Page 5 of Wood

“Good eye,” he wheezes, squeezing my neck, and I grit my teeth at the sharp pain. He carelessly slaps the club into my palm. I slide it back into the open slot, then heft both bags onto my aching shoulders and shuffle forward to his son’s ball and wait. Junior is about one-fifty from the green, needs something mild, a gentle seven or eight would do it.

“Gimme the nine,” frat boy barks. I pull the club out without comment. It’s not enough for the distance, but I say nothing. I hold out the club and wait. Junior scrolls on his phone, then reaches into his bag for the open can of energy drink that’s been slowly dripping down my back. He finally tucks his phone into his plaid shorts and looks at the club I am still holding out. He pulls a fancy rangefinder from his bag and peers through the lens, then digs out his phone again, taps a bit. “Five,” he snaps out as he tucks his phone away and thrusts the range finder towards me to put away.

I wordlessly replace the nine and pull the new club. It’s too much for the shot, will send it farther than needed and I’ll end up hunting down his ball so I watch closely as he pulls the club back, way over-rotating and lets it rip like he is trying to launch it into space, not hit a green one-hundred-fifty yards away. The ball slices wildly to the right and smacks into the grove of pine trees at the far end of the green and, luckily for me, bounces back out into the fairway.

“Great job!” Gordy booms. “Those junior camps are showing!” He claps a sweaty hand on my neck again and squeezes. “Kid’s got a great swing, am I right?” My skin is crawling and my entire body has locked up. The guys at the bar never make me feel this gross. I want to smash the five iron into his fat crotch, but Gordie is on the Board and I need this job. One more year of college to save for. Three more holes until I’m done for the day.

Gordie wheezes, his breath a mix of beer and fried onions, “You feel like you’re holding a lot of tension in these shoulders. A young, fit guy like you shouldn’t be so tight.” He leans in, his gut pressing against my elbow, fingers rubbing circles on my neck. An icy shudder runs over me as his hand drifts down my back to grip my ass. Fondles it, like he has the right to it. I’m used to an ass grope at the bar where a light caress is a compliment. This feels invasive and disgusting.

“My wife is out of town this weekend,” he continues in a low voice as his hand cups and rubs over my ass, fingers sliding into my crack. “I have a guest cabin, right on the ridge. Nice and air-conditioned. Plenty of cold beer. If you stay after the round to help me clean my clubs, maybe we could go up there and get you cooled off, relax. I take care of the boys who take care of me.”

“Hey, Pop, look at this Beemer,” Junior shuffles back our way, his attention fully on the phone in his hand. “I need this one. It’s perfect.” He holds out his phone, and Gordie finally releases my butt, and I step away, my stomach a knot.

Three more holes.

Flipping a metal folding chair open, I press the baggie of ice against my collarbone, trying to soothe the abused skin, and lean against the back of the green shack. Mac rounds the corner and stops, staring, then flips open his own chair and flops down next to me. He tugs a pocketknife from his white jumpsuit and props a foot on his knee, picking at clumps of grass in the sole.

“You are one sad motherfucker,” Mac grunts low, quiet enough that our super can’t hear. “Who kicked your puppy?” He lights up a cigarette, careful to blow it away from me. His skin is dark and deeply lined from decades of working outside without sunscreen, but his brown eyes are sharp.

I consider not answering. Mac is a veteran caddie and year-round staffer, usually not unkind to us summer guys but not someone I have spent much time with. I am no threat to him, and he knows it. “Gordon Senior,” I mutter.

Mac stops scraping, closing the knife with a sharp snick. “The Double-Bag for Big Gordo. Damn, kid. Who did you piss off to get that loop?”

I shrug. “He asked for me.”

Mac studies me silently for a bit. I try to school my face to a cool, flat look. Apparently I fail.

“What’d he do, Geoff?” Mac says quietly.

I grimace. “He groped, Mac,” I reply, my voice almost breaking. Traitor. “Rubbed my neck. Told me he had a cabin on the ridge with cold beer. Grabbed my ass like he owned it.” I shudder again.

Mac laughs, dry, humorless, then scoots closer, leaning on his knees. “Listen, kid. Guys like Gordon Senior see the white jumpsuit and they think they can just use you. They don’t see a person. They see a hired servant. You let him touch you, he thinks he owns you.”

“I needed the tip, Mac,” I scowl.

“A hundred bucks ain’t worth it, kid,” Mac says. “Next time you’re out there with a guy who gets handsy, you change your mechanics. You don’t stand next to him when he’s looking at his yardage. You keep a bag between your body and his body at all times. If he moves close, you take out your towel and you start furiously cleaning a club. You make yourself look busy and unavailable.”

He reaches over and tugs the baggie from my hand. “Fuck,” he grimaces as he pulls the collar of my jumpsuit down and glares at my torn skin where the leather straps have left nasty purple welts.

“Look at this. You’re carrying the weight all wrong,” Mac says, poking a rough, calloused finger right next to the bruise. I can’t help but flinch. “You’ve got the straps adjusted like a school backpack. That puts all forty, fifty pounds right on your soft tissue. That’s why you’re lagging behind him, making yourself an easy target. Make sure you are carrying bags on the small of your back, not all on your shoulders.”

“Not much choice with double bags, man,” I reply.

He nods, thinking. “Keep one of the bags on your shoulder at all times. Don’t drop them both. That’ll save you lifting time. It keeps you moving faster. You stay twenty yards ahead of the player. You drop the bag, you give the club, and you step back. Way back. You become a ghost with a laser pointer. You don’t give them the chance to get close enough to touch you.”

Mac reaches into his pocket, pulls out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill, and tosses it into my lap.

“Go to the drugstore. Buy some liquid bandage and a roll of athletic tape. Wrap your shoulders before you report to the first tee tomorrow. Couple of polos underneath for padding.” Mac turns to walk back toward the shack, then pauses, looking back over his shoulder as he smashes his cigarette under a toe. “And a last word of advice: stay away from the pros. They are a different breed of crazy. They’ll ruin your head worse than Gordon ruins your back.”

Damn, it is cold this early in the morning at this altitude. I try not to shiver in my thin cotton jumpsuit as I wait for Ben to appear. Mr. Vance. Armor up, Geoff.

The sky isn’t even blue yet, just a flat, bruised purple silhouette against the jagged teeth of the Rocky Mountains.

My shoulders burn. Before leaving my apartment, I smeared liquid bandage over the raw welts and wrapped my collarbones in thick layers of white athletic tape, just like Mac had told me to. Two polo shirts under the jumpsuit help with the chill and give me extra padding. I may regret them this afternoon, though, as the day heats up.

I hoist Ben’s matte-black leather bag. Following Mac’s advice, I crossed the heavy straps tightly over my chest; the bag tucked firmly into the small of my lower back. It feels different. Stable. Safe.

When Ben steps out of the clubhouse door, he looks like a different species from the members I usually loop for. He is wearing a crisp, tailored navy polo, white trousers without a speck of dirt, and carries a steaming porcelain mug of coffee. His shirt doesn’t bulge around a gut. He looks like he actually might be rocking a six-pack and doesn’t smell like beer or fried onions. I smell expensive soap and cedar. His dark beard is trimmed nicely, as is his hair, which is long enough to be brushed back in a neat style that probably would look just as good messed up. A tiny bit of silver at his temples and a sprinkling in his hair and beard, fuck he is… Stop checking out the Pro, Geoff, I admonish myself.