AFTER TOSSING AND turning most of the night, Ty was up and about bright and early. He went about his normal morning routine, but with visiting hours at the hospital still a ways off, he wasted some time at his computer working on the Dink story.
Joy slippered into his office looking her age. “You were a real treat last night. Feeling any better?”
“Better than what?”
“I’ve been thinking… maybe a change is in order. Why don’t we quit our jobs, sell everything we own including the house, liquidate our assets, and spend it all on lottery tickets?”
“You been talking with that guy down at Li’l Brown Jug?”
“You mean Raj?”
“Oh, so you’re on a first-name basis? I should’ve figured he was behind this scheme of yours. When the proprietor of a liquor store becomes your best bud, it may be time to make some new friends over at AA.”
“We all have our vices. Don’t we, Mr. Golfaholic? What are you working on?”
“That interview I’ve been conducting.”
“You mean the one with that real old guy—Dink, is it?”
“One and the same.”
“How’s it going?”
“Much better than expected. I’m getting pretty good insight into what golf was like in the early years of the twentieth century. His career was quite extensive, so I’m hoping I can get a chronological account of how the game progressed through the decades.”
“Can you imagine what drudgery that poor old man had to endure, especially toward the end of his career?”
“It’s not even close to the drudgery most people experience working indoors, doing the same menial tasks day after day for thirty years. Being out in the field has given me a new perspective on life. After observing the automatons at work in their cubicles yesterday, it dawned on me that I was actually one of them. Dink was the lucky one—working outdoors at a job he really loved, meeting new people every day, traveling all over the country. He might not have been materially rich, but his autodidact lifestyle was priceless. I’d trade places with him in a New York minute.”
Joy choked on her coffee, shooting a hot stream through her nose. “Ty, I can’t believe my ears. In essence, what you’re saying is you’d trade the burdensome life you’re now living—me, Tommy, friends, your job, and everything else you stand for—so you could become a swashbuckling vagabond living a carefree, adventurous life?”
“Your Honor, at this time I choose to invoke my right to plead the Fifth.”
“Why, you bastard. You would, wouldn’t you?” she stated before dashing tearfully from the room.
“Only if I hadn’t met you first, Sweets!” he yelled down the hall long after the horse had escaped the barn.
Ty wandered out front before leaving for work to see what Tommy was up to. He watched as his son smashed forehands against the garage door. “What? No golf today, buddy?”
The boy switched the racket to his other hand and started to hit left-handed. “I’m sure you’ve heard it said ‘Man cannot live on bread alone.’”
“Well yeah, but I didn’t expect to hear such an old saying coming from you.”
“Dad, there are a lot of things you don’t know about me. My psychological profile is multifaceted.”
“Whoa! Hold on there, cowboy. What have you done with my son?”
“You see, playing other sports only enhances my hand-eye coordination and helps to develop the strength and stamina needed to tame those par-fives. Besides, variety is the spice of life. Right?”
“Sure thing, but I still want to know what you did with my son.”
“After watching you and Mom sleepwalking through life like robots, I’ve decided to be proactive and take control of my destiny. The more experiences I encounter, the better prepared I’ll be to take the proper steps to reach my goals.”
“Hold up there, bucko. Don’t you think you’re being a bit harsh? Once most adults finish working their way through the minefields of youth and young adulthood, they have a tendency to settle down, which locks them into various niches. As you’ll find out someday, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
“You see, it’s antiquated ideas such as those that’ll turn a free spirit into a zombie.”
“Whatever you do, don’t let your mother hear such heresy, or we’ll both be hunting for a new place to live.”
“I’m never going to get married. That institution’s all about control and restraints. Nothing good ever comes from it.”
“You are a product of our marriage—and that’s a good thing.”
“May be so, but there are times I wish I’d never been born.”
“Sounds like you’re a bit down in the dumps. Why don’t we talk later tonight when I have more time?”
“Whatever. It doesn’t really matter. It’s all so pointless. Regardless of what we do, we’re just going to end up dead.”
“Is that what’s been troubling you, Tommy?”
“There’s certainly no more important, pressing issue than the inevitably of our own demise. Would you not agree?”
Ty checked his watch. “Look, I’ve gotta run, but think of life as a really long road trip. If you keep blinders on and focus solely on the destination, you tend to miss out on the rest of the fun-filled journey. Hang in there, sport. We’ll talk later.”
