'The Royal & Ancient Golf Curse' - Part 12. Gin & Tonics

By: Richard Voorhees


[Editor's Note: In the 11th episode, the golf nymph explained how she originally met the Chinese sage and time flies. This is the 12th in our friends' series of misadventures, suffered under the spell of the "Royal and Ancient Golf Curse."]

"The next hole is through those trees," says the nymph, shading her eyes with her hand. No further instructions are necessary. We're broiling. We see shade ahead and exert ourselves, regular Olympic speed-walkers. I see flowers along the cart path looking deep-fried. We hustle our way under the trees. Their leaves are almost metallic and they're covered with a dusting of silt. But they seem to offer shelter and we're taking it. When a slight wind stirs them, they make a clattering sound.

"Hole No. 6 is the shortest hole on the course. It's a par-2," announces the cart nymph.

"Never heard of a par-2," says Wild Turkey, voice emanating from somewhere under his bespangled sombrero.

"Nice headgear, Turkey," says Beer Boy. "You look like you've taken refuge in a sombrero-shaped galaxy far, far away."

"What about you, Beer? You look like you've joined the Foreign Legion."

"What do you say we take a breather right here," I venture. "These trees are a godsend."

"Is 'godsend' one word or two?" Single Malt wonders.

"Good question. Is it 'god send?' Or 'gods end?' "

"In the world of copyediting, that's known as a 'bad break.' "

"Indeed. A typo grande."

"Hey, check it out! A drinking fountain!" says Beer Boy. "Another god-send! Hyphenated … hydrated!"

The Beer drinker turns the knob and bends down, mouth hanging wide. Nothing happens. Then the fountain makes a gurgling noise and a stream of cold water splashes him flush in the face. Water. Nothing could be finer. He drinks up. We all do the same. One cannot live on Irish Coffee alone.

"Hey, hey. What do we have here?" Single Malt kneels down in front of a red cooler he's found. He carefully unlatches it and flips it open. Could it be stocked with cold drinks? Nope. Instead, what it holds are small, white, rolled towels in an ice bath.

"Gents…?" he says, holding up one of the ice-cold towels.

"Nice!"

"Sweet!"

"Beautiful!"

We each grab ourselves a towel dripping with ice water. I bury my face in mine, then drape in over the back of my neck. ("Ahh!") Then I take a second one, unroll it, and lay it over the top of my head. Ice water cascades over me. I realize I'm making a fashion statement (in something like Esperanto.) The cart nymph bends down and gets herself of a towel, too, with the style befitting a goddess.

As she pats the towel behind her cheek and neck, she says, "Boys, the sixth hole is little more than a green. You have to get down in two to make par. I'll show you where the drop area is."

"Can we cool off here a little longer?" I ask.

"The green is manicured. You'll love it," she says. "And there's a bar next to it."

"It's so nice to have gotten out of that inferno."

"We're in no hurry," she says. "What would you say to a gin and tonic, under an umbrella on a terrace?"

"Twist my arm."

"With a twist of lime."

We step out from under the sheltering trees, and quite a sight awaits us. It's an oasis. The sound of piano music is coming from inside a rambling tropical clubhouse. The terrace is well-shaded by palm trees and dotted with tables and umbrellas. A dozen guests dressed in white linen are coming and going. They take no notice of us.

"Boys, before you settle in, you need to change. Club rules. The men's locker room is through there." The cart nymph sounds like she's brooking no objections. We comply, returning a few minutes later feeling extremely natty in white linen, except Wild Turkey, who had to be different, and comes sauntering back out in seersucker.

We sit down at a table with a prime view of hole No. 6 and immediately three waitresses tag-team us. (Waitresses dressed like the French maids of our dreams.) They're smiling as if our fortunes have officially changed. They confirm our drink orders - anti-malarial.

"Gin and tonic? Gin and tonic?"

"Gin and tonic? Gin and tonic?"

"Yes, yes, yes, yes!"

They return in a trice bearing the perfect gin and tonic - generous with the gin, generous with the tonic, judicious with the ice, bursting with fresh lime. Moisture condensing on chilled cocktail glasses. Eight of them, in fact.

"You know us too well."

"How so?"

"All these G-and-Ts."

"Oh, silly, these aren't all for you."

"We're going to join you," says one of the waitresses. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Curse not!"

"Course not!"

As all those G-and-T's are deposited on the table before us, centered on beautiful, lacy, doily numbers - not unlike swatches of French lingerie - we hop to and fetch more wicker chairs. Chivalry may be a little slow on the uptake, but it's alive and… well… Our beautiful new acquaintances slide in among us. The cart nymph is sitting to my right. Her knee lightly touches mine when she reaches for her drink.

"Cheers!"

"Cheers!"

"Hey, hey!"

"It would be a sin to bring someone two gin and tonics at once," one of the servers says. "A gin and tonic must be served fresh!"

"Too true."

"So how do you like our little club?"

"Love it."

"And the golf curse? Er, course?"

"Memorable."

"Say, is this a private club?" Single Malt asks. "Do you take new members?"

I notice the cart nymph tighten her lips, as if signaling to the beautiful waitresses to keep quiet. The French maids exchange quick glances. They seem a little embarrassed.

"I could ask," the cart nymph says. "I don't think the membership has changed in years, though. Someone would have to give up his or her membership. No one ever does. And to get in off the waiting list, you're probably looking at an eternity."

Rather than say anything more, the four women all take healthy swigs off their drinks. The ice tinkling in their glasses sounds a bit like a death rattle.

"Hey, what do you say we refresh our drinks and mosey over to the putting green?" Wild Turkey is always full of bright ideas.

"Brilliant," Single Malt says.

"You don't mind if we come along, do you?" one of the waitresses asks. "We can help you read your lines."

Sounds like a rehearsal. But for what, I wonder. A morality tale?

When not writing about golf, Richard Voorhees is a novelist, filmmaker and lexicographer. His novel, "Shooting Genji," and his dictionary of occupations, "The World's Oldest Professions," are available on Amazon.com and at his website, www.rgvoorhees.com.