On tournament days, it feels like the beer cart can never come around enough for the golfers. It takes roughly 35 minutes to do every cart run, excluding the first 3 holes at my golf course. It is common for golfers to try and order from across a fairway in order to be met twice in one run. The landscape architect must have kept thirsty golfers in mind while designing our cart paths meandering around the holes. (I blame the same architect for the moguls that almost kept me stranded in my first storm!)
One especially cold, rainy tournament in 2009, Mr. P and his group were ready for a beer on hole 4. Because we drive around the course backwards, hole 4 is always the last hole we cart-girls visit. However, while driving on the cart path along the fairway of hole 8 it is possible for golfers on hole 4 to try and order a beer from across the rough. On any other day I would have been happy to hop off the cart the fight my way through the weeds to hand Mr. P. his Stella Artois but on tournament days we try to be extra structured in our cart runs in order to be extra efficient. When Mr. P. shouted in the wind for his Stella I told him that I would be back in 5 minutes to which he doubted. He was very familiar with the course, but still bet against my return by hole 5 in my time frame. He still insisted on his Stella now, but I decided to make things a little more interesting. I told Mr. P. that if I didn't serve him his beer in 5 minutes then I would pay for it. He agreed to this and I hopped on the cart as fast as I could so that I didn't have to be down $6.25. I rounded the tee of hole 8, hoping that they would wave me by, but of course not! I served the foursome a beer each, a couple chocolate bars, chips and sandwiches and then took my time to make sure my adding was correct in my mind, all the meanwhile stressing over the ticking timer hanging over my head. In my imagination, I could see Mr. P. glancing at his watch and anticipating a late return. I was determined to win!
With the pedal to the floor I raced (I use the word "raced" loosely) along the fairway of hole 7, reaching the tee-block in good time. Again, I try to seem cool while I rushed through their order while the golfers politely make slow and long small talk. As one may gather, I am a fairly chatty person myself (hence my nickname, Kathy) so I naturally chatted back. Luckily I speak at mach speed when necessary so when I responded to the friendly group, they looked at me rather dumbfounded as I watched them translate my quick words into a more appropriately spoken English. I hopped onto the cart once more and sped around the rounded cart path to the green of hole 6, one group of golfers away from Mr. P. Time was cutting close, but I still felt as though I had a chance, just so long as I served the next group quickly. I stopped to ask them what they wanted and they ordered what would take me the longest to prepare: hot apple cider with brandy. Thankfully the apples had already been picked, pressed, packaged and heated, all that was left for me to do was the pour it into the portable coffee cups and add the brandy...simple enough. But keep in mind that our less-than-lovable beer cart wasn't designed to carry coffee urns efficiently. As I fumbled the cups in an attempt to be swift and struggled to pull the urn of cider to the edge of its shelf. Lauren always insisted on measuring the shots of brandy and although I considered skipping this step, I decided that I didn't want to taint the delicious cider with too much or too little brandy (however I'm sure the guests would not complain about an extra ounce or two!) One shot, two shot, three shot four! I have over come my clumsiness now and I served those ciders like a professional! I know at this point that I must have lost my bet with Mr. P. I drove over the hills to find Mr. P. just about the tee off at hole 5. When I stopped the cart, Mr. P. playfully tapped his watch. I handed him his Stella and started to pull out my wallet when he burst into laughter and admitted that he had cheated in our bet. Little did I know at the time that all of those friendly golfers ordering apple ciders were in cahoots with Mr. P! Yes, I had taken just a little over 5 minutes to return to him, but Mr. P. asked his surrounding golfers to try and stall me with tricky orders and chatter before I would reach him. Mr. P. paid for his Stella and continued golfing in the rain and I drove back to the club house to warm up.
Maybe I should have treated Mr. P. to his beer anyways, after all he was the same Mr.P. that pushed me up the hill by hole 14 on a dreadful cold tournament earlier in the season.