TRAFFIC WAS HEAVY as usual, but even the lane blockage due to a fender bender on Interstate 5 was of little concern to Ty.
He mulled over the conversation he’d had with his precocious son regarding the issue of death. How should he have approached the subject when the psychological impact is different for everyone? Maybe religion is the answer because it certainly is comforting to know there’s a higher power in your corner that will guide you to the Promised Land.
Ty considered the issues surrounding his own circumstances. Was the lad right? Had his life become so regimented that he had become all too predictable? Had his free spirit actually flown the coop, leaving behind a drone encapsulated within the pathetic exoskeleton he lugged around?
He began to feel a category-five migraine developing off the eastern coast of his central cortex. He chose the farthest parking spot from the hospital building, tuned in to a cool jazz station, and watched the world go by.
Such strange creatures we are, he reflected, scurrying about while locked in our own little worlds, preoccupied with self-importance when far greater issues warrant our attention.
He made his way to the second floor where the machine-gun nest was unmanned. Thankfully, Nurse Blanchard was nowhere in sight.
Much to his amazement, Dink was wide awake, fastidiously polishing a round object. “Think fast!” he stated, tossing the smooth sphere at him.
Ty stared at the curiosity as it gazed back at him.
“Here’s looking at you, kid,” the old looper said, paraphrasing the famous movie line.
The journalist juggled the glass orb as though it were a hot potato and was all too happy to return it to its rightful owner. Given the situation, the gaping hole in Dink’s skull was actually more humorous than grotesque.
“All right—out with it,” Ty said. “How’d you manage to lose the eye?”
“First things first,” Dink said as he popped the prosthetic into its socket. “You got the juice?”
“Juice?”
“Yeah, remember our agreement?”
“Ah, yes—the juice,” Ty said, handing over the goods.
Dink caressed and nursed the bottle with the same tenderness he would have afforded his mama’s teat.
“Let me see now. How could I ever ‘lose sight’ of the facts surrounding the cursed event?” he chuckled before beginning his story.
“Well, I’d just finished an early-morning round with Charles Conley and decide to have another go-round. Unfortunately, I get paired with Lou the Slug. Now, Lou was the slowest man God’s ever created. He talked slow, walked slow, and I’m sure even did the McNasty in slow motion. No matter how I paced myself, I could always count on Lou to be lagging half a hole behind.
“His standard procedure on all shots—after he finally caught up with me—would be to stop alongside the bag, take in the sights, and draw in a few long, deep breaths. God only knows why. Then he’d remain statuesque, as though waiting for divine inspiration. He’d eventually draw a club, go down a checklist of his extensive pre-shot thoughts, and only then proceed with half a dozen calculated practice swings. At this point, after much deliberation, he would decide on a different club and then begin the routine all over again.
“It’s at the eighth hole that I become weary and impatient, so I begin to edge slightly ahead of him, wanting to finish the round before the sun goes down. He manages to hit a shot that’s fatter than Arbuckle and ends up digging a gateway to China. That’s when I hear this high whine like a skeeter in my ear.
Next thing I know, bam! I’m on the ground holding my eye, squirming ’round like a snake with its head cut off. A tiny, sharp rock had gone right into my eyeball cleaner than a whistle.
“Lou’s looking at me and says in a slow, southern drawl, ‘Hey, the shot wasn’t that bad!’
“‘The hell it wasn’t!’ I scream out in pain.
“I get rushed to the hospital where this quack tells me the eyeball’s gotta come out.
“So, being an inventive sort, I ask, ‘What about replacing it with a golf ball?’
“This horse doc wants to lock me away in Section 8 where they keep the loonies, so I compromise and accept one that looks like something you’d find on a miniature pool table.”
Dink tapped his glass eye. “Still would prefer a Titleist, but what’s a mother to do? Lucky for me, this was before caddies were assigned the player’s job of reading putts.
“Hogan always stated that his putting eventually went to hell after a car accident damaged his left eye and nearly blinded him. Having lost most of his depth perception, he would stand over his ball forever trying to decide on how much break to play.”
Dink reached for his putter and gave it a few small waggles.
“You seem rather fond of that wooden-shafted putter. What’s the story behind it?” Ty asked.
A tear began to form as the old man brought the club to his lips and kissed it.
