Chapter 12

To understand exactly how this date fell apart, you need to know two things. Number one—as mentioned, this was a par-three golf course. In case you’ve never heard of par three, let me inform you: It’s basically extended Putt-Putt. You could take your local mini-golf course, get rid of the ten-foot-tall windmill, add in a few sand traps, move the holes back a foot or two, and you’re done. You’ve got par-three golf. Number two—I was wearing my artificial leg, and prosthetic limbs come preprogrammed out of the box to malfunction at the worst possible moments in your entire life.

So I took this shot off the sixth tee, and it was perfect. It arced up into the air, pausing for a moment, suspended at its vertex, and then dropped down onto the green. It was a beautiful parabola, a perfect y = −x² arc. Stopped maybe twenty-four inches from the hole. I got all excited and started jumping around, because I figured that a display of athletic prowess of this magnitude would totally make Francesca fall desperately in love with me.

Anyway, one second I was pumping my fist in celebration and the next I was falling backward in slow motion, arms flailing behind my head. I landed on my back and glanced up to see Francesca staring at me, all deer-in-the-headlights. I’ve seen the look a million times. All right, maybe not a million, but a few. Because let’s face it, I’ve fallen down before. Fake legs aren’t the easiest things to walk with. And people never know what you’re supposed to do when the one-legged guy falls down. Are you allowed to laugh at him? Should you help him up? Maybe take him to therapy? Francesca did one of those half-laugh, half-sympathy things you do when you see a cute little baby trip and land on his diaper while he’s learning to walk.

“Are you all—ha—I mean are you—hee—all right?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

But I wasn’t all right. I was watching my dreams of an impending make-out session vanish into thin air. And not only were my dreams vanishing, my nightmares were coming true: My disability was going to ruin my chances with Francesca.

I stood up and brushed off the grass clippings, telling myself things couldn’t possibly get worse.

And that’s when things got worse.

I looked down and discovered that the foot on my artificial leg was turned backward. Like, it was literally facing the opposite direction of my real foot. I glanced at Francesca. She wasn’t laughing anymore. The awkwardness level was off the charts, well beyond the scale of any normal measurement of social discomfort. But at least Francesca knew I had a prosthesis. You can’t imagine the horror on the faces of the other golfers as they stared at a leg apparently so severely fractured that the foot was now capable of rotating 180 degrees. The other golfers were undoubtedly whipping out their cell phones to call 911.

Hi, nine-one-one? I have a serious golfing injury to report.… A young man fell down and when he stood up his foot was turned backward.… I don’t know how it’s possible, either, but I’m telling you that’s how it looks from my angle.… Yes, a female companion… No, based on her body language right now, I’d assume they’ll never be more than just friends.…

It’s strange to walk in the direction opposite of where one of your feet is pointing. And I imagine it looks even stranger. Still, I managed to hobble over to a tree by the side of the fairway. I started kicking the tree with my artificial leg, trying to pop the foot back into place. When I was too out of breath to continue kicking, I paused to examine my progress. None. Zero. The foot was still facing backward. I needed more leverage. I began kicking again, spinning with full roundhouse kicks so my artificial foot struck the tree at eye level. At this point, I was sure the other golfers were looking at each other and saying, This guy has some serious anger management problems.

I looked down and saw that my foot was finally pointing in the same direction as the rest of my body. That was the good news. The bad news was that I had chopped down the tree. Not literally chopped it down the way loggers do with chain saws, like, Timberrrrrr! It was more like the way smaller trees look after a hurricane has come through and they’re bent parallel to the ground. So, yeah. Definitely left a big carbon footprint that day.

Francesca—who was, in retrospect, probably something of a conservationist—and a small group of similarly minded onlookers all just stood there, jaws hanging open in silence, as I walked over to my ball with both feet facing proudly forward and putted it in for a birdie. I pumped my fist and smiled like things were going great. Trying to keep up appearances. Keep the date alive. Even with this hole-in-two, though, I knew my chances with Francesca were ruined. The contortions on her face while I was destroying that young sapling had said it all: This is awkward.

On the way home, we listened to Ani again. This time I connected. With her anger. She is so deep, this Ani DiFranco, I thought. She sees the world for what it truly is. A cruel, dark place that chews up those who are different and spits them out again.

I pulled into Francesca’s driveway and parked my car in front of the garage. I didn’t bother to turn off the idling engine. This good-bye, I expected, would not last long.

“Thanks for coming,” I said, breaking the silence.

“I had fun,” she said. “We should hang out more this summer.”

I opened my mouth to say “see you later” or whatever I had planned to say before she spoke, but my voice caught when I recognized the tonality of her words. She actually sounded like she wanted to see me again.

“Okay, well, yeah, I’ll see you soon then.”