Bertie's job is to assist David whenever he graces the club. I am certain he has a picture of his Davie's arse on his nightstand so he can kiss it morning and night. The shit. His job in the pro shop is to amble about. I have never seen him do anything else. He likes to kick pepples around in the car park in between fags and spitting on ants. The ancient duffers love the knob for a reason beyond me, save for he is the first and last person they see at the links.
Most of the golfers know me from The Club Pub. I am the lowly geezer in the dirty jumper drinking my allocated pint. Part of the furniture.
Aren't too many jobs for antiquated engineers these days. Getting this job came at a critical time for me and the Mrs.. We scrape by thankfully. I tend to the upkeep of the maintenance shed mostly. Lots of sweeping, cleaning dirty rental clubs, quieting vocal hinges, etcetera. A sleepy occupation. I used to build entire factories that collectively employed thousands.
In my first week working, introduced myself to Bertie over a pint in The Club Pub. I got into how lucky I had been with this job. I told him about the stress we had making ends meet. It had gotten so bad that in times of extreme stress I get leg paralyzing charley horses. This was a mistake. The shit, I swear, hand to our lord, has been intentionally trying to get me to seize up. Even though he is well aware of the excruciating pain it causes.
I have been working here for loosely two and a half years; not as long as the tenured three year meander associate, Bertie. For this reason he has chosen me as the berk to torment. This adolescent, all but twenty two years in age, acts as my superior. Telling me to fetch things for him. And reporting to supervisors about my quality of work. "That sweep-y lad has been pretty sluggish with the bits of rubbish in the car park. Poor bloke, must be tired because he is so, so old. Let's send him home to rest."
On a day the knob-twins were documenting his greatness, the grounds manager was told by Bertie that David required someone allowed to operate a cart for a scrolling shot in their masterpiece. (Seeing as how my leg could be a danger to my health, I was given a doctor's referral to drive a cart while on the course.)
From the start, Bertie fancied himself a Spielberg because he had the camera. Barking orders lopsidedly towards me but never addressing me directly. " Driver. You're in my shot", " You. Move", " Driver. You are the only one not taking this seriously", "I don't know what to do with him." , " quiet on set, driver" , "Diver, this isn't the first time I've given you a direction" , "Must be nap time. Poor driver". I have a ruddy name, you twat. All the while he is jokes and giggles with all his production team, if you will: caddies, a sound man, a local sports journalist as well as an attractive woman that Bertie the shit may or may not have purchased from a talent agency (all the aforementioned had names which were freely sung by our resident fil genius).
He got what he wanted. And on film, no less. After years of being pestered, that..shit had launched my stress level to the brink of fucking insanity. "Turn left, Driver". Everything went red, then tunnel vision. My leg stiffened itself against the accelerator. Then. Nothing.
I was shown an unrecognizable video with the accident in it's entirety. Staff are calling it a senior moment, apparently. All were kind and helpful. None truly knew what had really happened.
Bertie suggested Captain Nuremberg take a few weeks rest. "The elderly take much longer to heal than normal people. Isn't that right, grandpa? Maybe I will give you a lift home and warm you up some milk."
