Author's
Note: And now for something completely different .. *grin* I was inspired for this by Honoria's Fanfic
Challenge website, which I *strongly* urge you to go to, my friends. And enjoy the fic -- be warned, it's not
like anything I've *ever* done before!
.. oh, and by the by, I detest golf.
Don't ever get the idea that I play it while reading this fic. ^_^
"Doesn't that look like a
sailboat?"
"Give it up, Frankie, you need a
life."
"I have a life. Golfing."
"Life is a little MORE than a
hole in one, Frankie!"
"I told you. Stop calling me Frankie, for the sake of St.
Andrews!"
"Don't swear by a golf
course. It's blasphemy."
"Or something. First of all, I am an atheist. I believe in my golf clubs. I believe in my golf balls. I believe in St. Andrews. And I believe in me. Second of all, my name is not Frankie. My name is The Golfer. Third of all, it's the best golf course in
the world. I'm allowed to swear by
that."
"Sure, and God doesn't
mind."
"Of course God doesn't mind. If you don't exist, it's hard to mind things
very much."
"And by the way, don't you
believe in Fred Astaire too?"
"And Rita Hayworth. You'll Never Get Rich." The Golfer sighed happily, chewing his
fingernails, as usual.
"You Were Never Lovelier. I know."
"Best movies in the
world." He always chewed them the
same way, too. Right thumb, left
middle, right pinkie, left pinkie, right middle. The rest never got gnawed.
It was a strange and thought-provoking process, but Sandra and the
Golfer didn't mind. When they weren't
restoring the security charms on Zonko's Joke Shop, Gladrags Wizardwear,
Honeydukes Sweets, the Three Broomsticks, and just about every other building
in Hogsmeade -- except for the Post Office; the Ministry of Magic was too proud
to let mere village people protect their outfit -- they were
cloud-watching. Or movie-watching in
their trailer; Sandra swore that the Golfer had just about every Fred Astaire
movie ever made. It was a strange and
wondrous thing, their life.
You can decide whether it was
thought-provoking or not.
"I still say that's not a
sailboat."
"What else could it be?"
"It's nearly out of our line of
vision now. You can't defend yourself
anymore."
"Well, Mrs. Smarty-pants, what
was it, then, if it wasn't a sailboat?
A motorboat? A tugboat? A barge?"
"A train."
"A train?"
"The TGV, to be exact. The Bullet Train. You know?"
"France, Japan, what's the
difference?"
"Don't be snide with me,
Frankie."
"The Golfer."
"Frankie."
"The Golfer."
"Frankie."
"Frankie."
"The Golf -- aaaaah, I hate
it when you do that!"
The Golfer grinned triumphantly, although
Sandra couldn't see. She was looking at
the clouds. "Heehee, it got you
though, didn't it?"
"You always get me. Ergo I always feel stupid."
"When's the Hogwarts school group
coming?"
"Next week."
"You know, maybe I should go into
tennis. The British Open is played
there so often, I could go for that and golf."
"Where?"
"Where
what?"
"Where
is the British Open played a lot?!"
"St
Andrews, naturally!"
"Oh. Right."
"That's
why I should go into tennis. See the
logic there, Sandra?"
"The
wizards would lynch you. No Quidditch
enthusiasm. It's disgraceful."
"Well, they can't pick the sports
I'm interested in, can they! Didn't
even find out I was a wizard until I was thirty and Marie Haverford found me
out. Ministry official, you know. Damn American system tries to suppress magic
on that side of the ocean -- isn't it funny that we have a history of
witch burning? -- and Marie --"
"I know the story. Why are you telling me?"
"AND MARIE," the Golfer
continued loudly, drowning out Sandra's protests, "gave me a tennis racket
on May 12th and led me to England, where I discovered my home, Hogsmeade, and
learned wizardry from Remus J. Lupin.
Tutored me, you know."
"Jolly old chap, as we say in
Britain," Sandra continued, reciting the Golfer's speech from memory. "And so every year on May 12th, I
consider --"
"-- tennis lessons," he went
on, sitting up and giving her a dark look.
"And I still say it was a sailboat."
"Train."
"Sailboat."
"Train."
"Sailboat."
"Train."
"Excuse me, do you know where
they're going to put the new branch of Gringotts Bank up here?"
Sandra sat up quickly, embarrassed to
be found cloud-watching with a fairly bald, blue-eyed, crazy American
golfer. The Golfer leaned back on his
palms and scrutinized the boy.
"Hello, Harry," he addressed
the poor child, widening his eyes and speaking in a raspy voice. He liked to do this around people he had
never met before, to see their reaction.
Harry instinctively put his hand on
his forehead to the very prominent lightning scar, as a tall, gangly,
red-haired boy and a girl with bushy brown hair raced up behind him, panting.
"Good grief, Harry, you nearly
left us behind," the girl scolded, shooting him a disapproving glower.
"My name is Mr.Undertaker,"
announced the Golfer, using the same bone-chilling tone. The redhead exchanged a glance and a raised
eyebrow with Harry Potter, while the girl simply stood looking skeptical.
"Nice to meet you," she said
quickly, not bothering to hold out a hand to the Golfer, as he was sitting
meditation-style on the grass.
"You interrupted me
cloud-watching," he informed them, rolling his r's. Sandra turned her eyes skyward and clasped
her hands in a gesture of supplication, petitioning God.
"Why do you want to know where
Gringotts Bank is?" the Golfer inquired testily. "Planning to rob it, are you?" To finish it off he turned to Sandra, who
was still beseeching the Deity, and muttered, "Stupid kids." By now all three of them looked uncertain,
although the redhead took the cake for looking the most weirded-out.
"Harry, let's go ask somewhere
else," the girl suggested, in a tone that clearly expressed: We are
asking somewhere else, and you are going to follow me right now. She turned, and gestured harshly to the two
boys. Come here now!
"Er. Right," Harry quipped.
To tell you the truth, he was rather interested in these two apparently
Buddhist trailer park inhabitants.
Sandra was praying, obviously, and the Golfer had been meditating. Oughtn't he to ask them about the Wheel of
Life, or how it felt to be inside a monastery?
"Gautama knew all," the
Golfer noted, in his raspy voice again.
"He alone achieved enlightenment."
"Nirvana," whispered the
girl.
"What?" the red-haired boy
called over.
"You wouldn't understand,"
she answered in a low voice. He didn't
realize that he had narrowly escaped being ignored altogether, and consequently
was not very greatful for her response.
"Try me, why don't you,
'Er-my-knee?" he yelled, annoyed.
Luckily, before she could answer him,
the Golfer stood up. "Gringotts
Bank has already established a chapter here," he told them in his normal
voice. "It's that way, near
Zonko's." He pointed. They stared, but not at his finger.
Sandra's eyes opened, and she shook
her head at the Golfer. As the trio
headed off towards the horizon, she stood up and shook her head again. "You really should stop that Buddhist
act," she advised. "I think
it actually does scare them."
"That, my dear, is the
point," he answered, pretending to be mesmerized by the glory of another
cloud. "And that is a
sailboat."
Sandra gave up, and she listened to
the three children's voices fade away as the Golfer examined the sky.
"So what should I name my new
owl, 'Er-my-knee?"
"Velma," said Harry
suddenly.
"Hey, I had an aunt named Velma
once."
"What happened to her?"
"I think she's spending a few
years at St.Mungo's. Something about an
Engorgement Charm gone very, very wrong . . ."
