It was a cold February evening, before the sun went down

and the golf course parking lot was empty, with the exception

of two cars.

Frank was there, and Ken.

I noticed that Ken was agitated. He was always complaining about Frank.

They were friends who hated each other, but at 81 and 82

they were the best company each other had. They had finished 14 holes, and Ken was going home.

I shook his hand. “Did you finish 18?”

“No. I can’t stand that guy. He has problems.” Ken gave a look of disgust in the direction of Frank.

“I’m going home,” he said.

I waved goodbye, and then I waved to Frank. “Do you want some company?” I asked.

“Yeah. Let’s tee-off together.”

Frank wore Levi jeans and an electric coat. I played with him in 2020.

Now, his face was deathly white, and his hair was white, and his eyelids drooped, so that the red mucous membranes showed.

I crushed my drive.

“You hit the hell out of that one!”

“Thanks,” I said. “It’s nice to be playing golf with you again, Frank.”

“Are you married?”

“No, but I’m looking for a wife,” I said. “I picked this game up, to get exercise and to lose weight. I sit behind a desk. But the best part of this game is the people that you meet.”

We walked to the next hole.

“I can’t gain weight,” Frank said. “I hate to eat. I don’t even like to drink water.”

“What do you drink, then?” I asked.

“Coffee.”

“But that’ll dehydrate you.”

“I know.”

“What else do you drink?”

“Beer. Last summer I was barbecuing and drinking beer and I set fire to my face with propane.”

“That’s awful,” I said.

“Yeah. My life flashed before my eyes. My wife put my head under water, while my skin was peeling off my face.”

“You look okay, now,” I said. “Maybe, a little pale.”

“Thanks.”

We hit our shots and kept walking. Frank was a slow walker and a fast talker.

I could tell he had money, but he was quietly wealthy.

“Last week, I played golf in Kentucky,” I said.

“Why did you go there?” Frank asked.

“There was a revival. I met a guy who told me I was going to become an evangelist.”

“Really?” Frank asked.

“Are you a Christian?”

“Yeah, but a quiet Christian,” Frank said. “I’ve done too many bad things to be outspoken about it.”

“Well… it’s not what we do, but what God is willing to do in us,” I said. “It’s exciting to be used by God. I’m not the evangelist type. I’m a writer.”

“What do you write?” Frank asked.

“Oh—stories and poems,” I said. I neglected to tell him about my blog.

Frank and I began playing really well. I holed-out for a birdie and he did the same.

“Can you believe this game?” He asked. “One moment, you can’t do anything right, and the next, you are pretending to be a pro.”

“I like to make guys feel self-conscious on the golf course,” I said. “Whenever I start playing golf really well, I pretend that it’s natural for me.”

Frank laughed.

I don’t know how we got onto the subject of bodybuilding, but he told me that he used to take steroids.

“It messed me up,” he said, “but it made me strong. Let me show you a picture of myself at 49.”

In the photograph, Frank was wearing jeans, with a tanned upper torso. He was all muscle, like Hercules.

He reminded me of one of my closest friends—my golfing buddy, and come to think of it, Frank wasn’t that far off.

“I enjoyed playing with you, Frank” I said.

“Me too,” he laughed.

We waved and smiled at each other, and the sun did the same.

The End