Once Upon a Tee Time
Chapter 7

On Friday morning, shortly after dawn, two dozen Leisureville residents gathered around the first tee. Bundled up in sweaters or jackets, they came to verify the headline story: the miraculous turnaround of Jingles Plumlee. News of his 62 and the day’s wager had spread like wildfire. Most residents assumed Knickers Collins was up to his funny business again, and were home asleep.

Four years had passed since salmon appeared in a local pond, but the ruse was Leisureville lore. Someone had photographed the huge silver fish on the stringer, the large group of people fishing, and finally, the crowd scattering to avoid apprehension. Those pictures, enlarged and framed, hung among others on a wall of the community center ballroom. The sleepers had no desire to be among those photographed today. Pictures were sure to be posted in the ballroom with the caption: Hundreds turn out to watch Plumlee break 80. On the other hand, everyone planned to show up at the end of the round to see Knickers shed his clothes. They’d take photos of that themselves.

With Harvey at the wheel and Ray beside him, Birdie Chaser approached the tee. Seeing the crowd, the new driver stomped on the brake. “What’s all this?”

Hot coffee spilled on Ray’s lap, making him twitch as it penetrated his underwear. White slacks had been the wrong choice today. “They’re here because of Knickers. He’s just screwing around.”

“Those people are here to watch you,” Harvey exclaimed. “Nobody else.”

“Just roll with it,” Ray laughed. “It’ll be fun.”

Mulligan broke out of the cluster to meet them. “Can you believe this? The Rip Van Wrinkled have risen from their slumber to come see you play, Jingles! And that means they’ll be watching the rest of us too!”

Ray shook his head. The Rip Van Wrinkled. Why couldn’t he think of funny lines like that? Mulligan should be doing stand-up comedy.

“They won’t be watching me,” Harvey announced. “I’ll chauffeur Jingles around the course like he did for me last week.”

Ray noticed a large plywood scoreboard, secured to the back of a cart. A single name was printed in neat block letters: JINGLES. He glanced over at Knickers and shook his head.

Knickers shrugged. “I know what you’re thinkin’, Jinglehopper. I’m puttin’ the screws to you … turnin’ up the pressure. All I did was make a little wager. I have total faith in you and your new contact lenses.”

“You really don’t know what I’m thinking,” Ray replied. “I’m seeing you prancing around naked. I might have to miss a short putt on the last hole and shoot sixty-six.”

Knickers studied his friend, weighing the inference that he could score 65 or better if he felt like it. Ray had never been a braggart about anything - far from it. The Alaskan was a slice of humble pie. The round was going to be interesting.

Mulligan noticed Ray’s stained pants. “You aren’t nervous, are you? It sure looks like you are.”

“It’s coffee,” Jingles chuckled. “The best I never drank.”

Knickers walked up on the tee and held his driver like a microphone again, ready for more monkeying around. “Welcome, welcome, welcome,” he bellowed.

The small crowd clapped as one of them hollered, “It’s supposed to get warm later. At least you won’t catch cold without your clothes on!”

Knickers laughed and yelled back, “If you’re ever gonna see me naked, you’ll have to follow me into the shower!”

The man shouted, “No thanks.”

Knickers continued his introduction. “Leading off, our shortstop, Mayor Mulligan Wettman!”

Mulligan threw back his shoulders and took the stage. After teeing his ball, he stepped back and took a practice swing.

“That’s a first,” Harvey whispered to Ray.

Mulligan then cut loose with an oversized swing and barely made contact. His ball bounded thirty yards, struck one of the red blocks marking the ladies’ tee, and rolled halfway back.

“Holy cow,” Harvey whispered again. “Shortstop was a good description.”

Jingles looked on in amazement. He never figured Mulligan to choke so badly in front of a crowd. Then again, his friend had never felt the pressure of trying to match a 62.

Mulligan automatically reached into a pocket for his back-up ball. Just as quickly, he removed the hand and waved to everyone. “Clearly,” he laughed, “I’m no Jingles Plumlee.”

Knickers stepped between the markers, smacked a solid drive down the fairway, and raised a hand to acknowledge some applause. Might this be his day? Sixty-one more shots like that and he could shoot 62.

“And now,” he hollered into the head of Big Bertha, “the man you’ve come to see, and the man who can now see you! After getting contact lenses this week, he fired a sixty-two on Wednesday. I was there. I saw it. I swear it on a stack of salmon.”