“This old girl and me have been going steady for quite a while. Never forget the first time we met.
“It all started with an away trip at Seacliff Country Club. Charles Conley informs me it will be a casual round of golf between him and his business partners.
“We arrive and moor his land yacht in front of this elaborate complex that could serve the needs of most royals. Right from the get-go we receive the red carpet treatment. People are tripping all over themselves—opening doors, carrying clubs, lighting our cigarettes, and all—when I heed nature’s call and become concerned the restroom attendant is going to try to assist me with my business.
“He follows me over to the urinal and stands uncomfortably close, which automatically freezes up my plumbing quicker than an arctic blast. After I’m all done washing my hands, he gives me a towel and politely holds out his palm while casually looking the other way.
“Having never been in the position—either financially or status-wise—to tip an underling, I unwittingly shake the bewildered man’s hand and thank him very much. I inform him that although I appreciate his concern for my well-being, I much prefer to attend to my bodily functions in a more private setting. He gives me this dismissive ‘Well!’ and strides off in a most elegant manner.
“At any rate, Charles had told me to meet him on the first tee in half an hour. So I’m sitting there twiddling my thumbs, biding my time, when I see this herd of humanity following him and his partners. Bulbs are flashing; reporters are firing questions left and right. All in all, it was quite a sight to behold.
“Things settle down and when we’re finally left alone, Charles introduces me to his friends, Victor and Robert. Immediately, they begin talking business before the first shot’s even struck. Seems the only topic of discussion that day will be about those shiny-shafted clubs they all sport.
“This Victor character talks faster than a horse trader on an Indian reservation when promoting his wares. He states his matched, steel-shafted clubs could be mass-produced cheaper than wood, are more consistent, hit farther, absorb more shock, won’t warp, and the flex can be regulated in either whippy or stiff strengths. He was such a salesman that if I’d had the money, I would’ve bought a set from him right on the spot.
“The other guy’s obviously the player of the lot. Saw tons of golfers in my time, but this Robert fella’s got a sweet swing with more rhythm than a metronome. Like an idiot, I ask him what his handicap is and he replies it’s his bad temper. We all have a good laugh over that one.
“At some point, Victor stops Robert in the middle of the fairway and says, ‘We all know these shafts will revolutionize the game, Bobby, but with your technical support and endorsement these clubs will be flying off the racks. I can see the advertisement now: You can play the same clubs used by Bobby Jones, best golfer in the world.’
“It didn’t take me long to figure out that Robert was none other than Robert Trent Jones, known affectionately to the world as Bobby Jones. It’s fairly easy to see why he’s considered to be the best golfer to ever put on a pair of spikes, but I note as the round progresses that his boiler was about to blow. Time after time, he misses short putts that given half a chance even I could’ve made.
“The languid stroke he’s noted for bore little resemblance to the whiskey jerk he was putting on the ball. At times that putter went off in his hands like it was a live wire.
“After missing a gimme on eighteen—or at least it should’ve been for him—he calmly turns and hands me the flat stick. ‘Keep it. Maybe you’ll have better luck with it than I.’
“Found out later that Jones’s original Calamity Jane was a piece of junk that nobody in their right mind would’ve used. It was an old, rusty hunk of metal that was only thirty-three-and-one-half inches, weighed only fifteen-and-one-half ounces, and had a cracked hickory shaft mended with glue and three sections of black linen whipping. In 1926, Jones retired the original because the face had become irregular from use and buffing.
“Come to learn that the guy they called Victor is J. Victor East. He was head of Spalding’s Custom Department and made six or eight identical copies of Calamity Jane. Jones used two or three of those on different occasions. Well, I’m here to tell you, this is one of those three—and it was personally gifted to me.”
Ty damn near fell off his chair. “Would you… I mean, could I… would you let me hold it?”
“Don’t usually let nobody touch it but me, but seeing as how we’re friends and all, go ahead.”
Ty’s hands trembled as he reached for the precious artifact. He molded his hands around the dried-out leather grip and felt a shock wave travel through his body. He almost genuflected when he stood. By modern standards, the club was an inferior implement, but as with any putter, in the right hands it became a magic wand.
Dink tossed him his glass eye and said with a laugh, “Here, try this. Can’t make a putt unless you can see the hole properly.”
