engaging witticism such as, “Hey, how’s it going?” and then I’m pretty much tapped out. Because I specialize in divorces, I can’t move on to “How’re the wife and kids?” so what typically follows is a fetid, polluted-swamp silence that makes me doubt I actually began my morning by coating my tongue with several mint-flavored cleansing products designed to inoculate against bacteria. I’ve yet to master the kind of warm laughter that can fill up that silence, that can paint the room with cheery bonhomie and add an extra fifteen minutes of bullshit to the meeting. I don’t know how to do joviality. Instead, for thirty seconds I fidget and make pathetic and futile faces begging the client to assume responsibility for greasing the ball-bearings. Inevitably, as the silence grows and threatens to suffocate the conference room, the building, the city, I panic. Too soon, I lick the insides of my teeth, and say, “Let’s get down to business, shall we?”
My supervisor says I’m costing the firm a hundred grand a year. Minimum.
Women like Lisa and Natalie don’t talk to me either, or they might initially out of politeness, but when the swamp silence hits, they pivot like ballerinas and make excuses about text messages, and Gordon knows all these shortcomings about me. He knows I often spend five out of seven nights a week wondering if I should shoot myself. That’s why I’d like to brain him with a golf club right now, angle an eight-iron like a cleaver through his pea-sized skull, then leave him bleeding in the fairway.
I’m not surprised, after I demonstrate my proficiency to swing as hard as I can and nub golfballs roughly the length of my living room, that Lisa and Natalie have no use for me. They tolerate my slightly sweaty presence on the tee box, the uncomfortable mix of my perfumey cologne and over-medicated mouth, and my two-hundred dollar ill-fitting golf shirt and professionally pressed slacks while I address the ball, and they blandly expect horrible, uninspiring contact when I swing. After I fail to disappoint that expectation, they stoically move on. It makes sense for them to gallop like gazelles with those long tasty legs far ahead of me in the fairway while I hunt around in the high grass for my pathetic shots. But Gordon, he’s supposed to be my friend. He’s not supposed to be loping along with them, sandwiched between them as they laugh and joke as to whether the team should play Natalie’s perfect shot, or Lisa’s perfect shot, or Gordon’s perfect shot. Maybe that’s not even what they’re talking about. Maybe the shot-choice is obvious and knowable to anyone not stuck excavating gnarly clumps of rough in hopes of not losing yet another six-dollar personally monogrammed golf ball. Maybe they’re joking about something entirely different, something airy and hip and totally unrelated to the present moment. Either way, I have no access to their fun.
Gordon’s supposed to stick with me in the muck and encourage me because it’s still possible that at some crucial point in the round my skills will be vital to our team’s success. He’s supposed to buoy me with inanities like, “You just missed that one, buddy, but you’ll come around, you always do,” and he should be helping me find my ball. He’s not supposed to be up ahead flirting, bopping along, admiring the curve of a laughing breast or the swish of a loping hip. That’s not why I called him to play with us. I called Gordon instead of, say, Lennie, because Gordon’s never betrayed me before. He’s patient with me. He possesses reservoirs of patience. This is the same man who loved calling me retard, but who nonetheless never turned me down as his spades partner, never refused to play with me even though my breath reeked, even though I bet four books when I should have claimed the donger.
The caddy shack at Flintmoor was a tent. Inside it were benches and folding chairs but no tables, and never enough places for
My supervisor says I’m costing the firm a hundred grand a year. Minimum.
Women like Lisa and Natalie don’t talk to me either, or they might initially out of politeness, but when the swamp silence hits, they pivot like ballerinas and make excuses about text messages, and Gordon knows all these shortcomings about me. He knows I often spend five out of seven nights a week wondering if I should shoot myself. That’s why I’d like to brain him with a golf club right now, angle an eight-iron like a cleaver through his pea-sized skull, then leave him bleeding in the fairway.
I’m not surprised, after I demonstrate my proficiency to swing as hard as I can and nub golfballs roughly the length of my living room, that Lisa and Natalie have no use for me. They tolerate my slightly sweaty presence on the tee box, the uncomfortable mix of my perfumey cologne and over-medicated mouth, and my two-hundred dollar ill-fitting golf shirt and professionally pressed slacks while I address the ball, and they blandly expect horrible, uninspiring contact when I swing. After I fail to disappoint that expectation, they stoically move on. It makes sense for them to gallop like gazelles with those long tasty legs far ahead of me in the fairway while I hunt around in the high grass for my pathetic shots. But Gordon, he’s supposed to be my friend. He’s not supposed to be loping along with them, sandwiched between them as they laugh and joke as to whether the team should play Natalie’s perfect shot, or Lisa’s perfect shot, or Gordon’s perfect shot. Maybe that’s not even what they’re talking about. Maybe the shot-choice is obvious and knowable to anyone not stuck excavating gnarly clumps of rough in hopes of not losing yet another six-dollar personally monogrammed golf ball. Maybe they’re joking about something entirely different, something airy and hip and totally unrelated to the present moment. Either way, I have no access to their fun.
Gordon’s supposed to stick with me in the muck and encourage me because it’s still possible that at some crucial point in the round my skills will be vital to our team’s success. He’s supposed to buoy me with inanities like, “You just missed that one, buddy, but you’ll come around, you always do,” and he should be helping me find my ball. He’s not supposed to be up ahead flirting, bopping along, admiring the curve of a laughing breast or the swish of a loping hip. That’s not why I called him to play with us. I called Gordon instead of, say, Lennie, because Gordon’s never betrayed me before. He’s patient with me. He possesses reservoirs of patience. This is the same man who loved calling me retard, but who nonetheless never turned me down as his spades partner, never refused to play with me even though my breath reeked, even though I bet four books when I should have claimed the donger.
The caddy shack at Flintmoor was a tent. Inside it were benches and folding chairs but no tables, and never enough places for
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