His last words drew tentative chuckles. Was that an admission that this was all just another joke?

“Yes, indeed,” Knickers concluded. “The artist formerly known as Ray ... Jingles Plumlee!”

Under the scrutiny of every eye, Jingles knocked his standard drive down the middle, same as always, a carbon copy. He tipped his hat and went about his business with an ease only he understood.

On the tenth tee, Jingles looked at the huge scorecard on Harold Perkins’ cart. The man in the straw hat had meticulously painted the score for each hole on the board. It was the 5 on the fourth hole that drew his attention. He’d caught a good lie in the fairway, as he normally did. Unlike the carpet on a stairwell - always worn in the middle - the center of Leisureville fairways caught the least amount of use. From there, however, he flew a seven iron over the pin and into the bunker behind the green. He never practiced sand shots because he rarely encountered them. After taking two blasts to get free of the trap, he made bogey.

Jingles noted the rest of his scores and scolded himself. He was a whiner. Through nine holes, he had putted almost perfectly - just a single two-putt. Six birdies, two pars, and the one bogey added up to 31.

Still, he could have scored lower. His third shot to the 510-yard, par-five seventh, a chip from thirty yards, struck the pin and bounded away. Had the ball dropped into the cup, he would have recorded his first-ever eagle.

The elusive eagle. How could anyone golf for twenty years, most every day for the past seven, without ever lucking into one? His partners had dozens between them. Knickers alone had five holes-in-one to his credit; Jingles witnessed two of them. Mulligan and Harvey each recorded multiple aces too. And then there was him, a virgin at age seventy-two. Over the years, he hit dozens of flagsticks from distance, missed cups by mere inches, but never had the pleasure of seeing his ball disappear. He had come close once again.

Knickers was playing his “A” game. In front of a crowd that had grown to three hundred, he carded a one-under 35 on the front nine, his best start in months. He punched the sky after every nice shot.

Mulligan’s game was a wreck. He had fallen into a running banter with a vocal spectator who chastised him for moving his feet during his swing. Mulligan countered with a suggestion that the guy get his own feet moving - and go home. The distraction took a toll.

A showman at heart, Mulligan didn’t let his score affect his performance. When he holed out from the sand on the ninth hole, his only highlight, he feigned a heart attack and dramatically collapsed. Everyone laughed except the few who ran to assist him or called 911 on their cells.

Harvey watched and wondered if his own game would benefit from contact lenses. After visiting the optometrist yesterday, he wasn’t optimistic. Dr. Sturrock explained that Jingles’ eyesight had been far worse than his.

As Jingles began the back nine, Harvey told him, “I can’t believe any of this. It’s like a dream, ‘The Impossible Dream.’ You never miss a putt, no matter how hopeless, no matter how far.”

Jingles turned his attention to his chauffeur, whose words triggered a wave of compassion. He owed all three of his friends a full explanation. He would get around to it soon.

As play progressed, more Leisurevillians found their way to the course, which had become a fairground. Carts with signs advertising fresh baked goods, coffee, and cold drinks wove their way along crowded cart paths. The widow Thompson, owner of a fairway home, set up a table to sell golf balls she had picked from her garden. She had hundreds for a quarter each. Near the fifteenth green, a couple fired up a grill and sold sausages and hamburgers. The aroma was so enticing that even the golfers stopped for an early lunch. The chef insisted that Jingles eat for free.

Many residents brought along their pets. In recent years, the number of canines in the development had surpassed the human population. While the original bylaws allowed a single animal per household, the limit had been raised to two under the assumption that a friendly pet policy would increase demand for Leisureville homes. However, when Mary Wettman decided to bring a third Scottish Terrier under her roof, her husband engineered still another rule change.

With so many dogs towing owners along the fairways, the barking and yapping was out of control. A cockapoo broke free, snatched Mulligan’s ball from a green, and ran off with it. He chased the tiny thief while its owner chased him, berating the association president for getting the dog too excited.

By the time the circus reached the final green, all agreed it was Leisureville’s finest hour. Most of the residents surrounded the final stage to watch what would surely be Jingles’ last putt of the day, a sixteen-footer for yet another birdie.

“The dance floor belongs to you,” Knickers told him. “You’re the primo ballerino.”