Ty held the divine sanctitude lightly in his hands, lined it up with his target, and made a stroke as pure as the Virgin Mary at her miraculous conception. The orb tracked like it literally had eyes until it unexpectedly rebounded off Blanchard’s clubfoot.
“This is totally unacceptable, gentlemen. These unsanitary practices of yours will not be tolerated here. As you can plainly see, this is not your personal playground. It is a medical facility where high standards must be adhered to, especially when it comes to hygiene. Capisce?”
Like a child who’d been caught in the act and then harshly reprimanded, Ty scrambled for the glass ball and made a vain attempt to wipe it clean.
Blanchard held out her hand and wiggled her fingers. She turned up her nose, holding the optic at arm’s length between her thumb and forefinger. Grimacing slightly, she then dropped it into her starched pocket.
“Now Mr. Cooper, if you will be so kind as to hand over your toy.”
Dink clutched Jane close to his bosom. “It’ll be a cold day in hell, lady, before I give it up—and I’ll fight you, or any person, to the death first.”
“Mr. Cooper, it’s against our policy to have dangerous, crude, unsanitary objects in the room.”
“If that was true, they would’ve removed you long ago. Now go away and leave me alone.”
Blanchard puckered her lips and nodded. “That will be all for now, but you can be assured that you have not heard the last of this incident.” She stopped midway out the door. “Oh by the way, Mr. Cooper, you will be given an eye patch seeing as how you cannot be trusted with your prosthesis.”
Dink raised his putter in a throwing motion but thought better of it and slowly lowered the club.
“I swear to God, that woman’s slowly driving me out of my mind. And if I don’t get out of here soon, I’m afraid she’ll succeed.”
“Can’t you transfer to a different floor?”
“These bastards got me handcuffed. How many rights do you think they allow an indigent person who is at their mercy? Sometimes it stinks to be old and poor.”
“I might be able to help. As they say, ‘The squeaky wheel gets the oil.’ See you tomorrow, okay? And Dink, try to be a good boy. You’re going to have that nurse of yours residing in the psych ward if you don’t ease up. After all, she is a very sensitive flower.”
Dink shouted out as he was leaving, “Yeah well, so is deadly nightshade!”
TY RUSHED HOME, turned on his computer, and waited for it to come to life. He was all set to compose a letter protesting the mistreatment of the underprivileged at the hospital when Tommy moseyed in, looking bored.
“How’s it going there, guy?” his father asked, throwing a few fake body punches. “Not many days left until school starts again.”
“Dad, can you take me to the range?”
Ty looked at the monitor as it booted up and shrugged. “Guess I can finish this up on my laptop. Let’s make like a drum and beat it.”
“Please. That’s cornier than a bowl of Kellogg’s cornflakes.”
“Hey, I’m one cool, hip cat. And as we all know, eventually everything returns back to retro—the only way to go.”
Tommy crossed his eyes and twirled a finger off to the side of his head. “Was wondering…think maybe you could buy me one of those new TaylorMade putters like the one Jason Day uses?”
“Let me throw another old adage at you: ‘Money doesn’t grow on trees.’ And here’s another one: ‘It’s the man that makes the putter; the…’”
“I know, I know. ‘The putter doesn’t make the man.’ I’m just sayin’, my birthday’s coming up and if you happen to run short on ideas on what to get me, it’s something to consider.”
“What happened to the good old days when a card and five bucks was enough?”
“Dad, I’m sure you realize: the bigger the boy, the bigger the toy. Take you, for instance. When was the last time you skipped a year and didn’t buy yourself either a new set of clubs or the latest $500 driver?”
“Let’s see…that would be when I couldn’t play because I was working so damn many hours just to provide for a certain family member so he could attend golf camps, school activities, playing privileges at a private club, Nintendos, cell phones—need I go on? Once you become more appreciative of the things you do have, maybe I’ll consider it.”
“But all the other kids make fun of that old Acushnet Bullseye you gave me. It belongs in a museum.”
“Best way to remedy that is to start making putts, and pretty soon they’ll be begging their dads to buy them one. At one time, it was the number-one putter used by the pros—guys like Johnny Miller and Greg Norman, to name a few. Even Nicklaus, arguably the greatest putter ever, used one for a while. And look no further than Corey Pavin, one of the best putters on tour, who still uses his—as does Mark McNulty, one of the all-time greats to come out of the European tour.”
