.

By the 7th hole I had left any reservations about Ron behind. The good doctor was clearly a kindred maniac like myself, and then some. We continued our assault on the course, much to the chagrin of our opponents. Ron and I ended up destroying the field. Won by a solid ten strokes.

He tells me about his recent life and livley-hood. Dr. Ron is a cannabis bootlegger of some repute. He goes out of his way to help folks who fall out of the state's medical cannabis program. He's helped out treat everything from anxiety to cancer—winning in quite a few cases.

Along the way we talked about medical cannabis, and how he has been helping people. He asks if I need help. I tell him I’m in the medical program. He just looks at me, “And how’s that working out for you?”

I reply, “Well ok, I mean it’s expensive.”

He smiled that big toothy smile at me. “You got that right.”

I scowled, “Well what can you do for me, doctor?”

~ ~ ~

I had forgotten about running into the good doctor until I heard the rumble of a deeply tuned V-8 coming up the hill. I could tell by the rpm it was moving fast, probably near 50 up the dirt road. Crazy bastard, I thought. When I heard the car decelerate I immediately knew who it was. As Ron pulled up his stereo preceded him with Led Zeppelin blaring "When the levee breaks have no place to stay, woah now woah now." Ron turned the car off and jumped out.

"Hey kid, I was in the neighborhood, you know, on business, and I thought to myself—oh man, and I was flying, flying down the road—I gotta go see Bill on the Hill, you know, man? I mean, I was close, brother, could have shot right past, I mean really, like a bullet, out there on the state road. Oh, and I brought some really good weed, you got papers? Wait, I do, in the car, hold on kid, hey you want a beer, here come with me, beer is in the trunk . . ." all said in about 7.5 seconds.

"Shit, sure, Ron, I'm just here running some oil for my insomnia, you know the score."

"Right, right, man how's that going, and you still free from that fucking Lyme Disease or what, I mean you had all that trim I gave you, you still good, you need more, I can get you more, you yes, definately more."

"You’re in quite a state today."

He turned to me with an evil eye sort of squint—and glared, silently.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying anything, you're just extra special today."

He smiles, that broad toothy smile again, "You're alright, kid. I've always liked you, you fucker."

We both laughed, hard. It was very good to see the doctor again.

He looks up and stares for a moment. "Hey I just got back, new batch, oh kid, where's those papers, I couldn't find mine, you grab me a beer?"

I go grab a pack of Raw papers and meet back up with Ron sitting cross legged in my lawn. Quite a feat for a man his age, but who am I kidding, I'm just jealous. He had a suitcase laid out in front of him. As I handed him the papers he opened the case, full of vacuum sealed bags of some of the most incredible flower I had ever seen.

"Fuuuck!"

Laughing, "I know, look at this stuff, would ya?"

"What is it, what strain?"

"Well, my boys have grown a hybrid of Mimosa that they say will put you down like an elephant tranquilizer."

We looked at each other and laughed. Sure. I knew Ron was very tolerant of large volumes of cannabis, and since I ate cannabis oil each night for sleep, puffing really didn't affect me. So Ron rolled up a number, and we lit it up and started talking about golf, Ron's second favorite subject. I obliged him. Ron's speech can be dizzying, so rapid fire, and acute--often hard to follow--I struggled to keep pace listening

In just a few minutes Ron's diatribe suddenly drifted away. At first I thought I was going deaf or something, but then I looked at Ron, whose face hung kind of downwards, with a distant sort of look in his eyes. I would have asked him why—had I been able to talk. There we were, sitting in silence, neither able to voice words.

I struggled and managed to ask, "What the fuck is that stuff again?"

Ron mumbled something I couldn’t understand.

"What'd you say?"

"Killer Mimosa."

He took a breath and snapped back, "Water. Christ, I need water."

I stumbled into the house, mumbling to myself something about being hit by a train, fumbled through the kitchen, grabbed his water and returned outside. He was done, snoring, flat on his back in the afternoon sun. I am a great believer in old proverbs, so I let the sleeping dog lie.

Apparently even the good doctor has his limits.

-WJM

Ron woke up with several deer standing over him and staring at him. They all simultaneously screamed and fled into the night: deer leaping over shrubs and branches into the dark forest; Ron leaping into his car, cranking it over, and speeding off into the summer midnight. I’ve not seen Ron since.