Jingles studied the closest spectators through his bubble lens, taking in every detail of their expressions. They all loved him, or at least the show. He could see it in their eyes. Golf fans or not, they appreciated some excitement on an otherwise routine day.

A face he saw earlier was missing. “Knickers, where’s Clancy Schmidt? Isn’t it time for him to perform?”

“He disappeared on the fourteenth hole,” Knickers said with a wry smile. “Hopefully, he left to put his house on the market. Everybody knows about our bet.”

“That’s too bad. Most of these people came to see somebody get naked.”

Jingles noticed Bess, Mary, and Lucy, all standing together. Where was Pat? She had to know what was going on.

He got his answer when the crowd parted to allow his wife to come forward. She was pushing a neighbor lady, Kat Kelso, in her wheelchair. Pat glanced at him, the throng of people, and back to him. She merely shook her head.

Jingles took an extra practice stroke to extend the moment. Tuning out the talking, the barking, and all the motion and commotion, he saw only a cup that was big enough to swallow him. After waiting for a giant ladybug to pass by safely, he put shot number sixty in the hole.

Holding Pinger high, he hurried to Pat for a ceremonial first kiss. He bent for a second from Mrs. Kelso. With the day’s work done, he made a beeline for Birdie Chaser to return his ally to its little plastic case.

Harvey returned to his seat behind the wheel and hugged his friend. “Unbelievable doesn’t begin to describe it, Jingles! Twenty putts! That’s it!” His right hand shook as he finished recording the score.

The crowd screamed when Harold Perkins dashed onto the green, wearing nothing but his straw hat. He waved his arms at all his neighbors, encouraging them to join him, then sprinted off down the fairway. Without much of an ass left to weigh him down, the eighty-five-year-old moved quite well.

Everyone seemed more delighted than shocked, prompting Jingles to ask Mulligan why he wasn’t following Harold’s lead.

As always, Mulligan had a ready response. “If they saw how much my junk has shrunk, I’d never get elected again.”

“Well,” Harvey laughed, “there’s always the sympathy vote.”

A half dozen men accepted Harold’s invitation, at least to the extent of stripping down to their underwear, and took off after him. One white-haired lady joined the exhibition in her bra, underpants, and support hose. Her jog lasted only seconds before she lost her breath and broke into a walk.

Mulligan busied himself forming a reception line to Birdie Chaser. Everybody wanted to greet Jingles and nobody wanted the party to end.

“Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” started playing from a boombox. “My oh my, what a wonderful day, plenty of sunshine headed my way, Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah, Zip-A-Dee-A.”

Jingles saw Bess Collins, the culprit deejay, crank the volume higher. People all around him started singing along. “Mister bluebird’s on my shoulder.”

Harvey slapped the hero’s knee. “More like bluebirdies, right Jingles?”

“It’s true, it’s actual, everything is satisfactual.”

It certainly is, Jingles thought to himself. Grinning, he began the task of shaking hands and absorbing flattery.

“When You Wish Upon a Star” came next on the Disney oldies CD. “When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you are, anything your heart desires, will come to you.”

Tears blurred Jingles’ vision. Had he wished upon a star? Was the bubble lens made of star dust? How could all this be happening?

“If your heart is in your dreams, no request is too extreme.”

Knickers had wandered into the Nineteenth Hole, where he held a free beer in his left hand and fingered a phone book with his right. He shot 70, his best round in recent memory, and lost by ten strokes! He intended to call Jingles’ optometrist for an appointment.

Pat informed her husband she was heading home with Kat. Before departing, she took in the scene one last time. Hundreds of people were swaying or dancing on the grass, singing and laughing. Wasn’t the big dance party supposed to be tomorrow night?

Jingles turned down a dozen offers of beer and settled for sweet iced tea. When he realized that some of the residents were congratulating him for the second or third time, he decided the party should end, at least for him.

At Sleepy Hollow, Harvey stepped out of Birdie Chaser and watched his very popular friend start to pull away. He stopped him with a holler. “Maybe you should consider changing Birdie Chaser’s name!”

“To what?” Jingles asked. “Birdie Catcher?”