“You’ve got an answer for just about everything, don’t you?”
“Yeah, just about.”
THE GOLF COURSE maintenance crew scrambled with their hoses as they syringed life support onto greens that were beginning to acquire that crunch factor. The workers were always extra-busy during such intense heat waves when a high pressure system locks in torridity like the lid of a sealed pressure cooker.
Ty pulled at the damp shirt sticking to him like a second skin, but Tommy seemed oblivious to the elements. He spilled his bucket, carefully chose the best balls, and set those aside to save them until the end of his practice session when he would be cranking out his drives.
“Okay, champ. Let’s see what you got,” Ty said encouragingly.
“Give me a break, would ya? Haven’t even warmed up yet.”
“At your age, you shouldn’t need a warm-up. Carlos Franco, who now plays on the Champions Tour, never hits balls before he plays, and he’s old enough to be your grandpa.”
“All right. Here goes nothing.”
Tommy watched in frustration as he duck-hooked his first shot. “Shit!” he screamed.
“Bad habit to get into, Son. Best not to say anything at all—or use a different, more innocuous word that doesn’t offend the senses. We are gentlemen, after all. What’s with the nasty hook?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be hooking, would I?”
“So what causes a hook?”
“Inside-out swing?”
“That could be a cause, but look at your divot.”
Tommy did a double take. “It’s straight.”
“If that’s the case, what else might cause it?”
“Closed clubface at impact?”
“Bingo! And what might cause that?”
“Too much hand rotation?”
“That’s a result, not a cause.”
Tommy stared at the ground and shrugged. “Maybe my grip?”
“Your grip’s not all that bad, but it wouldn’t hurt to weaken it a little. Nicklaus advocated that learning to swing with a relatively weak grip will encourage a stronger swing in the long run. That strong left hand combined with a too-firm grip has you curling the club under on your backswing, resulting in a closed clubface at the top. Unless you’ve got the strength and flexibility of Dustin Johnson to aggressively rotate those hips and hold off the shot, you’re going to hook it all day long from that position. Any unnecessary manipulation of the club only complicates an already complicated game.”
Tommy weakened his grip considerably and held the club lightly. His next swing was a high fade. “Gee, Dad. You’re pretty smart.”
“Well, now that you mention it, guess I am,” the proud father said with a smile. “Continue to work on that. I’ve got a few odds and ends I have to finish up.”
Ty took a seat not far away under the protective comfort of a yawning oak tree. He felt the need to make a poignant statement concerning the harsh treatment foisted upon unfortunate, penniless souls forced to seek medical care at Mercy.
He began to type feverishly on his laptop while occasionally monitoring the progress of young Tom’s practice. At one point, he stopped and objectively critiqued his son’s swing. Good so far, he thought. Nice, neutral grip; a relaxed, well-balanced, athletic setup; head cocked to the right behind the ball; and a smooth takeaway, shifting his weight nicely onto his right side.
He held his breath as the moment of truth was about to take place. “Yes!” he said out loud, clenching his fist.
That was perfect, he thought. A nice little pause that allowed him plenty of time to utilize his lower body. How hard a task it is for any golfer to maintain that discipline, but especially when you’re twelve years old and want to crush that bad boy into another time zone. And just look at that photo finish—the culmination of a nicely constructed, well-balanced swing. That a boy! he silently cheered.
“Looks pretty good there, champ. How many strokes are you going to spot me next time we play?”
“Dad, can’t you see I’m not quite at that evolutionary stage in my swing where I can make any predictions? Obviously, it’s still a work in progress, I guess you could say.”
“There’s that guy again who’s kidnapped my son. You’re beginning to sound more and more like a thirty-five-year-old.”
“There comes a time in every child’s life when he spans that gap and leaps into manhood. It just so happens that my time has come perhaps earlier than most.”
“I’ll reserve judgment on that until I see that this man has matured enough to complete his chores and do his homework without me constantly monitoring his actions.”
“Jeez, Dad. Mom’s right. You can be so melodramatic at times.”
“She actually said that?”
“That and a lot of other stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Now, it wouldn’t be a very mature action for a man to start spreading gossip.”
“And it wouldn’t be very mature for me to lose my temper and tan your little hide,” Ty said half-jokingly.
“Father, when are you going to realize that the actions of a bully end up hurting him more than his victim in the long run?”
