Sally and Vince - Hole in One

>”Yo, Sal,” Vince peeped, peering back into the office. “It’s gettin’ pretty late, and uh…”
>”What’s up Vince,” she returned, cocking her head at him
>Brushing her shirt up she popped the charging cord out from her lower back, shivering reflexively before coiling it up
>”Well- Right, you know how it’s Saint Patrick’s Day?”
>She nodded, the little shamrock baubles he’d forced on her head nodding in turn
>”Well Sherry and I wanted to, er, *go out* for the night, and we wanted to know-”
>”You need a driver?”
>”...If you wouldn’t mind?”
>”Fine,” she sighed, yanking her jacket off the back of her chair. “When?”
>”...Now?”
>A fluff of red hair snickered behind him, Sally joining the duo as she slipped into her worn corduroy
>Foot on the gas Sally carried them out and away into the thickening Beacon City dusk, fading orange-purple light stroking Vince’s car

>”Oh, this’s the place!”
>Breaking out of song Vince leant over Sally’s shoulder, pointing out the humble, thumping bar on the curb
>”Oh-finni-ginns,” she read out. “Vince, you-”
>”Yeah I’m sure,” he chuckled, Sherry snickering with him
>Squeezing between two other cars Sally let the duo out, content to sit in the car and listen to the radio
>Warm air sang from the fan, snuggling her closer as she flipped the station to something more familiar from the years gone by
>A finger knocked on the glass, shaking her out of her musical stupor to see Vince grinning on the window
>”You wanna come in?”
>”Vince you know-”
>”C’mon it’ll be fun! Plus you’re wearing green,” he laughed. “No pinches.”
>Shrugging she hopped out, locking the car behind her to join the duo in the bar
>Her mistake, however, was expecting humans occupied by alcohol to want to talk to someone sober
>Sighing she languished at the bar’s end, mindlessly rereading one of the coasters for details
>She’d already gone over the manufacturer, the trivia on it useless to her, and checking for typos proved more frustrating than fun
>There was no detective on the other end to scold for his spelling errors, hands thrown up in defense as she showed him how to use the spell-check on his computer
>Turning her head up at a raucous eruption of laughter she watched a trio of bar patrons thump an upright cabinet angrily, halfway to throwing a fist through its curved glass screen
>Eyes wide she watched them play the curious game, a barely audible chiptune singing from the machine as they left, grumbling
>No such luck for them tonight, she mused, sidling up to the blocky, wood-paneled machine
>Now, what kind of game could this be?
>Fishing for the handful of change Vince offered her before disappearing Sally grabbed a pair of quarters
>Plopping them in the machine a humble green course was painted before her, scanning line-by-line together
>Birds chirped in eight bit overhead, a blocky figure dismounting an equally square cart
>”Golf,” she groaned, wishing she’d smashed the orange return button before it was too late
>Looking around there was nothing left to play and, judging by the volume in the bar, everyone would be drinking for some time more
>Glancing up, clear as day, it spelled it out to her in stylishly manicured letters - *this is a golf game*
>Sighing she turned back to her glowing golfer, tapping the buttons to choose her club
>Not like she knew the difference between any of them
>Jingling her pocket she had plenty of change and time to figure it out, though
>Swinging and missing she felt around how to get the ball moving, hopping a few yards at a time to a miserable triple bogey
>Swinging her way through the course, hardly paying attention to the slow drop of her score as she sank pars and birdies with skill, she beat it
>”Huh, that was quick,” she sniffed. “Might as well.”
>Two more quarters slinked down into the arcade cabinet, Sally wiggling her fingers in anticipation
>Halfway into the back nine she swung around, a tap on her shoulder spooking her
>”Woah! Easy, there- didn’t know robots played games,” the man huffed. “But uh, can I get next?”
>”Oh, uh- sure. And yes,” she smirked, “I play a lot of games.”
>Shrugging the man stood back, nursing a beer as he watched her play
>Sally had never had an *audience* before, but it was nice
>With a bit more pep she finished out the eighteenth hole with a par
>”Not bad, not bad.”
>The young man sidled up, hand plunging into a pocket
>Quarters in hand he started the game, swinging to a start
>The two went back and forth between the games, trying to ignore the increasingly boisterous drinking songs from up the bar
>By the time Sally was down to her last two quarters a small audience had gathered, sleepily watching her play before breaking into cheers
>The interested barkeep had kept a chalk-up of the score, Sally leading healthily but not out of danger
>If she scored low enough to trap the young man out, himself becoming slowly inebriated, she had it in the bag
>She could tell he was nervous, liquor-crowded brow furrowing in distress as his face clammed up
>Sinking an albatross on the eighteenth hole was the final nail, the man conceding before spilling the last of his beer on the floor
>Rag in hand he was mopping it up, a drunken Vincent and Sherry hobbling through the crowd to the grinning robot
>”Whuzz the cummoshin, Shal?”
>”Don’t sweat it Vince, just burning through that pocket money.”
>Stepping through the little gathering, returning a few handshakes or pats on the back, she ferried her two wards back to the car
>It was near midnight, time for home
>Tucking them safely in the backseat and buckling them, Sherry joking about her nandroid programming, Sally took her place in the driver’s seat
>Her bouncing headdress smacked at the top of the door, the robot grumbling quietly as she twisted the key
>Slipping away again into the night she brought the two back to their apartment, ponderously guiding them up the stairs and to the elevator
>They could figure the rest out, slapping Vincent’s keys back into his hand
>Sitting alone on the shivering sidewalk she waited for the bus, hands edging around for a spare quarter
>”Looks like I’m walking,” she said out loud. “Friggin… Saint Patrick.”
>Marching along the city streets towards the slumbering precinct building she mumbled to herself
>Vince owed her at least twice the quarters for this