“I’m serious. It was fucking horrible. At least they gave me four months to figure it out. My mom convinced my dad to let me keep the card, though, so I’ve got that going for me, which is nice.”
He absentmindedly tapped his dad’s barely-used hand-me-down Ghibli driver on the bright green grass of the fairway. The boys were out at the course for a noon tee time, which consisted of a lot of alcohol and a little bit of golf. They had two carts loaded down with top of the line woods, wedges, and putters, the same ones they kept throwing across the fairway after every shitty shot. There were a lot of shitty shots. Forrest had already thrown a hybrid in the water after earning his second snowman on his scorecard, much to everyone else’s entertainment.
In between strokes, they were slamming cold cans of Miller Lite against their foreheads, biting a hole in the bottom of the can, and shot-gunning with gusto. Had Kyle’s dad not been a member of this country club AND a consistent business sponsor for the lucrative tournaments the club regularly hosted, their group would have been escorted off the premises long ago. Chain-smoking Marlboro Lights and slamming empty cans on the green didn’t exactly comply with the usual golf etiquette.
There was no way they were going to make it through all eighteen holes, so after dicking around on the front nine, they haphazardly parked their carts outside the clubhouse and bar, bullshitting about their respective handicaps.
As they settled in at a dark mahogany table in the dining room, Forrest came back from the bar with an armful of Bloody Marys. “So, dude, what are you gonna do? Merrill-Lynch requires actual work, you do know that, right?” quipped Forrest, the entire table cracking up.
“Honestly, I don’t know what I want to do. I didn’t expect this to come up out of nowhere. Logan, you aren’t doing shit, why haven’t your parents cut you off yet?”
“Actually, I’ve been working on getting my real estate license. Well…I’ve been thinking about it. I talked to my dad, cause you know, that’s what he does. The commission is fucking dope. I think I would be good at it, right? Plus you get to wear hella suits.”
“Hella suits? Logan, I haven’t seen you in anything other than baggies and a shitty tee shirt since fraternity formal. Shut the fuck up.”
Not one of these young men had ever had a job outside of their families. Interviews with strangers and potential employers were of an alien and unknown nature. Unfortunately, this had convinced them that they were all of a unique and precious sort, that no competent place of employment would tell them “no.”
As they sat around the table, discussing possibilities of holding down jobs raking in six figures a year, a tall blonde cart-girl, with tanned shoulders exposed in her sleeveless golf polo emblazoned with the club’s insignia, came through the French doors of the clubhouse patio. She cast a quick glance and a polite smile at their table as she headed to the back to grab more beers to take out on the course.
“That girl is a fucking smoke,” he said, he popped the olive from his Bloody Mary into his mouth. “Should I call dibs?”
The boys exchanged sly glances and grins, waiting to see who would move first.
“I got this one,” he said, as he adjusted his Kelly green Masters hat, which had been given to him as a gift from his uncle who attended Augusta annually.
As she came out of the back-room carrying two cases of chilled beer, he hopped up from the table and opened the French doors for her, grabbing one of the cases out of her hands.
“Hey, sweetheart. What time do you get off?” .