My New Club
Goodbye to archaic rules and attentive security guards!
New writer alert! John Strother is a writer of humor and satire, and the occasional angry letter to Editors. Read more on his website, jonstrother.net.
I love my new club. It’s a cozy place to relax, be myself, socialize if desired, or if the mood strikes, quietly pursue my solitary endeavors. Nothing like my old club with its archaic rules and rigid formalities imposed on every stinking, trifling detail from parking hierarchy to dining etiquette.
I mean, c’mon, why does it matter which fork is the salad fork? And why should one mistake get you labeled as both uncouth and barbaric? One fork scratches the back just as well as any other!
But my new club is a fun-loving set, freed from the stifling confines of the stuffed armchair crowd. We love to laugh. A favorite prank of mine is, if I spot a new waiter whilst strolling past the dining room, I’ll introduce myself as Mr. Gunneson, club president, and order the most expensive item on the menu. Then I sit back and wait.
Soon, our restaurant manager, Bernard, solemnly emerges from the back. He’s a kindly old soul accustomed to member high-jinks. I wink and give him a rakish smile; he sighs and states that, once again, I’m not Mr. Gunneson. Then I shout, “In that case, I better quit sleeping with his wife!”
We both laugh, well, mostly me. Bernard is a pro and keeps a straight face when surrounded by his staff. We have a whole routine. I make a big deal about lousy seating, he pretends to call security, and with another wink, I head to the golf course (taking a shortcut through the kitchen).
Another thing I love about my new club: tee times aren’t required. Try that out at my old club! As soon as I’m seen anywhere near the caddy shack, a fellow member calls out a hearty, “Grab that bag and c’mon!” I usually allow him the first shot, chuckling good-naturally at his puny swing. Then, I yank out a three wood and drive one deep down the fairway.
Inevitably, my companion is caught with gaping mouth, shocked at the unknown power in his club being unleashed via the hands of a man wearing cut-off jorts and a tank top that reads You Putt Like A Pussy. He might mutter an impressed “What the hell?” or the occasional “Why’d you do that?” With a gentle smirk, I toss the club back in his bag, give him a tip of my John Deere ball cap, and saunter off the greens. He’ll likely beg me to stay by yelling, “Get the hell back here!” But my job's done—he has something to strive for, and it's time to beat a quick path to the pool.
There I’ll spend the remains of the day in uninterrupted solitude, snug in a long terrycloth robe, white sun block covering my face, a pair of dark sunglasses shielding my eyes, and a towel wrapped around my head. Stretched out on a lounge chair, and you’d think I was a Hollywood star recuperating from rehab. It's probably why the pool staff never takes my drink orders.
As the sun slips behind the horizon, it’s time to hit the lockers and head home. Just to show the staff I’m not sore over the drink issue, I’ll help by pushing a rolling cart full of wet towels inside. My old club would never understand this type of selfless behavior. Then it’s a quick shower, shave, and collection of complimentary soap, shampoo, lotion, cologne, hand towels, deodorant, and toilet paper for members, leaving me revived and rejuvenated.
And that’s what I love about my new club—its sense of community, friendliness, warmth, and openness.
Plus, a fence that’s easy to climb.
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