Play 11 Among My Own Kind Maybe we should try to join some place a little more relaxed. Maybe here, at Goat Hill: euphemistically called the Shelter Island (public) Country Club. I’ve stopped by a few times. It seems clearly the type of place I belong (although I would have joined a Michigan club advertising “18 Holes For $18 & Free Six-Pack” if it weren’t so inconvenient). Here at Goat Hill, there are pickup trucks in the parking lot, something you don’t see at a lot of other country clubs. Guys in jeans and T-shirts sit at the small bar drinking Bud, not cosmopolitans. Although they appear to be grounds-keepers assistants or maintenance personnel, they are actually golfers and in all probability members. The local bon vivants (many of them in yellow “Shelter Island Fire Department” T-shirts) tell jokes and tales of emergency plumbing mishaps they’re supposed to be fixing for clients but aren’t. There are tables and plastic chairs.
