Honish Ossiffer, I Ain’ Den Brinkin’

Okay, two beers; I had two beers about three hours ago. What twelve pack? Empty cans in the back of my truck? Oh, you think this is my truck? You’re probably about to go off duty, ain’t ya? Do you really want to mess with all the paperwork this is gonna involve?

I haven’t said all those things, but I’ll lay claim to a few, as well as some I didn’t mention. I have heard most of them, and many more, from the passenger’s seat. I’m the first to admit that in my younger days, my judgment was not a finely tuned thing. (I use the word “younger” very loosely.)

My education was slow until I hit about fifty years of age, then it seemed to accelerate quite rapidly. I’m pretty sure Sherry had something to do with it, but by golly I didn’t make it easy for her!

One of the first signs—and this was BS (before Sherry)—was when getting into fights at bars started to hurt parts of my body other than my hands. I think it had to do with slowing reflexes, or possibly I didn’t possess the knockout punch I’d had in my younger days. In any case, it only took a few knuckle-bumps, swollen cheeks, and split lips for me to give up that little bit of the night life.

But then I discovered Karaoke, and the night life was back! I love to sing, and I’d found a way to do it without a record contract—which, if you’ve ever heard me sing, you know ain’t in my future. I can’t complain, because I met two of my coolest friends—I’m going to amend that to three, because one of them was Angie, and her husband Erich was part of that deal; both are awesome folks! And, of course, that’s how I met Jaybird, who turned out to be the best golfing buddy a guy could ever have. We don’t get to play much anymore, but I’ll never forget those four-hundred, or so, rounds we played at Spicewood Beach’s little nine-hole pasture links. I even wrote a novel about it (not published yet, because I either have to change some of the names, or wait ‘til a bunch of folks die).

The novel is called Last Round of the Season, and was inspired by something Jaybird said, one cold windy Saturday, as we stood shivering on the third tee-box. Jaybird actually had a bandana over his face, and we were bundled up so heavily we could hardly open our beer cans, much less swing a golf club. He looked at me—all that I could see were his eyes between the bandana and his hat—and as he held the hat with one hand and put his other hand in his pocket to keep it warm, he said, “Last round of the season, eh, bud?”

I puhshawed at him then said, “You know better than that! It’s liable to be seventy-five degrees here next Saturday.” I stopped and stared at the ground a minute—my eyes watering so bad I could hardly see my feet, then said, “I guess we could call this the last round; then next week would be the first round of the new season.”

“I’m in!” Jaybird shouted, as he continued to shiver and his eyes also began to get moist—I’m not sure if it was the emotion of it being the last round of the season, or the cold wind—and, his voice quivering, he said, “Can we go to the house now?”

I hollered, “I’m in,” then we piled into the golf cart and raced up the hill.

1 Comment »

  1. Sherry said

    I can’t count the times I heard “I’m in!” echoing across the links.

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