Glenn G. Coats
No Broken Bones
The fairways are hard like rock. There is no moisture in the soil. My five iron vibrates in my hands each time I try to take a divot; a shock runs through my neck.
Wind is strong today and dust devils spin along cart paths. There are five in our group. It is on the fifth hole when I hear the laughter, off to the side, just after we have taken our drives. Three players are laughing at something, slapping arms and backs. I cannot hear what they are talking about.
After eighteen holes, one of the golfers comes up to me as I am getting ready to leave. "I just have to apologize," he says. "It's just a joke, same one we've been saying since we were kids—the one about a skinny colored girl. We don't mean anything by it. Didn't mean to offend you."
I did not hear the joke. The wind was blowing hard and the men were too far away. I don't tell Billy that. I just let him think I heard.
about living in the sticks