Putt Putt

Drunk grandma makes a scene at a family gathering.

I was beginning to hate the fact that Alex was born in July. Every year since he was old enough to understand the concept of a birthday, a child’s whim forced us out into the summer heat for a day of sweaty fun. This year it was miniature golf, and not just any miniature golf. This course was huge, easily covering an area the size of a real golf fairway. It had a total of 54 holes, each with its unique challenge, fantastic props and obstacles. The obligatory windmill was huge and wooden, creaking and clacking as though inside, one might actually find a grindstone or some sort of belt-driven machinery. There were dragons and farm houses, miniature landscapes, hills and bumps, and my personal favorite: a giant typewriter that spat the ball out the top where the paper feeds. The walkways were fancy flagstone, and the entire course was lined with flowers. It was a lovely place, and would have enjoyed myself thoroughly if I hadn’t already soaked my polo tee shirt through. Luckily I’d worn a hat, but that too was slimy with perspiration. Even Uncle Ted had rings under his armpits, and that dapper gentleman didn’t sweat even after the most rigorous of tennis matches.

A markedly unenthusiastic burst of applause rose from the small group of adults as Alex, after nine or ten hasty strokes, finally sank his ball into the hole. His young friends had finished shooting already, each finishing in about five shots. The children didn’t clap or cheer. They looked tired and wet and slightly flushed with the heat. The fat boy in the navy golf tee looked like he was melting, his curly hair wilting and sticking to his dripping face. One girl, the wealthy McDoyle daughter gave a loud sigh that began with a snotty irritation and slowly groaned into genuine misery.

And still Alex ran. He ran ahead to the next hole. It was a train. He loved trains. His smile was fresh and he danced on the spot as he waiting for the party to slug its way to the next tee.

My cell phone rang as the birthday boy teed off. I watched long enough to see an overenthusiastic swing that sent his red ball skittering sideways and into the flowers. Alex was running over to crawl through the plants when I flipped the phone open to hear my brother’s voice.

“What’s up?”

“Hey Ryan, sorry I’m late. I had to go get grandma, and…” he paused a moment, and I already knew what had happened.

Our grandmother hated children, which was a cruel joke on my father and uncles, who all had interesting issues of their own, but it worked out okay for my generation. The offspring of that woman had all at one time or another sworn they would be better parents. They succeeded to some extent.

“…and well, you know grandma. She was three sheets to the wind when I got there.”

She was also something of an alcoholic, though she would say it was only on special occasions. It seemed reasonable to her, and I don’t know how.
I found my mother slouched under the thin shadow of a light post, watching her youngest son putt like a six year old will, and smiling slightly.

“Mom. James has grandma. They’re almost here.”

She nodded and said nothing, choosing instead to raise an eyebrow at me.

“Yes, she is,” I answered.

She rolled her eyes and took a sip of water from her bottle.

I could smell the gin on my grandmother's breath, sweating out of her skin as she strode up to the party. She carried heals in her hand, but was wobbling on her ankles a little anyway. She was wearing a black dress, slightly shorter than I like grandmothers wearing, but she had aged well, and she knew it. She was old enough that softness should have started pulling her flesh earthward, wrinkling and sagging as is the right of every geriatric. She seemed to be defying the pull. “Sagging means the earth is ready to pull you in,” she liked to say, “and I’m not ready for a grave yet.”

“Ryan!”

She shouted and ran to me first, though I don’t know why. She was most vicious to me of all my family when she was sober and her sharp words were not lost in a bottle. She threw her arms around me in a quick hug, and I was sure I smelled like gin too when she pulled away.

“You’re very drunk, grandmother,” I informed her in a friendly voice. She immediately darkened, her eyebrows lowering and casting those menacing shadows over her eyes.

“I know that, you dumb shit. I did it on purpose so I didn’t have to sit sober through stupid crap like that. Stop talking.”

She thought she was using her quiet dramatic voice—she’d done it many times in the past. This time, though, she shouted, and it was much less effective in hurting me, and much better at raising eyebrows and forcing me to grin, slightly embarrassed.

She seemed to forget me, though, and rolled amiably into the middle of the party, greeting and smiling, laughing loudly and tilting dangerously, though never stumbling. She was a very practiced drunk.

My mother sidled up next to me, her shoulder touching mine as she said quietly, “How long before she does something that upsets the parents and ends the party?”

“I give her five minutes,” I answered.

I gave her too little credit by half. She hugged Alex and wished him the happiest of birthdays, telling him to grow up faster so she could tolerate him. I’m sure he didn’t know what she meant, because he giggled and laughed in her arms. She even took in a round of golf, drawing the eyes of some of the older fathers as she bent unsteadily over her club.

It took about ten minutes, but I saw her standing next to one of the younger fathers. He was well dressed, handsome, and obviously in good shape. She was talking to him. He looked uncomfortable, even from where I was standing, but nobody could stop my grandmother once she started flirting. I couldn't hear her, but I saw him shake his head and step back. I saw her throw her head back with a very fake laugh. I saw her give him a playful shove, and I watched with only a little surprise as she proceeded to throw herself over the flowery hedge and into the very blue pond.

"You pushed me!" She shouted, splashing water toward the parents. "You naughty man! Now come swim with me!"

She laughed loudly and peeled her dress over her head, throwing it toward the McDoyles yelling "hold this". The pond must have been a foot and a half deep- enough for her to lay down in her black underwear and sigh happily.

Parents were snatching up there children and doing their best to storm. Most were too tired, and only managed a dragging sort of stomp. The party was over. Alex was still shooting golf. I was fumbling for my camera—It was, after all, my brother’s turn to keep her from being arrested.

The Other Side