Joe McQuaid's Publisher's Notebook: Helps not to go batty during round of golf
You can't make this stuff up. Well, I could, but it wouldn't be nearly as good.
Playing a round of golf at the highly-regarded and only occasionally soggy Derryfield Country Club with B.C., Gitmo, and smooth-swinging Charlie, we are all startled to hear the voice of Mrs. B.C.
She is way up near Two Tee but she catches our attention with a shrill, "Hey, Bill!"
That would be B.C. He looks up, as do the rest of us.
"Don't. (pause) Pick Up. (pause) The plastic (double-pause) on the kitchen floor!" she says.
Plastic? Kitchen floor? What, we wonder, is this all about and what has it got to do with our golf match, which stands even at this point.
Did she say "plastic" or perhaps "plastique?" Should B.C. be worried?
No, B.C. isn't worried. He doesn't even seem all that curious. But the rest of us pester him, so he yells back up the hill to Mrs. B.C.
(I would have gone with "why not?'' but that's just me.)
Mrs. B.C. responds with a one-word reply that rings out across several holes.
"Oh, (expletive deleted here)!" says B.C.
Seems the couple has had this trouble before. Bats. And B.C. clearly isn't a big fan. He shudders at the very word.
And the plastic, or plastique?
"She probably put a plastic coffee can over it," B.C. guesses. (It is later confirmed by Mrs. B.C. that the plastic is one step in an operation in which Mr. B.C. gets suited up like one of the Ghostbusters in order to remove the bat. This also involves a snow shovel.)
Meanwhile, B.C.'s baby brother comes along to further goad him.
"I told you," says Baby Brother. "That house has always been full of bats. It's the closet at the top of the stairs."
This further upsets B.C., whose grip on our game that day never quite comes back, despite repeated beverage fortifications, all sung to a little tune that B.C. has made up called "The Beer Cart Girl."
Thanks to the bat, B.C. and I lose the match and are required to buy a round on the Derryfield Deck, where B.C. vows to stay, at least until Mrs. B.C. leaves so that she has to handle the bat. (But, hero that he is, he does go home, does don the Ghostbuster rig, and does pick up the plastic.)
Leaving it to the Lady of the Little House to remind me of the time she, without benefit of her contact lenses, stepped into the shower to spy what she thought might be a brown washcloth in the tub. Then she realized it was a bat.
And she wasn't amused at all when I said she shouldn't have been surprised to find a bat, in a batroom.
Write to Joe McQuaid at firstname.lastname@example.org or via Twitter at @deucecrew.