ALIVE
By Kathryn Atkins, Long Beach Branch
With the fire crackling in the background, my friend said, “I don’t think I ever told you. I am a tin cup.”
“A what?”
“A tin cup. Like the movie with Kevin Costner, but not at all,” he said, staring into the lovely heat.
“I play golf, but I’m not the ball or the club. Or the bag,” he said, smiling. “I’m the tin cup catching putts. Sometimes I move the cup just a hair for golfers I like. I’ve also been known to jiggle a little to get the ball to go in.”
“And if you don’t like them?”
“Same thing. Either way, I’m always ready to help or hurt.”
I nodded.
“But I have to be very quiet, and I can’t let the cameras ever detect it!”
“I’ll bet!”
“Yes. I had a couple of blades of grass that were questioned by a golfer one time. It was ugly.”
“Really?”
“Yes. But I wouldn’t call it questioned. More accurately, they were cussed at to the high heavens. Both of them had to go to therapy.”
“Oh, I didn’t know they had that.”
“Yesirree. Golf has more therapists than any other sport.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“It’s the truth.”
The fire had died by then. We sat in the dark, and I wondered what I would like to be for my next job. If only I had a better imagination, I could be a writer.