Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘It’s a lucky ball,’ Ransom snaps. ‘Where the fuck else am I gonna keep a lucky ball other than with my practice balls? How the fuck is the luck meant to rub off on the other balls if it’s locked away in a glass-fronted friggin’ cabinet?’

‘Did you know that it can take a golf ball anywhere up to a thousand years to decompose naturally?’ Jen asks, followed, after a short pause, by, ‘The King ?! For real?!’

‘Arnold Palmer is the greatest golfer in history.’ Ransom shrugs. ‘Arnold Palmer is the greatest golfer of all time. Ever.’

‘If I’d only known it was there …’ Gene grumbles.

Israel passes Toby the Gummy Bear packet, and turns to Gene. ‘Why don’t I come and help you look?’ he suggests.

‘That’s very kind of you.’ Gene smiles down at the kid. ‘How about if I scour this section again’ — he points — ‘and you take the other side?’

Israel folds up his portable stool, slides it into his briefcase and then hands it to Jen for safekeeping.

‘If a black man had been playing professional golf since the genesis of the game then a black man would be the greatest golfer of all time,’ he opines. ‘Fact is, they were only ever allowed to lug old whitey’s clubs around.’

Ransom squints at him, baffled, eyes slit against the sun, then turns and stares at Jen, with a look best described as ‘ominous’.

‘I’ve heard that point made before.’ Nimrod nods.

‘And if Woods is any indicator …’ Toby concedes, popping another Gummy Bear into his mouth.

Israel and Gene head off into the scrub again.

‘Where the hell did that photographer get to?’ Jen mutters, unnerved.

Nimrod is gazing after Gene, intrigued. ‘You’d never know there was anything different about him,’ he murmurs. ‘I mean aside from the slight limp and the military get-up, he’s just your average Joe; a normal, friendly bloke. Straightforward. Good-looking. Unpretentious …’

‘Really modest.’ Toby nods. ‘Doesn’t act like he thinks he’s anything special.’

‘It always amazes me how some people have this inbuilt capacity to just shake off their pasts,’ Nimrod muses. ‘No scar tissue. No baggage. They just step free of it all, easy as.’

‘He’s a one-off,’ Jen sighs. ‘Strong, but with this really soft, really sensitive side.’

‘It’s like, how the hell do you get your head around it?’ Nimrod wonders. ‘Being so unlucky and then so lucky? How d’you find a balance? Where d’you end up, psychologically? It’s fascinating.’

‘I’ve had the best of luck and the worst of luck during my career,’ Ransom sighs. ‘I’ve been up, floating in the clouds, then down, grubbing around in the dirt —’

‘The gutter,’ Jen helpfully interjects.

‘And I’ve often found the good times way harder to handle than the bad,’ he continues, ‘which is pretty fascinating, psychologically speaking.’

‘But you say his wife’s a minister?’ Nimrod’s straight back to Gene again. ‘C of E?’

‘He only has one nut,’ Ransom volunteers, ‘they inserted a little, silicon bag. Apparently it feels totally normal to the touch.’

Short silence.

‘Although there’s some reduced sensitivity.’

‘Well thanks so much for sharing.’ Jen acid-smiles.

‘And while we’re on the subject …’ (Ransom promptly changes the subject), ‘don’t you just friggin’ hate it when people think they can re-write history like that?’ (He’s plainly still smarting from Israel’s earlier comment.) ‘I mean how the fuck are you expected to engage with that kind of backward logic?’

‘You can’t respond to it.’ Jen shrugs. ‘It’s unanswerable.’

Ransom nods, mollified.

‘Let’s face it,’ Jen continues, ‘black people are always gonna be way better at sport than we are, and they’re always gonna be way better at music and they’re always gonna be way better at religion. They’re better dancers, better lovers … Case closed. End of.’

‘That’s so fuckin’ racist !’ Ransom howls, outraged.

‘DWI.’ Jen chuckles.

‘Turn it around,’ Nimrod suggests, sagely, ‘and see how it sounds.’

‘Eh?’ Jen’s slow on the uptake.

‘Well if I said, “White people are better at … uh …”’ — he struggles to find suitable examples — ‘okay, if I say, “They’re better at science and they’re better at poetry and they’re better at needlepoint—”’

‘Hip-hop,’ Jen interrupts, ‘black people are way better at poetry than us.’

She ponders for a second: ‘And the Indians are geniuses at sewing and shit.’

Short pause.

‘And the Chinese invented fireworks,’ she adds.

‘Fireworks?!’ Ransom snorts.

‘Fireworks — gooood ,’ Nimrod essays, sagely, ‘gunpowder — baaad .’

‘ Hmmn .’ Jen considers this for a second. ‘Okay … So the Chinese are great at haikus, gardening and calligraphy. And they invented Buddhism, which is really cool.’

‘You think one thing counters the other?’ Toby snorts.

‘Great news!’ Nimrod grins. ‘The invention of penicillin cancels out the evils of colonialism!’

‘Hallelujah!’ Toby declaims. ‘Jesus Christ cancels out the Arab-Israeli conflict!’

‘Thai green curry shits briquettes on the tsunami!’ Ransom chortles.

Toby and Nimrod exchange nervous glances.

‘Shits briquettes?’ Jen echoes, frowning. ‘You mean like charcoal briquettes?’

‘Huh?’ Ransom’s instantly defensive.

‘Shits briquettes ?!’ Jen cackles. ‘That’s so fucking gay !’

‘If he doesn’t end up finding the ball, maybe I can build a little something out of it.’ Nimrod turns and glances back over towards the distant figure of Gene again. ‘Mention Gene by name. Talk about the cancer … Psychic caddie loses precious ball but wins eight-round battle against terminal cancer …’

‘Shits briquettes ?!’ Jen’s crossing her legs and bending over with ill-suppressed hilarity. ‘I swear I’m gonna pee myself!’

‘Mention the silicone testicle’ — Ransom pointedly ignores Jen — ‘for a bit of colour.’

‘You think he’d be comfortable with that?’ Toby’s alarmed.

‘Of course! He lectures about it in schools for Christsakes. It’s a badge of friggin’ honour.’

‘Shits briquettes !’ Jen gurgles.

‘Take this.’ Ransom passes his mineral water to Toby, grabs Jen by the arm and escorts her (still knock-kneed) several paces away from the group.

‘Oh God, I really, really need a bush!’ she pants.

Ransom stares at her, scowling, until the panting abates a fraction.

‘You play a wind instrument,’ he murmurs, inspecting her upper lip.

‘Sure do.’

‘Clarinet?’

‘Fuck off!’ Jen squawks. ‘Trombone.’

‘How d’you manage to blow with that stupid thing stuck through your tongue?’

‘I take it out.’

Jen opens her mouth to reveal the stud, then curls the tip of her tongue around to jiggle it from underneath. Ransom watches this, appalled.

‘You do know what people think when they see a girl with a stud in her tongue?’ he asks, trying — but failing — to adopt a concerned, paternal tone.

Jen gazes up at him, quizzically, still jiggling.

‘They think, That girl loves giving head. She’s a slut — one level up from a prostitute.’

Jen snaps her mouth shut but continues to gaze up at him.

‘Give head — fellatio — blow-jobs,’ he elucidates.

‘Really?’

Her face falls.

Ransom starts to look uncomfortable, and then, ‘Of course it’s a sex aid!’ Jen grins, her expression joyous, illuminated. ‘Why the hell else would I bother getting it done?’