“But who suffers most in the short term? Think about that. If you haven’t already, I’d strongly suggest that you sign up for the debate team, seeing as how I’m not much of a challenge anymore,” Ty said, messing up the lad’s hair. “We’d better get home before Mom tans both our hides.”
“Aw, Dad. Can’t I hit a few more? You can schmooze Mom like you always do when you’re in trouble.”
“Who says I would be in trouble? I’m the man of the house, after all.”
“Sorry to say it, Dad, but you’ve been brainwashed into believing that. She has you by the short hairs. We all know who’s really the boss.”
“Ever think of a career in psychoanalysis or marriage counseling? They make great money, you know.”
“It’s very elementary. It all boils down to sex. You see, men are predictable in that they have little to no control over their carnal urges. Women understand this quite well and hold them hostage until they get what they want. It’s an age-old theme that plays out over and over again in nature. They say it’s a man’s world, but deep down we know that’s not true. Right, Dad?”
“Remind me to check your birth certificate when we get home. Where the hell do you come up with this stuff anyway? When I was your age, I still thought storks brought babies and dropped them down the chimney.”
“See, that’s the difference between you and me. I base my facts upon empirical evidence, not some old wives’ tale I swallowed hook, line, and sinker. That’s why we have the Internet.”
“And if you believe everything you read on the Internet, who’s swallowing the hook, line, and sinker? Speaking of the ’net, your mother has informed me that you’ve been visiting some very questionable websites.”
“How else am I to stay informed when you, Mom, and the rest of the adult world continue to stifle youths’ enquiring minds?”
“I’m talking about the porn sites.”
A wry smile graced the boy’s lips. “Censorship only fuels and perpetuates misgivings about the nature of our erotic being. Wouldn’t you much rather see an open forum where all forms of sexual expression are brought to light for better understanding?”
“Well I…you see, uh…tell you what. Why don’t you hold that thought and discuss it with your mother? She’s much more informed and open-minded than me.”
“Yeah sure, Dad.”
JOY HAD JUST started to settle into her nest on the sofa when they walked in.
“Hey, take it easy!” she said to Tommy as he banged his clubs off the walls and every other object that crossed his path. “The neighbors are going to think daddy’s beating mommy again.”
Ty shot her a menacing glance. “That’s not very funny, Joy.”
“Where’s your sense of humor? You boys must’ve had a rough day at the course.”
“You’re wrong on all counts. My humor is intact, we are not boys anymore—your son has declared himself a man—and we had a very productive session on the range.”
“Well, at least one of you has become a man,” she said with a playful smirk.
Ty waited until Tommy was out of earshot. “I’ll show you who’s da man tonight,” he said, pumping his arms and hips.
“Why, Mr. Ryder, you wouldn’t be planning to take advantage of little old me—would you?”
“I’m a lion. Hear me roar.”
“What’s that old saying: ‘His bark is worse than his bite.’ If I know my pussycat, he’ll be fast asleep in front of the TV by eight.”
“That may be so, but this midnight cowboy will be riding high in the saddle after my rejuvenating nap has replenished the youthful exuberance of my manhood.”
“You’re such a hoot. I honestly think you believe half the crap you constantly feed yourself.”
“Hey, if I don’t believe it, no one else will. Come follow me into my lair if you dare, and I’ll show you this cat still has plenty of bite.”
“Sweets, I’ve got to get dinner ready. Why don’t you just go look at that Hustler magazine you have hidden in the bathroom?”
“I don’t believe it! That kid’s framed me—after all I’ve done for him.”
“There’s only one thing that’s been exposed here, and we needn’t get into that right now.”
“I think you need to talk with your son. He’ll set you straight regarding the open forums of sexual expression.”
“You’re not setting a very good example for him, you know. Did you finally talk to him about his perverted online habits?”
“Well, sort of. He has rather strong beliefs concerning censorship, so I referred him to you.”
“At least you chose the adult in this relationship—the one who has good moral character.”
“Dear, you might want to reconsider those Victorian-era values of your grandmother and step into the twenty-first century.”
“I’ll remember that at the moment of truth when my wannabe midnight cowboy attempts to climb into the saddle. Then I’ll ask myself ‘WWGDITS?’”
“Say what?”
“That stands for ‘What would granny do in this situation?’”