Tall Tom was at least 6′ 4″. He wore black sunglasses and wrinkled polo shirts. He was a bachelor at 45 and that was not likely to change. He loved women and sexual innuendo. And the other guys enjoyed him because he brought humor into their day. “Whoever invented the Maxfli Noodle is a man after my own heart,” Tom said. “It says long and soft on the golf ball. Whoever wrote that was a genius.” He had this attitude. People didn’t mess with him; probably because he was over 260 pounds. Tom wore a gold watch, gold rings, and a gold chain. He played golf for the enjoyment. In fact, Tom did everything for the enjoyment.

He chose to work in the Pro Shop because he belonged. Tom flirted with the cart girls and swing coaches. And on the weekends, he played on the men’s club. He bought a BMW Z3 with a gold exterior and a tanned interior. He loved that car and he was very protective of it. The problem was that golf balls frequently hit cars, so Tom parked in the safest spot out front, even though employees were not allowed to park there.

“Tom, move your convertible to employee parking,” the head pro said.

“But it’ll get hit.”

“I don’t care, you should’ve thought about that before buying an expensive car.”

Tom moved it up to the maintenance shop.

Two hours later the head pro was called by the green’s keeper. “Which one of your jackasses parked in my spot?”

“Let me guess; is it a gold Z3?”


“Tom! I told you to move to employee parking.”

“But that’s near the driving range.”

“Do it or you’re fired.”

Tom glared. “I’ll kill anyone who dents my car.”

He parked near the cart barn.

The next day Tom was playing in a tournament and there was no parking.

He moved his car to the green’s keeper’s spot again. Tom was half drunk when he finished golfing and he found his car boxed in by the maintenance trucks. He had to throttle it forward and drive behind the shop to get out of there. Before he left, Tom decided to express his inner child and he let all the air out of every single truck tire. It took hours; probably a good thing too because he was far from sober.

The next day there was pandemonium in the Pro Shop.

“Tooooommmm! You’re fired!”

Tom clocked out, got into his convertible, put on his shades, turned up the music, and drove to the nearest golf course to get a job.

15 years later, I see him from time to time. He’s still driving his car in pristine condition, and he looks like he always did, bombing life and playing golf.


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