CONCORDE – Saturday

I woke up in the Sonesta Beach Hotel in Bermuda. I took my motorbike, which was parked outside my suite’s door, and with the golf bag across my shoulders set out for Green Acres Country Club at the far end of the island.

It was the 15th day of the month of August, 1977. I was due back at work on the following Monday.

Elvis Presley had challenged me to a game of golf today when he lost to me by a gross score of 97 to 95 the day before. True, neither of us were any good, neither could drive, hit a decent 2nd, 3rd, 4th, or 5th shot, or putt worth a damn — but he had been foolish enough to have bet his solid gold golf bag against my 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and 5th woods and my solid gold putter — and I wanted Presley’s gold golf bag more than anything!

I won that contest by a score of 107 to 100, and I returned to the hotel on my motorbike the proud owner of Elvis Presley’s solid gold golf bag! ‘The King’ (fat slob that he was) lost that match because he could barely see his ball beneath his protruding belly. (He died the next day, but my victory had nothing to do with his demise.)

I was back in my suite packing when I got a phone call from Stuart Talcrot, the British Airways rep, in Rochester, NY.

“MiIlsy, how was your Bermuda vacation?”

“Super! I won Elvis Presley’s solid gold golf bag!”

“Good for you. Listen, you wanna fly home on the Concorde? We got one leaving at 5pm; there’s an extra seat available, and it’s for free! Want it?”

“How come? What do I do with my current ticket?”

“Turn it in for a refund. Air France and we’re retiring from Concorde service soon, but there’s a catch. We’re gonna fly from Bermuda to Heathrow, then from there to D.C. We got a flight outta there to Rochester at 7pm, so you gotta buy a ticket for the last leg. Still getcha home a day earlier. Want it?”

“You bet I do!”

The ‘wait’ in London was well worth it. When the flight was called I was sitting at the bar in the Concorde lounge enjoying a fresh beaker of Quint’s Superior Extra Dry Champaign. The entire room suddenly sprouted wheels and moved smoothly to a position beside the sleeping bird! I almost spilled my Champaign!

Another attendant stopped me as I stepped onto the plane. “Mr. Mills, you’re in 4-D, and there’s a new Quint’s waiting for you on the armrest. We’ll serve dinner as soon as we’re airborne. Would you prefer Steak l’Alibaba or Chicken el’Eleanor First Lady?”

“Ahh, steak — I think.”

“Pink or red center?”

There were no customs in Washington. The flight-attendants, one more lovely than the other, did nothing but pass out presents — everything from calendars to coasters, from greeting cards ro playing cards, from beakers to shot glasses, all with the BOAC and Air France’s Aerospatiale logos well- embossed And there were no customs, no forms to fill out for the IRS or anyone else.

No nothing, much to the delight of my seatmate, Payne Stewart, who had just played Royal St. George’s and won the British Open with a final round 63. He was wearing a normal business suit rather than his standard wardrobe of ivy caps and flamboyant pants, a cross between the plus-fours and the knickerbockers that were the style before Stewart attempted to revive it. I barely recognized him.

I told him, after my third Scotch and soda, about beating Elvis Presley out of his solid gold golf bag.

“Really? And you had to shoot 107 to do it?”

“Sure. Wanna buy it?”

“How much?”

“Six grand.”


Copyright©2014 by Robert A. Mills, all rights reserved, may not be published, nor re-written nor broadcast without the author’s permission