Target Practice

“I want a shot.”

“You’ve had your chance.”

“And so have you…repeatedly. We were supposed to take turns.”

“I don’t remember signing that contract.”

Jesup pulled the golf club back. His hips and shoulders swaying in an awkward dance that no one bothered to tell him was by himself.

Vincent wanted to reach for the club. But he also feared getting hit again by Jesup not noticing him as he brought down the club to hit the ball sitting in front of him.

“It’s only fair. You get to try to get the ball into the hole a few times. Then I get to try…And we go back and forth like that.”

“And what? That means it’s fair?”

“Something like that.”

“Our task was to hit as many golf balls into the toilet as possible until it clogged. There was nothing in that task that stated we needed to share the amount of times we each had a turn. Out of the two of us, who do you think has had the most success in getting the balls into the toilet?”

“I wouldn’t be able to say at the top of my head.”

“If you had to guess…?”

“I don’t think intuition is a fair determination of—”

“There you go again, abusing that word: ‘fair’. How exactly have I failed to spell it out sufficiently for you?”

Jesup teed up another golf ball. He went through his superstitious rituals he developed over the course of a lifetime of thinking random muscle movements in specific situations led to a perceived better chance of achieving what he wanted. First, he cracked his jaw back and forth until he felt the brief but satisfactory taste of copper on his tongue. Then he chewed on the side of his inner cheeks in his mouth. Afterwards, he did his best Mike Tyson impression at punching the air with a right jab and then powerful left uppercut. Finished by a finale of tapping the ground with his club three times, forming the shape of a triangle with the indentations he made in the ground. He performed these tasks before each attempt.

The crack of the golf ball sliced through the purple dusk settling about 120 yards across the stretch of poorly groomed land. The ball sailed past a toilet seated in the middle of the field.

“Missed. Now it’s my turn.”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Jesup…”

“Don’t sound all desperate. It’s unbecoming.”

“I would like a turn.”

“Request denied.”

“Don’t make me strike you.”

“Then I’d strike you back…with the golf club. Which one of us do you think has more leverage?”

“You’ll grow tired.”

“I haven’t yet.”

“It’s only a matter of time. You line it up, try to get the ball into the toilet, and miss each time. There’s only so many times your arms can take that sort of abuse of motion. I mean, it looks as if you’re torturing your body each time you try to swing that thing. Has anyone ever told you that you suck at golf?”

“Other than you…sure. But as bad as I might be, you’re just as bad. You’ve had quite a bit more shots and missed them all, as well.”

“There was that one—”

“The one that hit the back of the toilet and fell to the ground? It didn’t go in. The objective was to hit them in. A near hit is still a near miss.”

“I hope your mother knows how much of a piece of sh—”

Don’t talk about my mother like that!”

Jesup began to swing the club around towards Vincent, but then stopped mid-air. His eyes shook in their sockets with a palpable intensity. His grip around the club tightened until it hurt. He knew Vincent was right. He couldn’t keep this up. He would have to relinquish the golf club at some point.

Jesup teed up another ball, went through his pre-hit routine, swung, and missed the toilet yet again.

“How many is that?”

“I haven’t been counting.”

“I have.”

“Then don’t ask a question that you have the answer to already. It’s unbecoming.”

“Everything’s unbecoming to you, Jes.”

“It is....sometimes.”

“Can we come to a gentleman’s agreement? Perhaps a friendly wager?”

“Depends. I also find gambling a bit unbecoming, as well. Unless the price is right.”

“That…somehow doesn’t surprise me.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. Anyway, I’ll bet you forty grand that you don’t make the next shot.”

“Forty grand? Where’d you get that kinda cash?”

“Don’t worry about that. But when you miss—”

“If I miss—”

“When you miss, then you have to lemme have a shot.”

“And what? If you make it, then I have to pay you forty grand. I don’t have that sort of capital.”

“I’m not asking for money. I just want another shot.”

“If it means that much to you…”

“Then shake on it.”

Jesup looked suspiciously down at Vincent’s outstretched hand like it might contain some lethal chemical compound that would first expose him of his fraud and then slowly disintegrate him into a melted goo helplessly drowning on the side of the road. The two men’s calloused hands gripped and shook resolutely. There was no turning back. 

Jesup wondered what he would do if he came into money like that. Forty grand. Seemed too good to be true. His mother always said those sorts of things were a lie. Even if they came to fruition, they were always based on a lie and he should steer clear. He never listened.

He thought it best to switch up his pre-hit ritual. He paced in the shape of an isosceles triangle around the golf ball. He picked up a handful of loose grass and let the wind carry it out of his palm. He tried to remember what sort of grass it was and if it mattered. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, but then didn’t smoke it. Rather, he crushed the cigarette with his heel into the ground. His mother said to never smoke. Occasionally he listened.

When Jesup finally went to take the shot, he felt unsure of himself. Vincent seemed to be able to tell. He was amused by the new little rituals. He got a kick out of how Jesup seemed too nervous even to take the shot. Wasn’t that the point? 

Jesup didn’t want to play into the game Vincent concocted. He tossed the golf club onto the ground with insolent force. Then he walked by his house and closed the door. Never to be seen again.

Not really, but that seems like it would be funny. Instead, Jesup and Vincent met back up the next day to hit more golf balls at the abandoned toilet in the middle of the field, because…why not?