“Not bad,” Harvey nodded. “I was thinking of something like Ageless Wonder or Forever Young. Golfers half our age only dream of doing what you did the last few days. You’ve shown a bunch of old folks that anything’s possible. Age doesn’t have to be a deterrent. I think that’s a big part of why everyone’s so excited. I know I am.”

Jingles felt a twinge of guilt, a sudden dryness in his throat. A defective right contact lens was doing the lion’s share of the work, all the heavy lifting. He was simply lucky to have it, right?

Or was it destiny instead? Should fate be questioned? Perhaps there was a reason that the mysterious lens found its way to his eye. That thought soothed him, even satisfied him. He shouldn’t have to apologize for winning the lottery, should he? During the round, he had decided to tell Harvey about the uniqueness of the lens. Now he wasn’t so sure. He’d have to give it more thought.

Jingles took a three-hour nap after lunch. He awoke to a different world, or at least a new kitchen. The table was covered with bottles of liquor and wine, each with a card attached or sitting beneath it. Fifteen bottles? Maybe more. The long kitchen counter was loaded with baked goods: frosted cakes with “Jingles” or “60” on them; and pies and cookies galore, enough to keep a bakery in business for a day. The booty extended into the dining room, where a half dozen flower arrangements graced the table, mostly handpicked from local gardens.

Pat stood amidst it all, talking on the phone. “Yes, Mrs. McCory, we love the flowers your husband brought over.” She looked at her husband, rolled her eyes, and listened.

“Yes, we’d love to come over for dinner some evening. I’ll call you next week and we’ll set a date. Thank you so much for calling.” She put down the phone and started jotting down a reminder. Before she finished, the phone rang.

Jingles examined the assortment of alcohol and opened one of three Crown Royal boxes. He didn’t drink much hard stuff, but liked the distinctive blue velvet bags that covered the fancy bottles.

At the counter, he sampled a chocolate chip cookie. Nice. Real nice. He reached for another, but Pat stopped him with a wag of her head.

He started reading the congratulatory cards. Some names he recognized. Most were new to him.

Pat ended her conversation, scratched out another note, and pulled the phone plug from the jack. “People have been marching to our front door for the last two hours. The phone won’t stop ringing. I can’t even call the kids to tell them about your day. Everybody in Leisureville wants to socialize with us. We’re at the top of the ‘A’ list!”

Jingles stopped her rant with a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t worry. I’m just the flavor of the day. People will forget about it by tomorrow.”

“I don’t know,” Pat said, kissing him back. “It’s like you’re the President of the United States or something.”

“I’m hardly that,” he grinned. “No president ever came close to shooting a sixty.”

She laughed and shoved him away. “How in the world are you playing like that? It’s ridiculous!”

“I’ve tried to tell you how many times?”

“I know, I know. The difference now is that you have my attention.”

He thought about how to describe the view through the odd lens, but hesitated. If he admitted how the bubble supersized everything, made putting so easy, wouldn’t that diminish his accomplishment in her eyes … in everybody’s eyes? That didn’t seem right, or even fair. It was him swinging the club and making the most of good fortune.

The doorbell chimed and Pat took off for the front door. A moment later, she summoned Jingles to the entry. “These are the Conwells. Sunny and Herb.”

He recognized them from the reception line beside the final green. Herb held out still another Crown Royal box. “Please come in.”

When they stepped inside, Sunny saw the other gifts in the kitchen. “I see we’re not the first to thank you for all the happiness you brought Leisureville today.”

“People are very gracious here,” Pat said. “I plan on taking all the sweets to the dance tomorrow night. I hope you’ll be there.”

“Heck,” Jingles added, “I should be the one saying thanks for all the support out there this morning. That was the best round of my life.”

Herb set his gift with the others. “That was the best round of anybody’s life. I watch the Golf Channel all the time. I’ve never seen anyone putt like that. Not even close.”

“I missed a long one on twelve,” Jingles recalled.

“You were amazing,” Sunny agreed, “out-of-this-world amazing. Our grandson is coming to visit over Thanksgiving. He’s in high school and wants to try out for the golf team. We were wondering if you could give him some pointers.”

“That’d be an honor. Just call me when he’s ready.”

The doorbell sounded again and the Conwells excused themselves. They were replaced by Tim Scott, the pro.

Tim shook his hand and kissed Pat’s. “Well, I caught some of your round this morning, Jingles. That’s what I call kickin’ ass.” He glanced at Pat. “Excuse my language.”

