The pro shop is a ritual, a doorway, a psychiatrist, an entry into another world. It’s filled with honest men telling lies. -Intellectual Shaman

My sister got hired there to pick golf balls at night. She brought my dog Jessie to keep her company. Jessie was sweet and submissive, but hardly worth any security. Someone was cutting holes in the driving range fence and stealing golf balls. And the golf course really just needed someone to do security for cheap. After my sister’s night shift, she got work as a cart girl and the head pro fell in love. He bought her fruit baskets and bragged about his red Porsche. His antics may have worked if he’d had time, but my sister quickly fell in love with the preacher’s kid. One day he checked in on her.

“Is Sarah working today,” he asked. My now brother-in-law is 6 feet 4 inches tall and looks like a grizzly bear. Jon brought out the masculinity in the cashiers.

“We’re not giving out any information you might ask for,” they said.

And Jon shrugged his shoulders and left. The guys in the pro shop told my sister how they’d saved her from a dangerous man.

“Oh, that’s my boyfriend,” she said.

And their mouths opened and closed and the head pro stopped buying her fruit baskets.

Now that Jessie learned about the golf course, she liked to climb out of her kennel and sneak under the bridge to roll in the sand traps.

I always had to go get her and soon the head pro learned who I was.

“Your sister worked out nicely for us,” he said. “Do you want a job?”

“I guess.”

“You don’t seem very enthusiastic.” I just looked at him.

“The job pays minimum wage.”

Before I started working, I knew that trading my time for a few dollars was insanity. Everybody else was doing it and I couldn’t understand why. They were eaten up by trivial things and not making big decisions with their lives.

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