The Saga of at the Nineteenth Hole (Part 1)

Howth!

I checked my stores, and I have no good photos of a golf course. So here’s Howth, Ireland, where I once had to hike through a golf course five or six times.

Names have been changed to protect the innocent, namely me.

 All through university, I maintained one summer job. My cousin told me wondrous stories of easy work, plentiful tips, hilariously lax management, and abundant sunshine. I was wooed, and though I couldn’t hold down her exact job (lacking the necessary secondary sex characteristics to drive a golf cart, open cans of beer, and look pretty), I could certainly hold down a different bummer job at a decent wage.

Working at a golf course was exactly the kind of thing I needed—sophomoric, low-impact, simple. I needed a vacation from thought, the long, drudging months of study and commuting to school, the deadlines and the textbooks. If I earned money while being completely vacant and not working terribly hard, all the better. I sometimes fantasized my sun-dappled months on the greens might fuel the teenaged summer job film that constantly reeled in my head or, failing that, an amusing chapter in my eventual best-selling autobiography. “Caddy Calamity would be the chapter title, or alternatively, “Songs of the Hotdogsmith.”

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