Things at the golf course have changed. It’s fall, after all.

The young men in the Pro Shop respect me like God. It’s the way things are supposed to be.

But the prick in the Pro Shop remains the same. He doesn’t change with the seasons.

His beard reminds me of pubic hair. He stands erect, staring at his computer screen.

I enter his domain. He barely notices me. Although, everybody in the Pro Shop says my name

“Andrew!”

They’re all happy to see me, with glowing faces. The fat owner is jolly.

I am like a sunshine, coming into that dark place.

“You should’ve scheduled a tee-time, Andrew,” the prick says. “It’s busy today.”

Now, I know definitively, he’s full of shit. There are only eight cars in the parking lot.

I don’t say anything.

Eventually, satisfied, due to his omnipotence, he lets me play. “Okay. You can go out.”

I walk-out onto the tee-box and drive 300 yards. My game is magic.

Even the prick, shrinks away. Then, I see my friend Frank, on the next hole.

He looks tired, like the prick got to him.

“You want to play together?”

“Sure,” I said.

Frank has blotchy brown skin on his neck. One eyelid droops, so that I can see his mucous membrane.

We play together, but we don’t say anything.

“I played 27 holes, earlier,” Frank said, “And I’m 81. I’m tired.”

“That’s why you missed that putt,” I said. “I don’t think I could walk, after 27 holes.”

He laughed. I did too. It was a good time.

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