The thermometer in the clubhouse read 95 degrees. It was one of those days on the course when the bottles of Jack Daniels were replaced by bottles of Deer Park in the golf bag. The heat wave did not stop my two buddies and I from playing a quick 18 on that August weekend.
The course we were playing that day was a new one for me, however, my two friends had had some experience with the course already. The main topic of conversation between my two friends before teeing off had nothing to do with the course or the blazing heat; the only part of their previous round at that course that they can remember was the cart girl. A cart girl has the very important job of serving drinks and snacks to the golfers. All courses require that this position be filled by a lady, usually in her mid twenties, and, most of all, be rather attractive. All courses have them, but my buddies kept saying that this particular course had the most beautiful girl they had ever seen operate a golf cart. I didn't really believe them. These two particular friends of mine think any girl who gives them beer is the prettiest girl in the world.
The heat was like a soaking wet blanket. The 90% humidity made it tough to breath at times. It was like holding your breath in a hot tub. Even when the sprinklers came on, the water evaporated immediately into the air, barely leaving enough moisture for the grass to drink to keep its illustrious, green color. You did not even want to drink out of the water coolers that the golf course had placed at every tee box because the water lost it's chill earlier that morning.
We drove up to the 7th tee box and still had no sign of the mythical siren that my two buddies were still praying to see. I figured she must have had the day off, but my two friends refused to lose hope that they would again see the face that launched a thousand golf carts. They knew that she would want to be out today because it was so hot. I had to agree with their logic. A pretty girl serving drinks on a day like this could make enough money to retire early.
Just as I lined up my shot, I noticed a cart down the path adjacent to the fairway. This cart was larger than usual. As it drove closer to our tee box, I noticed that it was being operated by a woman with auburn hair. Her hair was the first thing I saw. The way the aggressive sun shone on her made her hair very striking. She stopped her cart and signaled to us to tee off, and she would wait to drive through. I suddenly felt an unbearable amount of pressure. No golfer wants to embarrass himself by shanking his ball when the cart girl is watching carefully. Luckily, I hit my best drive of the day. I wish I could say the same for my two friends. After they had shamed themselves by hitting their balls into the woods, we drove down to where the cart girl was parked. As I drew closer to her, I noticed she had a face full of freckles and skin that was as white as milk. She wore this look very well; it was as if she was an Irish Aphrodite. At this point, I assumed my two friends had forgotten how to talk, so I knew that I would have to break the ice. I hopped out of my car and said hello, and before she could say hello back, she smiled, and because of her smile it did not feel like it was a million degrees anymore. When her face lit up, I was taken aback to spring time. I was, to my own surprise, smitten. I had to give it to my friends, they were right.
I only had a 5 dollar bill, and I wanted to make sure to tip her well, so I polity asked if she had anything under 3 dollars. That is when she said it, in a voice that only exists in poet's mind when writing about a first love that ended in tragic beauty, "Water or PBR." Not only did it sound like she sang it, but her lyrics where my two favorite beverages in the whole world.
I bought the PBR, tipped my hat, and we continued our round. We never saw her again. Not even when we played that course the next week, which was the only reason we went back. I think that makes me appreciate the encounter all the more. I am proud of the fact that I can notice all of that romantic "what-have-you" about a girl without it being interrupted by the usual disease of thoughts that all of us males suffer from. Does that mean I wish I would have spoken to the girl more? Absolutely not. I am perfectly content with the memory.
Hit 'em Long, Hit 'em Straight,
Sean
No comments:
Post a Comment