"You'd make a better parking lot attendant." I hit another drive, this one skidding off the grass before hitting a rock and ricocheting into the water.

True grinned, then struck another ball, a moon shot that bounced twice off the brick balcony before plunking into the whirlpool. "Like I said, golf pro."

"Since when do golf pros wear ponytails?" I retorted, slicing yet another ball into the drink.

He fingered the thick lock of hair. "Dinnae knock my tail, it drives the birds right intae my bed. Go on, I'll gie ye one last shot tae tie or make it an even fourteen pounds, then we best be gettin' ower tae Sniddles. Brandy'll be waitin'."

I hit my final shot, which soared toward the heavens before banana-curving into Loch Ness. "I hate this flicking game," I said, threatening to toss my driver over the cliff.

"Temper, temper," True cooed, draping a burly arm across my shoulder. "See, when oor ancestors invented the bloody game, they understood two things. First, it takes exactly eighteen shots tae polish off a fifth o' a bottle o' Scotch, thus, a game o' golf equates tae eighteen holes. Second, yer game's ultimately a measurin' stick of how well ye deal wi' life's shits and giggles. Like yer game, yer life needs work."

"Okay, Mister Golf Pro, what's your advice?"

"That's easy. Any man who cannae keep his balls oot o' the water needs tae get laid. Come on, let's find my sister."

* * *

It was a Friday night and the club was packed, the tables filled with tourists, the bar four deep in regulars. There were darts and lager and music and lager and laughter… and did I mention lager?

True entered and the crowd was forced to part, me following in his wake. He shook a dozen hands and kissed a half dozen women, and I was thankful he didn't introduce me.

And then he waved to a raven-haired beauty who was waving back at us from a corner table, and I was smitten.

Claire MacDonald, who preferred her American middle name, Brandy (mostly to spite her father) was the kind of girl shy guys like me daydreamed about in high school and stayed up at night thinking about, but never had the nerve nor the credentials to ask out. These were girls reserved for the star quarterback and the guys who drove sports convertibles, and when they got older, they became trophy wives—arm-candy to the rich and powerful.

To me, Brandy was a swan, and I was a duck, and as a basic rule of nature, as my great uncle Alfred might have said, ducks and swans don't mate.