She smiled at his concern, laughing inside. She grew up in a town full of fishermen. Half their nouns and most of their adjectives were real profanity. Ass was the common name of a body part, no different than arm or leg.

He handed Jingles a bag with a box of new Titleists and some fancy head covers. “These are a gift from the club. The bar and restaurant did record business today.”

“Can’t thank you enough,” Jingles said.

“I was wondering,” Scott added. “Would you be interested in working for me … giving lessons? I’ve already had requests.”

Pat looked up quickly. “What does that pay? Would he get paid by the hour?”

“Lesson fees get split with the club, but your husband would clear twenty bucks an hour, no problem.”

When Pat squeezed his arm, Jingles mumbled, “Sounds kind of interesting.”

“Mrs. Beckerman could be your first student,” Scott laughed.

Jingles chuckled too. “Her lessons would be free. I have her to thank for my improvement.”

“Think about it and let me know. I could start scheduling afternoon hours next week.”

“I’ll let you know by Monday,” Jingles replied, and bid the pro farewell.

Pat guided her husband to a chair at the kitchen table. “A few hundred dollars a month would make a difference for us. Besides, you said you wanted to help people.”

Jingles ran his fingers through his thin hair. “Teaching is different than playing. I’m going to have to sleep on the idea. What’s for dinner?”

Pat moved toward the phone. “That reminds me. Your friend Knickers invited us to a barbecue tonight. I explained we couldn’t come because of the dance lessons.”

“You told him I was taking dance lessons? I’ll never hear the end of it!”

“Oh, stop it,” she scolded. “That Knickers needs to grow up. I’m going to tell him so.”

She reconnected the phone. “I’ll order Chinese. You can pick it up while I write Thank You notes to all your admirers.”

Foxtrot and cha-cha lessons proved tolerable for Jingles. It was a cool, comfortable night and the back terrace served as a suitable dance floor. Not a single neighbor complained about the music. As he and his wife moved under the teacher’s direction, the joy in Pat’s brown eyes made him feel guilty. She loved to dance and he’d always been too stubborn or self-conscious to give it an honest effort. Now anything seemed possible. It was a matter of confidence. Almost overnight, he was turning into a different man altogether. Pat seemed to like the Jingles character, and he did too.

After the lesson, Pat pulled the checkbook from her purse and asked the instructor how much she was due. She explained that her normal rate was $20 an hour for a total of four hours. However, upon seeing all the liquor in the kitchen, she requested payment in-kind. The deal was consummated with the four bottles of Crown Royal and a chocolate cake as a tip.

Pat reconnected the phone once again, and it rang immediately. She sighed, answered, then covered the receiver with a hand. “Jingles, you won’t believe this! Jane Friend from Newswatch wants to talk to you!”

Wide-eyed, he took the phone from Pat. “Hel ... lo,” he said tentatively, his voice cracking.

“Am I calling too late, Jingles? Were you sleeping?” the caller asked.

It was indeed the Jane Friend. He’d know that voice anywhere. He and Pat listened to it six nights a week, from 6:00 to 6:30. As far as he knew, the entire Phoenix area population watched her broadcast. At the ripe old age of twenty-eight, she was an institution.

“No, it’s not late at all,” he said. “We saw your show tonight. Great as always.”

Pat whispered into his spare ear. “Tell her I loved her hair!”

Jane said, “Well, I’ve been calling for hours and just now got through. Your phone’s been busy.”

Or disconnected, he guessed. “My wife wants you to know that your hair looked nice tonight.” Jingles remembered it himself, swept into a bun on one side. Jane was a regular fashion star.

“Well, tell her thanks! I try not to be boring. I got an e-mail late this afternoon with a photo album attached. Apparently, you’re quite the sensation in Leisureville!”

“Who sent you an e-mail?” he wondered.

“A lady named Mary Wettman. She said her husband has been your golf partner for several years.”

“Yes, Mulligan is one of my best friends.”

She giggled softly. “Mulligan, you say? His name is Mulligan?”

“His real name’s Irvin. Mulligan is just a nickname.”

“Is Jingles a nickname too?”

“Everyone is calling me Jingles, even though I don’t like it. My name is Ray.”

“Would you mind if I call you Jingles? I have to tell you, I love the sound of it.”

