March 17, 1993
I haven't been feeling too cordial toward Jack since he stole my Jack Nicklaus tape. I loaned it to him three years ago, and do you think I could get it back? I even sent him a self-addressed stamped mailer ages ago, but he said in a phone call that he'd loaned the tape to a neighbor who had then gone off and wouldn't be back until the fall of 1992. So another year went by with no word from Jack either by mail or phone, and I finally decided to stop gritting my teeth over the irresponsibility of ex-lovers. Forget the tape, remember the good times.
At 11:30 the Weymouthport guard called from the gatehouse and said, "Jack Nicklaus is here with your tape."
"Who? What? I think you have the wrong number," I said.
The guard asked my visitor to repeat his name and message. "Tell her Jack Nicklaus is here with her tape."
There was no mistaking the voice; Jack was returning my long-lost property. A typical Jackish joke.
I wish I could say we fell deliriously into each other's arms, but I was in the middle of a writing project and itching for him to leave. I was gracious outwardly, while inwardly I was aching with love and longing for my waiting computer. Sorry, Jack, you've been replaced.