Little Bitch Boy

It’s Thursday night again at West Chester Golf & Country Club. I notice Margot and Todd are playing with their usual gang, just not in their usual seats.

Todd and Margot are my most regular of regulars; at least one of them is there, representing, every week. Early in our hosting days, their team was a regular winner, week over week over week over week. But as we’ve grown trivia out for a broader audience, they’ve resorted to playfully resentful Team Names like “Music Round Mo-Rons” and “Who Cares”.

We’re collecting answer sheets from the first round, so it’s the first we’re learning the contenders for Best Team Name. This is a busy time for me – I’m programming my hosting app with all the logistics for the night – so TJ always gets the pleasure of hearing all the jokes first.

I pick my head up from my laptop and TJ is beet red, eyes full of tears. He hands me an answer sheet and says “You’re gonna like this one. It’s from Todd.” I read it:

“LITTLE BITCH BOY”

That’s . . . new.

I go through the scoring . . .
“And tied for first place, with ten points each, First the Tea Now the Beer, and . . . “

gulp.

“Heh.”

I think it’s the first time I’ve ever stammered to say a team name. There are kids here tonight. But I manage to say it.

The entire bar breaks. Everyone is cracking up and pointing fingers. I’m laughing so hard, I break too. I say in hysterics, into the microphone, “Guys, if only you knew who it was. Oh my God.” I know I’m not supposed to do that.

I am fanning my face with my hands trying to collect myself. People are screaming at me “You can’t say that and not tell us!” Then a voice breaks through like a Roman hero “SHOW YOURSELF”.

And we all sit in silence for what feels like ten minutes.

Then Margot quietly gets up to go to the bathroom. I connect eyes with her to make sure we’re OK here. And I say into the microphone “There she is showing herself now”.

whisper.whisper.whisper.

People are scanning the room.

And then quiet whispers turn to laughter and then to howling, “Todd’s a little bitch boy!”

By the end of the next round, we gave them the Bonus Team Name Point because people couldn’t stop laughing every time I said it. A handful of our more competitive players let us know they didn’t care for that decision, including . . . my beloved Speed Racer.

. . . But I know something Speed Racer doesn’t know . . .
. . . Something they all don’t know . . .

Margot’s been having a particularly tough year. She’s been spending most of her days 11 hours out of state supporting a family member, but again, she still comes. Almost. Every. Week.

On her way back from the bathroom, she stopped to talk to me. I ask her how she’s doing, and she shows me a particularly insidious text thread of an aggressor sending her text. . . after text. . . after text. . . increasing in volatility. Never a response. A wall of texts from this person.

And at the bottom, I see:
 “Whatever, of course you won’t answer, Todd is a little bitch boy anyway.”

Fresh off the heels of her last 11-hour drive. She didn’t stay home. She came. She wrote her pain on a piece of paper. And handed it to a woman with a microphone for the whole room to shout it back to her like a battle cry.

And Margot quietly went back to her seat to revel in their well-earned victory.

And Little Bitch Boy will live on in infamy.

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