Ron, in the pro shop, is anxious about me.
“Andrew, why don’t you play golf with anyone?”
“I enjoy playing with myself.”
“Just be sure none of the guys hear you say that. Ha. Ha.”
“Ha. Ha,” I said.
“You need me to write you a doctor’s note.”
“Dr. Ron—I like the sound of that.”
“Have a good round of golf.”
The November twilight is the sky set on fire with pink flames.
I crush my driver. I don’t need crowds.
The air is cold and crisp, with a warm wind.
There is nobody out here.
My putts sink into the holes. Black pine trees are like spears.
I am a warrior.
When I walk the fairways at night, I step into my memories.
There is the social world—the one where I go to a certain place, with a certain somebody
and there is my world—the one where I spend time with myself.
People get upset with me, because I don’t want to hang out.
I am my own best friend.
I finish in the dark, put my clubs in my truck, turn-on the radio jazz music, and drive home.
Nothing beats the private world of myself.