He decided that if Jane Friend liked Jingles, that’s exactly who he would be from now on. He didn’t feel like the old Ray Plumlee anyway. “Then Jingles it is.”

“So how does a young man go from being a four or five-handicapper to shooting scores like sixty in the blink of an eye?”

Jingles laughed at her choice of words. “If you saw pictures, you know I’m not young. I’ll be seventy-three in February.”

“Okay, you caught me. I knew your age, but I don’t think you’re feeling it right now.”

“Between you and me, I’ve never felt better. After wearing glasses for forty years, I got contacts this week and they changed everything. No one can fully appreciate how well I see.”

“That may be, Jingles. At the same time, everyone in Leisureville appreciates how well you golf. Come tomorrow night, I’d like everyone else in Arizona to appreciate it too.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d like to visit Leisureville tomorrow morning with a camera crew. We’ll tape some of the action, talk to some people, and put together a little feature for Newswatch tomorrow night. Are you game?”

“Don’t you have real news to cover?”

She laughed. “That’s a good one. Tomorrow night’s special feature was going to be the Phoenix Dog Show. I think it can wait until Monday. Your story’s an original.”

“Today was a dog show here. There must have been a couple hundred of them following us around the course.”

“No way! I wish I could have seen that.”

“I have a feeling you might. Drive safely.”

“Always do. We’ll replace you on the course at about ten o’clock. Good night, Jingles. Get a good rest.”

Jane disconnected and smiled. He told me to drive safely! How cute was that! Since reading the e-mail, the Jingles story had been foremost on her mind. Over half her show’s demographic, fifty-six percent, was senior citizens. When was the last time they had their own sports hero? Tomorrow’s trip could be very worthwhile, certainly worth the risk.

Pat had listened to the conversation on the bedroom phone. Because Alaska Standard Time made it an hour earlier there, she had time to call each of her children with the day’s surprising news. Grandpa was going to be on television!

Over two thousand miles away, in New York City, telescopic vision inventor Karl Zimmer reclined on the king-sized bed of his 20th floor hotel room, watching a late movie. These were exciting times for the German, and sleep didn’t come easily. The Big Apple was a fabulous city for people of means, and he planned on being wealthy soon. Within days, over a month before the expiration date of his option, he would notify Herman Winston that a $15,000,000 payment would be forthcoming on December first.

Since leaving Eagle Optics three weeks ago, Karl’s life had been a blur of activity. He first hired a business consultant to review options for marketing his new technology. While the easiest course of action would have been to send his report to all the major corporations in the optics field and allow them to bid on the technology, Karl had higher aspirations. Why shortchange himself on the potential payoff by selling out? And even if a buyer agreed to hire him, he might not have creative control of future development.

The solution was to replace an investment banker to fund the start of his own company. Despite cautionary advice, Karl decided to dedicate a month to that search before offering his invention to established companies.

The consultant seemed shocked by his request to locate a financier with a passion for pool or billiards. Karl’s reasoning was simple. Explaining his lens to laymen would be difficult and time-consuming. Demonstrating its power would have instant impact. If he opened eyes, a giant wallet might open as well.

Mark Sherman of Sherman Macpherson in New York City met the profile. He couldn’t resist an offer to witness a “mind-boggling” pool exhibition. Karl flew across the country for a lunch date at a private club on Madison Avenue.

Once Karl chalked a cue, the lens took over. He followed the pool demonstration by reading an entire menu aloud - from fifteen feet away. In the weeks since that day, Karl had not left New York. His project was at the top of Sherman’s priority list, and the financier didn’t want the inventor out of his sight. A half dozen optometrists had tested his vision. His documentation had been forwarded to top research scientists for confidential review, after which he fielded questions in teleconferences at the investment firm offices.

The business plan now entailed organizing and incorporating Zimmer Optics over the next sixty days. Sherman MacPherson would provide $30 million in funding, half to pay for the option and half for operating funds to get the lens through the FDA approval process. Zimmer Optics would initially be owned equally by Karl and the investment banker. Upon government approval of the product, Sherman MacPherson would take the company public in an IPO. Proceeds would both capitalize the cost of commercial development and produce fortunes for the banker and himself.

His eyes finally heavy, Karl turned off the television and crawled under the covers next to his wife, who had no trouble sleeping. America was proving to be all he hoped it would be.