stretching . . .
"Oh. My. God."
Banion burst through the woods onto the fourth fairway and made for the clubhouse with the speed of Pheidippides carrying news of the victory at Marathon. This was an unusual sight at Burning Bush.
A foursome teeing off stopped and stared.
"Clear the area!" Banion shouted at them without breaking stride. "Run for your lives!"
"What's the matter?"
"Aliens!"
"What did he say?" "Wasn't that Jack Banion?" "Did he say 'aliens'?"
By the time he reached the clubhouse, he was drenched in sweat.
"Oh, Mr. Banion," said the attendant. "Speaker Meeker and Justice Fitch were looking for you. Are you well, sir?"
"Call. . . uh . . . uh . . . call . . . uh . . ."
"Mr. Banion?"
"Call. . . the . . . uh . . ."
"You better lie down. I'll get you some water."
"No water! Police. Call. . . police. Attack ..."
Heart attacks were not uncommon at Burning Bush, where the average member's age was well into the sixties. The manager dialed 911 and requested an ambulance.
"It'll be right here," he told Banion. "Lie down on the floor, sir."
"No no no."
"Lie down, sir." He ran off to get the defibrillator kit, berating himself for not having paid close attention during the instruction on its use.
"What's the matter?"
"Mr. Banion, he's having a heart attack. Get a blanket, elevate his legs." Or was that for shock?
The assistant dashed off. How awful. And Mr. Banion was one of the younger members.
The ambulance arrived in under ten minutes.
"No, I said police!’ cried Banion, now in a very bad temper from arguing with the manager and his assistant, who had been trying to wrap him in blankets while hovering over him with the defibrillator kit, which Banion was not about to let them use on him. No, damnit, he did not have pain in his left arm. They must evacuate the course without delay! They might still be out there!
"I don't want an ambulance!"
People who have had cardiac episodes often say that. Two emergency medical service technicians strapped a blood-pressure cuff on his arm, lifted his shirt, and attached electrodes to monitor his heartbeat. Another held a clipboard and barked medical history questions at him.
"I'm okay. They ... put something . . . I'm all right. Call the police. The military. Call the Air Force, maybe they're sti ll in the area!"
"Who?"
"Them! The aliens! In the spaceship, there in the woods, off the fourth fairway."
One of the medical technicians leaned closer to sniff Banion's breath.
"I am not drunk."
"Sir, we're going to take you to the hospital now. Your blood pressure is very high."
"Of course it's high! Call the police! Clear the golf course! Oh. my God!"
"What, sir?"
"The Speaker! Justice Fitch! They may be after them! They're seizing the government! Take the cart! Quickly - tell them! They're in danger! It could be a takeover of the whole country!"
"It was about fifty feet across," said Banion, sitting in the passenger seat, belted in by Bitsey, glassy-eyed from the sedative they'd given him at the hospital. "Maybe sixty. I ought to draw a sketch. Do we have colored pencils at home? The lights were colored."
"Jack." said Bitsey. naturally concerned for her husband, but at the moment preoccupied with what (on earth) excuse she was going to make to Tyler for their not showing up at his - lord - intimate dinner tonight for Sir Hugh and Lady Bletch, "rest. Don't talk."
"God. Bits. They exist. They exist."
Should she even get into it? The doctors had told her they didn't quite know what to make of it. They had taken X rays. They showed no contusions, subdural hematomas. He was not drunk. Anyway, Jack barely drank at all. A glass of wine, rarely. Hardly the type to get blotto all alone on the golf course. His blood work was normal. No family history of mental problems. The doctors told her that he had babbled at some length about being . . . how to put it. . . violated. There was no obvious, urn, tearing of tissues. Bitsey shuddered. It was too disgusting.
"We'll
"Oh. My. God."
Banion burst through the woods onto the fourth fairway and made for the clubhouse with the speed of Pheidippides carrying news of the victory at Marathon. This was an unusual sight at Burning Bush.
A foursome teeing off stopped and stared.
"Clear the area!" Banion shouted at them without breaking stride. "Run for your lives!"
"What's the matter?"
"Aliens!"
"What did he say?" "Wasn't that Jack Banion?" "Did he say 'aliens'?"
By the time he reached the clubhouse, he was drenched in sweat.
"Oh, Mr. Banion," said the attendant. "Speaker Meeker and Justice Fitch were looking for you. Are you well, sir?"
"Call. . . uh . . . uh . . . call . . . uh . . ."
"Mr. Banion?"
"Call. . . the . . . uh . . ."
"You better lie down. I'll get you some water."
"No water! Police. Call. . . police. Attack ..."
Heart attacks were not uncommon at Burning Bush, where the average member's age was well into the sixties. The manager dialed 911 and requested an ambulance.
"It'll be right here," he told Banion. "Lie down on the floor, sir."
"No no no."
"Lie down, sir." He ran off to get the defibrillator kit, berating himself for not having paid close attention during the instruction on its use.
"What's the matter?"
"Mr. Banion, he's having a heart attack. Get a blanket, elevate his legs." Or was that for shock?
The assistant dashed off. How awful. And Mr. Banion was one of the younger members.
The ambulance arrived in under ten minutes.
"No, I said police!’ cried Banion, now in a very bad temper from arguing with the manager and his assistant, who had been trying to wrap him in blankets while hovering over him with the defibrillator kit, which Banion was not about to let them use on him. No, damnit, he did not have pain in his left arm. They must evacuate the course without delay! They might still be out there!
"I don't want an ambulance!"
People who have had cardiac episodes often say that. Two emergency medical service technicians strapped a blood-pressure cuff on his arm, lifted his shirt, and attached electrodes to monitor his heartbeat. Another held a clipboard and barked medical history questions at him.
"I'm okay. They ... put something . . . I'm all right. Call the police. The military. Call the Air Force, maybe they're sti ll in the area!"
"Who?"
"Them! The aliens! In the spaceship, there in the woods, off the fourth fairway."
One of the medical technicians leaned closer to sniff Banion's breath.
"I am not drunk."
"Sir, we're going to take you to the hospital now. Your blood pressure is very high."
"Of course it's high! Call the police! Clear the golf course! Oh. my God!"
"What, sir?"
"The Speaker! Justice Fitch! They may be after them! They're seizing the government! Take the cart! Quickly - tell them! They're in danger! It could be a takeover of the whole country!"
"It was about fifty feet across," said Banion, sitting in the passenger seat, belted in by Bitsey, glassy-eyed from the sedative they'd given him at the hospital. "Maybe sixty. I ought to draw a sketch. Do we have colored pencils at home? The lights were colored."
"Jack." said Bitsey. naturally concerned for her husband, but at the moment preoccupied with what (on earth) excuse she was going to make to Tyler for their not showing up at his - lord - intimate dinner tonight for Sir Hugh and Lady Bletch, "rest. Don't talk."
"God. Bits. They exist. They exist."
Should she even get into it? The doctors had told her they didn't quite know what to make of it. They had taken X rays. They showed no contusions, subdural hematomas. He was not drunk. Anyway, Jack barely drank at all. A glass of wine, rarely. Hardly the type to get blotto all alone on the golf course. His blood work was normal. No family history of mental problems. The doctors told her that he had babbled at some length about being . . . how to put it. . . violated. There was no obvious, urn, tearing of tissues. Bitsey shuddered. It was too disgusting.
"We'll
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