SAN DIEGO — All 264 pounds of me (I now weigh 185) was returning home to Coronado in my work truck from San Jose, where I had delivered a metal money tree to a new store and touched up the paint finish. I decided to stop half way home in Solvang and visit Laurel and her husband John, a cardiologist. They were tennis playing friends who had moved there from Coronado onto five acres with a couple of horses. John bought a medical practice in the area. Laurel arranged a game of mixed doubles with a couple she and John had become friendly with. The only shorts I had with me were paint stained, but they would have to do-which turned out to be ironic.
While Laurel and I were driving up the long twisting road to the top of the tallest hill in the area she said to me, “I want you to be aware that this guy is somewhat of a snob. He and his wife are extremely wealthy, He formerly owned a sports accessory company, and she was the heiress to a family fortune.” Just then we arrived at the circular driveway approach to their sprawling Spanish style mansion nestled among carefully pampered landscaping.
We were greeted at the door by our neatly attired host whose every stitch of tennis clothing he wore from his cap down to his sneakers and socks had a company logo emblazoned on them. He was a man about my age and height but considerably slender with no unusual features to distinguish him. We sat down for a respectful minute or two by the poolside patio, met his blonde attractive wife, and in very short order I detected the ”Holier than thou” waves emitting from the aura surrounding him.
The four of us then got into his immaculate, late model, Mercedes and drove down to the bottom of the hill a couple of miles to their private tennis court built on several acres of forest land they owned. We parked the car, walked through an entry gate, and passed by the first home they had lived in for two years while their hill top retreat was being built. Walking somewhat farther through the trees we came to another gate and the tennis court complete with stadium lights and two rows of a concrete viewing stand.
Laurel and fat, paint shorts me were partners, against the gazillionaires. All during the match, “The Prince,” in a demeaning way, kept calling his wife “little one.” Hell, she was almost as tall as he! Two things became quite apparent: we were killing them in all three sets we played, and he hated to lose. Every time we won a point he silently fumed, became visibly frustrated, and seethed in failure until the end of the match. The slum people embarrassingly had won! He was absolutely humiliated, and I was pleased with the most rewarding match I ever played.
After we were back on the hill to retrieve Laurel’s vehicle, they dutifully served us a Coke and related how they had charted an airplane and pilot to fly them back and forth every day to L.A. for a month to visit his terminally ill father in the hospital.
We said our goodbyes. A few minutes later, and the Mercedes was immediately fumigated after we were gone.
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Ira Spector is an author and freelance writer based in San Diego.