I walked into the pro shop. The guy behind the glass

didn’t look at me.

“We’re closed until 6 PM,” he said. He sneered,

like a 17-year-old boy. I saw him in QFC, once, soaking-up his dead dreams with beer.

He stared at my pants. I could tell he thought I was queer. They’re baby blue, but they go with my navy-blue polo shirt.

Maybe, we are all pricks, if we can’t conquer the bitch.

We bitch about other men, while the other men try to screw us.

I wasn’t too bothered by this. I got paired up with three strangers.

They were all insecure. I get judged, because I don’t play golf with friends. I prefer to meet people I don’t know, so I can write about them.

The most interesting point made, was about an air-conditioner.

“It’s getting hotter. The planet is heating-up. Homes aren’t built for this. I designed my own cooling system with a 5-gallon bucket of water and a fan.”

One of the guys, recognized me. “You play here a lot,” he said.


He had an effeminate voice. He was bald. He took a chew of tobacco. He reminded me of a rapist. The other guy was a dad. He had the belly and the simple face of a “yes man”. The Japanese guy, was not a samurai. He had lost his honor, three generations back.

We finished 9, and the other two guys left, and I was playing golf with the rapist, on the most secluded part of the golf course.

“You want some balls?” He asked.

“Okay?” I said hesitatingly.

He gave me four.

“You want some tees?”

“Sure,” I said.

He gave me more. He wasn’t half bad.

“You’re a good golfer,” he said. We finished 14 holes, and I shook his hand. Then I finished the last four, alone.

I was relieved, to be by myself, again. I watched the sprinkler. It was more beautiful than their faces.


9 thoughts on “The Pricks in the Pro Shop

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